Friday, March 30, 2012

Obsession with Mini-cabins

This weekend I feel like sneaking away to a mini-cabin with my mini-people.  I've got a healthy obsession with mini-cabins and currently have my eye on this one.  Just look at this perfect little thing!   Meet me for the weekend and I'll make you some mini-crepes and squeeze mini-glasses of o.j. and we'll sit by the mini-fire and tell mini-ghost get the idea.

I should have answered Jacy's question, ""If you won the lottery, what would be the very first thing you would do?" with buy a mini-cabin, instead of a Vespa.  

Wishing you the best weekend!  And here's a little something to pump you up.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Kicked to the curb...part 3
Very French Gangsters

Follow the story.
Read the previous entry here.

May 2011

I think I'd be a great divorced person.

We've been living separately for almost 2 months.  Sometimes he comes for dinner and to hang out with the kids.  He takes the dogs for a run and picks up poo.  We talk about the logistics of life.  Violin lessons, soccer games and he shares secrets on how to run the jimmy-rigged weed-whacker.  When I work, he takes care of the kids.  When I get home, he leaves.  Life isn't too bad right now.  We are living our lives separate but together.  It's nice.  Surprisingly we're pretty good at this co-parenting thing.

I'm not in a severe hurry but divorce is a very real option.  I'm take my sweet time making decisions.  For now, this separation is a nice transition into what lies ahead.

Of course,  It's awful to have to explain to my 9-year old that Dad's sick-in-the-head that's why he can't live with us right now.  She kinda giggles.  That's as benign an explanation as I can come up with.  She says she's gonna pray for Dad everyday so he will get better.  I have no doubt God will hear her.  She's as pure and lovely as little girls come.  I love her and feel so weak I can't protect her from this pain.

It's her birthday.  She was excited as I combed and curled her hair, "Is Dad coming?"

"He can't wait to see you.  He'll meet us there," I say.

It's so strange.  We pull into the parking lot of our daughters favorite restaurant at the same time.  Stepping out of the car I hear his truck door slam shut.  The feeling is surreal.  I see him all dressed up, nice shirt and jeans, hair's bizarre to think he didn't get dressed in our bathroom and I had no clue what he was going to wear or how he was going to smell.  It's in slow-mo as my daughter runs to his arms for a hug and I mull over thoughts of our separation.

We eat, we laugh, we remember the fantastic details of her birth and how she was born at 12:01 midnight exactly.  We re-tell how her father was so excited to have a child.  He knew in his heart that the baby was going to be a girl.  He was so certain, in fact, that he bought out every baby retailer in town purchasing all things pink.  Pink dresses, pink shoes, pink diaper covers, pink swim suits, pink bedding, pink teddy bears,pink, pink, pink.  Before I was 3months pregnant her nursery was the site of a pink explosion!  We laugh some more.  Especially since now, our little tomboy despises pink. Each of us taking hold of her hand we walk across the complex to the movie theater.  Sitting on opposite sides sandwiching her in the middle, we share popcorn and Sour Patch Kids.

The movie ends, credits roll down the screen and we sit there in silence not moving.  People file past us, through the isles and down the stairs out the door.  I silently wonder how many of these families are being threatened by poor choices?  Is anyone else here feeling pain?  I study their faces.

She tells us how great the show was and how awesome it was we could go together, "Thanks so much Mom and Dad!  This is the best birthday ever!"

Moseying out to the parking lot, we say goodnight.  Hand in hand my daughter and I walk toward our car. As I turn to wave good-bye, he's just standing there in the middle of the road, lost, alone, defeated.  I can't help but think how awful it must feel to be him.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

"The Only Chocolate Chip Cookie I Will Ever Need To Know How To Make For The Rest Of My Life"

Miss Kate from FOR ME, FOR YOU has shared with the world what is known as "The Only Chocolate Chip Cookie I Will Ever Need To Know How To Make For The Rest Of My Life".

You'd be foolish not to carve some time out of your life for indulging these delights.  A carmely sweet/salty taste bud explosion!  Believe her every word and take stock in her cookie baking secrets because they make and enormous difference.  Love!  

Without further ado...Miss Kate!
Check out her original post here.

IMG 1300sm1 The Only Chocolate Chip Cookie I Will Ever Need to Know How to Make For The Rest of My Life
Thank you all for the wonderful responses to the blog redesign! I’m so glad you like it. As a token of my appreciation, how about the world’s greatest cookie recipe in return? When I say “the world’s greatest cookie recipe”, this ain’t no hyperbole my friends, this is the real deal. The holy grail of cookie recipes. The once in a lifetime chance to have access to what my friend Shirley describes to me as “The Only Chocolate Chip Cookie I Will Ever Need to Know How to Make For The Rest of My Life”.
Let’s step back for a second as a recipe like this don’t just show up on your doorstep unannounced. A few years ago, back when we were living in the Lower East Side, Will and I swapped apartments with some friends in Seattle (the greatest thing you can ever do for a vacation, by the way). Upon arriving at their apartment, we discovered an adorable plate of chocolate chip cookies set out for us that Shirley had baked, displayed in a way that would make Martha Stewart proud and any tired traveler thank the gods. See evidence below:
 The Only Chocolate Chip Cookie I Will Ever Need to Know How to Make For The Rest of My Life
Not only did we inhale them (I couldn’t even wait to take the photo before inhaling one, obviously), but we discovered a bag of extra dough in the freezer, which we shamefully inhaled some of as well. Needless to say I found these cookies to be magnificent. They were the perfect consistency -not too cakey or soft, a little crisp on the outside and gooey on the inside. Caramely and rich, with a sprinkle of sea salt on top. I dreamed about these cookies later. I dreamed about these cookies for almost three effing years until last weekend, trying to figure out what to bring to a potluck, the thought occurred to me to ask Shirley for the recipe. Why I didn’t ask sooner is beyond me. I guess maybe at the time I wasn’t really as into baking as I am now and I thought she just possessed magical skills that caused these cookies to be so good, rather than secret tricks. So I emailed her, and within hours I had the beast of a recipe below in my inbox. I asked her if I could share the recipe on my blog, let the secret out, and she said, “Of course. I don’t want anyone to deal with  a mediocre cookie ever again. Why? The tragedy can be avoided!” Indeed.
IMG 1323sm The Only Chocolate Chip Cookie I Will Ever Need to Know How to Make For The Rest of My Life
I’ve put Shirley’s recipe along with my own notes in italics. I baked two batches and tried different things, which I note below. (Best blog research ever?) Don’t let this recipe intimidate you. The only thing it requires is a little patience due to the refrigerating, and some planning to get everything at room temperature before you dive in. This is no “I want cookies in my mouth hole asap” recipe. This is a “I want the best damn chocolate chip cookies that have ever graced this earth and I am willing to practice some patience to get them in my mouth hole” recipe.
IMG 1288sm The Only Chocolate Chip Cookie I Will Ever Need to Know How to Make For The Rest of My Life
The Only Chocolate Chip Cookie I Will Ever Need to Know How to Make For The Rest of My Life
by Shirley Hendrickson, adapted from Leite Torres (Kate: I totally had this link and recipe wrong before, sorry about that!)
Secret 1: The use of a mix of cake flour and bread flour. Cake flour is finer, and bread flour has gluten, both important. Use them and no other.
Kate: I’m fairly certain this is one of the keys to this recipe being so great. It took me ages to find cake flour at my huge grocery store as it’s not super popular and they hid it on the top shelf that I had to have someone help me get down, but dig dig dig as it’s necessary!
Secret 2: Chilling. This is key — KEY! — to cookie texture success. The reason is that letting the dough rest allows all the eggs and the butter and the liquids to ooze and soak and hydrate into all the dry goodness. 24 hours is minimum, 36 is preferable (and noticeably better).
Also, the flavor gets crazy! Deep, caramel-y, toffee-y, and they bake up so much more deliciously brown. Plus, it lets the outside get crisp and crackly and keeps the middle almost underdone when you pull them out — they set up and turn into soft, chewy heaven.
Kate: I baked one batch after only four hours of chilling and they were great – like SO great people begged me for the recipe at the potluck. Then I tried 12 hours, 24 hours, and 36 hours. While 36 was DEFINITELY in-freaking-credible (so true about the caramel-y-ness), if you can only wait four hours, it won’t be the end of the world. This also makes SO many cookies that you could make half and then half later, like I did.
Secret 3: All ingredients. Room temperature. Do it. (Note: The misconception with room-temperature butter: it actually doesn’t mean letting it sit out until it’s supersoft and melty. You should be able to press a slice of butter with your finger and easily make a dent, and it should crack faintly.)
Secret 4: Did you know? People make their cookies way too small! It’s silliness! If you make them too small, they dry out too quick, and they get too crunchy. We want gooey and chewy! The way to achieve that is to scoop your dough out into golf-ball sized — or slightly larger — portions. I use a 1/3 c measuring cup for extra big cookies.
Secret 5: The chocolate. Sorry, Toll House. And don’t even think about the generic supermarket brand. I only use Ghiardelli 60% Cacao chips — they’re pretty widely available the best chips you can buy at a grocery store. However, if you run across anything that is 60% cacao, it’ll be good.
Secret 6: The sprinkle of salt on the top. Makes all the sweetness sing.
Secret 7: Wait. I mean, sure, have one piping hot out of the oven, but the flavors actually meld and deepen once they cool. These are definitely cookies that get better the next day.
Secret 7 1/2: Always err on taking them out too early rather than too late – also essential for middle-softness. They continue to cook on the sheet for a few minutes, so don’t overdo it – underdone is better than overdone, every time (and you can always pop them in for a minute more if you like).
Stick to these secrets, and you will ace chocolate chip cookies forever.
2 cups minus 2 Tbsp. (8 ½ oz.) cake flour
1 2/3 cups (8 ½ oz.) bread flour
1 ¼ tsp. baking soda
1 ½ tsp. baking powder
1 ½ tsp. coarse salt, such as kosher
2 ½ sticks (1 ¼ cups; 10 oz.) unsalted butter, softened
1 ¼ cups (10 oz.) light brown sugar
1 cup plus 2 Tbsp. (8 oz.) granulated sugar
2 large eggs
2 tsp. vanilla extract
1 ¼ pounds bittersweet chocolate chips or chunks, preferably about 60% cacao content, such as Ghirardelli
Sea salt or kosher salt for garnishing
Combine flours, baking soda, baking powder, and salt in a bowl. Whisk well; then set aside.
Using a mixer fitted with paddle attachment, cream butter and sugars until very light and fluffy, about 3 to 5 minutes. Add the eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Mix in the vanilla. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula as needed. Reduce the mixer speed to low; then add dry ingredients, and mix until just combined. (Unless you have a plastic guard that sits around the rim of the bowl, this will make a big mess at first, with flour flying everywhere. I found that carefully holding a dish towel around the top of the bowl helped a lot.) Add the chocolate chips, and mix briefly to incorporate. Press plastic wrap against the dough, and refrigerate for 24 to 36 hours. The dough may be used in batches, and can be refrigerated for up to 72 hours.
When you’re ready to bake, preheat oven to 350°F. Remove the bowl of dough from the refrigerator, and allow it to soften slightly. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a nonstick baking mat.
Using a standard-size ice cream scoop – mine holds about 3 fluid ounces, or about 1/3 cup – scoop six mounds of dough onto the baking sheet, making sure to space them evenly. Sprinkle lightly with sea salt, and bake until golden brown but still soft, 15 to 20 minutes. Transfer the baking sheet to a wire rack for 10 minutes, then transfer the cookies onto the rack to cool a bit more.
Kate: my oven is a class-act pile of junk, so one batch was cooked at 400 for 15 minutes and I think it turned out the best! One was cooked at 300 for 25 and it was kind of mediocre. So, in my opinion, hotter and faster seems to be better. At least in my crazy oven.
Repeat with remaining dough.
Yield: About 24 (5-inch) cookies. Kate: Mine made more like 18. But I have a cookie dough eating problem.
Go forth and make cookies, people.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Pat Benatar

Pat Benatar

Of course I love her!  In 5th grade I ripped holes in my jeans and wore out both sides of her cassette...yes CASSETTE (at least it's not an 8-track).   Even at the tender pre-teen age of 10, I knew Love was a battlefield!

We are young,
Heartache to heartache we stand.
No promises, no demands.
Love is a battlefield.

Monday, March 26, 2012

An ugly bed-mate
Bjork and a polar bear

Follow the story.
Read the previous entry here.

I woke with an ugly bed-mate.

He wasn't there when I closed my eyes and pushed off peacefully into dreamland.
During the night he snuck into my room, cozying up next to me and I felt his unmistakable gnarled hands as the sunrise peeked through my windows.  Before I had a chance to breathe Rage had hijacked me.

The unanswered questions and intolerable pain come flooding back.  Torturing my core.

Hunched over the bathroom sink gagging.  His lies making me physically ill.

I cannot possibly fathom how someone can feel so entitled, so indulgent.  We all make mistakes, I get that.  No one is born knowing all things, I get that.  But at some point during all your mistakes and wrong turns don't you say to yourself, "This is wrong.  I'm destroying life.  I need to make changes today.  I need to salvage those I love."

I've made mistakes.  Big mistakes.  I've hurt those I love.  And I remember my moments of lucidity.  The times I knew I needed to change things immediately!  The path I was on was dangerous and could destroy those I love.  I made difficult changes because I love them.

I cannot understand this level of deception, of disregard for those you love.  Addiction and compulsive behavior are lost to me.  I haven't been able to grasp the loss of freedom that comes with such a serious illness.  How can one lose control over their actions?

So many of us muffle screams of "WHHHYYYYY???!!!" into our clenched fists, empty cars and bitten pillows!  Seems this questions can never be satisfied.

Even in the midst of my relationship with Rage I can see that my husband is sick.  He's a sad, lonely, broken version of himself.  Is he lost in some very deep self-loathing?  Playing poker with self-destruction?  Is his mind and heart truly so black and lost that he cannot see us?

This is where I release Rage as my companion and take up friendship with Compassion.

Friday, March 23, 2012

Beautiful Women
photo credit

Follow the story.
Read the previous entry here.

My chest tightened and every step felt unsure, as if I was walking against traffic.  Eyes ashamed I slid into the chair of my first PASG 12-step meeting.  This was a women's support group.  Taking a shaky deep breath I lifted my eyes trying not to meet anyone's gaze.

Here I was, a midst women who had been abused, trodden on and rejected.  My unfair stereotype was burst as I examined the ladies around me.  They weren't frumpy, embittered women hating the cards life had dealt them.

They were so kind, inclusive, beautiful, compassionate and showed amazing courage and took about 2 heartbeats for me to fall in love!  I'd found a safe place to land.

YOU are no exception.  YOU are all so kind, inclusive, beautiful, compassionate and filled with incredible courage and tenacity.  I adore your comments, suggestions, stories of hope.  I adore your virtual hand-holding (does that sound creepy?).  I adore your incredible love, empathy and support.

This is a bewildering and almost impossible road to travel.  I've often felt paralyzed, saying "I cannot do this hard thing."  Just like when I stepped into that first 12-step meeting, going against traffic, dangerous. Feeling threatened  as if at any moment I'd become a causality, roadkill.

I am so thankful for those who have gone before me.  Trailblazers.  You have cleared the way and cheered me on.  I am forever grateful for your tears and sweat and genuine goodness.  Thank you for all you are.  For never judging my insanity and applauding my moments of clarity.

We can do hard things.

Hope you have an amazing weekend and filled with thoughts and activities that heal and renew.  I wanna do this:

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

First Day of Spring

Real Simple
Yoga is my cleansing ritual; pushing my body and clearing my mind.  Tonight my legs felt strong and solid as I pushed into Warrior pose.  The heels of my feet grounded and I became an extension of the earth.  Rising up, my arms reach back, opening my heart----

My teacher instructs as we fold forward, hands touching the floor,
      "Release anything that no longer serves you.  Make room for new growth."

Instantly my eyes water and sting as I push through the next pose.  My heart is tender and my body quivers slightly with emotion.  I know she is speaking to me.

It's the first day of Spring.  And in that spirit, I want to release my bitterness, my acidic anger and feelings that life has cheated me.  They no longer serve me.  I will make room for new growth in my heart.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Revenge Sex

eatmyscabs.blogspot revenge sex
Screenshot from 1929 film, The Letter

Follow the story.
Read the previous entry here.

Revenge sex.  Seems like a possible good idea.  Revenge of any kind seems like a good idea.  I deserve some kind of delicious revenge.

I've gone mental, berserk!  My vision is blurry and clouded with seething anger.  Still in denial...could this really be him?  This guy?  I just can't get over it.

When I see his face I think, "No, not my husband.  This can't be real."

I see his hands and I think, "Those hands that I loved.  Those hands that built my home.  Those hands that cradled my babies.  Those hands that caressed my body.  I HATE THOSE HANDS!  He touched all those girls with his hands.  They were MY hands!"

The sight of his skanky mitts reels me into hysterical fits!


How many nights did I lay in our bed, ignored, crying.  Wishing those hands would touch my body, exciting my skin, building my flesh, hot and torrid.  I wish his hands would spend lazy moments feeling my femininity craving my soft skin.  Why couldn't I be his sex addiction?  That all seems lost.  Now, I can see why our sex life was dis-passionate and grey.

It wasn't always him.  Babies and stress affected my sexuality.  When I tried, he didn't want to talk about it. Being monogamous and creating a tender and passionate sex life isn't easy.  For me, nothing effected our closeness and intimacy more than his use of pornography. I hate it.

Pornography takes the beauty out of being woman.  Robs us of our sensuality and confidence between the sheets.   Steals love and respect from the man we care about.  For me, I grew a serious aversion to my husband.  He was filthy.  Pornography turns men and women into ugly empty shells...far from the purpose of being a couple.  There is a profoundness and depth to a monogamous relationship, to a love that is more than just self-serving orgasm.

I know this isn't a popular opinion.  I'm always jarred by how many women I meet who say, "What's the problem, it's just porn.?"  This idea might be old school, pre-feminist, pre-bra burning.  I believe in real love without bleached sphincters and comically disproportionate implants.  I love my real body and I want to share with a man who values a deep full-bodied connection.  Not the concocted lies of glassy "perfection".  Be real.

I know there are women out there who agree, who say, "porn is a problem."  It's not a victim-less habit.

As much as I long for that touch, for that comfort I can't. It is for all the reasons above that I simply cannot open my legs for revenge sex.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Kicked to the curb...part 2
photo credit

Follow the story.
Read the previous entry here.

April 2011

He looks different.   His face looks vulnerable and soft.  Is that sorrow I see in his eyes?  Or does he just miss the comforts of his home?

He calls and comes by almost everyday.  I'm surprised.  I thought he would dive headfirst into a steamy pit of hookers only coming up for air and the occasional pb&j sandwich.  This is his chance to be free.  Go do whatever he wants.  Instead he's here.  I doesn't bother me and it benefits the kids.  If I tell him "no" he respects me and doesn't come over.  I still enjoy the peace of his absence.

He's talking to me.  He cries and begs and says how sorry and stupid he is.  I like this. It feels good to be apologized to and to feel his remorse.  Is it genuine?  I doubt it.  It sucks to get caught at doing something so horrific.  He might be mostly sorry he got caught.  It's his Hell. One of these conversations was the "Eat My Scab" conversation, read it here.

They say, and addict needs pain.  They need to hit bottom.  This was once a man I respected and loved and naturally out of compassion I would soften those blows.  Now, I sit, watch and listen, offering no comfort, no safe landing.

Taking advantage of his vulnerability I ask all the unanswered questions.  Who? Why? When? How?  All the gory details of his fall to disgraced double-timing cheater.  He wrote out a list and timeline.  It's a harsh reality to face; the depth of his duality, but there is also a calming feeling to this transparency.  I've found that my mind is a tad bit pervy and imaginative.  I seem to take everything to extremes and my mind plagues me.  The truth of the details put a stop to the ever expanding hallucinations in my mind.

Realizing your spouse has major issues with fidelity and sex open all sorts of ugly doors.  My mind made the jump from hookers and prostitutes to child molester.  I interrogated and dug until I was satisfied that he'd never indulged in child porn or sex with underage women.  The idea paralyzed me.  Following through I opened conversations with my daughter and her friends about touching.  I pray they'd feel safe confiding in me.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Be-lated St. Patty's Day

Life may be hard but I can still make green jello for my kids on St. Patty's.

Hope your having a restful peaceful green weekend.

Friday, March 16, 2012

the dogs
The dogs whose poop I'm currently scooping

Follow the story.
Read the previous entry here.

When your living with a liar the truth never comes out at once.

It's a agonizing decent into a flaming lake which finally just consumes you.  Burning and blistering from the tips of your toes to the last stinky singed hair on your head.  It was during those times of blind confusion that the numbing sensation of depression overtook me.  I couldn't feel anything.

Then came the sweatpants and days upon days where I didn't shower or eat or comb my hair.  Missing outrageous amounts of time from work and when I was at work I couldn't focus...I made so so many mistakes.  Then there was the psycho rattle prattle therapist that brushed off his infidelity as normal.

Then came the flash-backs.  The sight of an Asian woman* sent me spiraling.  I no longer bought donuts from my favorite local shop because the sweet Asian girls face reminded me of where my husband had been.  I associated every Asian* with hookers.  This is the trauma-induced coma from infidelity.  The humiliation and terror settled in as I retreated from my normally social life to a placid-faced hermit.

Friends called but I didn't answer the phone or return text messages.  I let the unimportant fall life naturally simplified itself.  My sweatpants were a comforting blanket as I lost myself in books and chowed on a diet of only Oreo's and milk (now my son's favorite meal).  His plummet of lies began after my nightmares and his trip to the country-that-must-not-be-named.  First it was just a strip club, then just a blow-job, then it was just one girl, then two...

"who is this man i married?"

While I was defenseless and lost in depression he decided to fulfill another some big dogs.

"No," I said.  "It's not the right time.  We're on the verge of a split-up.  I can't handle the burden.  Lets focus on us and on our kids."

When he arranged the adoption from a local rescue shelter (oh, he's a very responsible pet owner) I knew.  I knew he would do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted to do it.  No regard for others as long as he was satisfied.  I cannot fathom feeling so entitled.  This is why I resent cleaning up their poo-mounds in my backyard.  It reminds me of the selfish lying jerk who faked an honest life with me.

When your living with a liar the truth never comes out at once.  Six months after discovering something murky about my spouse's loyalty he confessed.  Over the last 5 years he'd been having sex with prostitutes. Every single one was Asian!*

5 years.


That's when I kicked him out and had the rip-roaring fire that reduced his underwear to ashes.

*I must apologize to my Asian sisters.  It's not you, it's him.  My thoughts aren't right, this just happens to be the ugly truth.  I'm sorry.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Kicked to the curb...part 1
Thanks MLK

Follow the story.
Read the previous entry here.

April 2011

He's gone.  It's weird how someone you love is all of a sudden someone you don't love.  Cutting him out gave me freedom.

And, it's weird how all the acidic dark feelings kinda left with him.  Or are they just masked by the high of my take charge attitude?  Who cares!  I feel good and there's a break in the storm.  I can breathe.  He had 24 hours to leave.  When I pulled into the driveway after work he peeled out. What a statement!  I had to laugh!!  He was mad at me.

I'm mowing the lawn myself, fixing the broken kitchen cupboard, taking my kids to school, working, budgeting and buying groceries and paying the bills, talking with friends and family, attending PASG (12-step) and going to yoga and therapy.  I feel so much love and support. The only thing I resent about him not being here is that he picks up the dog poo.  But even that feels kinda great.  Like I own this place!  I own my life and I don't mind cleaning up my dog's crap! Then the realization hits me...he had been so controlling and I had allowed it.  Oppressive. errrrrrg.

Those first few weeks he just stayed away.  Apparently, he'd found refuge and an extra room that didn't cost much.  He literally had no where to go.  No friends.  No family.  No girls. (I'm sure hookers charge extra for multiple overnighters.)  He had no one.  I kinda felt sad for him. Pathetic really.  A 35 year old man with not a soul in the world to help him out.  In fact, he ended up staying in the spare room of a guy that works for him.

I saw something I'd never seen before...he had no idea how to build a meaning relationship with anyone.  Looking back at us, I saw how hollow it was.  No depth.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

The Beastie Boys give me hope

"For When I Trust Myself, I Fear No One Else
I Took Control Of My Life, Just As Anyone Can
I Want Everyone To See It's In The Palm Of Your Hand"
                                                            -Beastie Boys

I love women

I love my femininity.  I love the softness, the kindness and the compassion I feel as a woman. I love the strength and gentleness of my body.  I love the confidence I feel.  I love that my body can give life.  I love my virtue.  I love how women connect and bond and love.  I love that I can be a tomboy and lace everything I do with that mysterious something that is distinctly feminine.

Although the world may show us the stereotypes of women, I don't believe them.  I don't believe who they say I should be.  I don't believe what they say I should wear or what kind of mother, wife, sister I should be.  I don't believe them.  I don't believe what they say my body should look like and how I should love.

I can't help but believe there's some very intimate unrevealed purpose to my life as a woman.  Almost as if being a woman is God's hidden advantage.  An ace up His sleeve.  I feel this divine draw to my sense of self-worth.  It's the core of my self-esteem.  Being a woman is an integral piece of my identity.  It is my purpose and it's what I love most about me.

The stinging blow of my husbands cheating has introduced doubt.  Are my boobs too small?  Am I not sexy enough? Asian enough?  Fun enough?

I can't believe those lies either.

Monday, March 12, 2012

burning shit

i bon-fired his underwear

Follow the story. 
Read the previous entry here.

April 2011

I bonfired his underwear.
Every last pair.

I hated each one...did he think he was so sexy in them?  uggg.  My mind could see some random Asian hooker with her tacky manicured lime-green nails stripping those underwear down MY husbands thighs.  That was supposed to be me!!!  I wanted to pull them off his body!

My body crumbles, sobbing, bawling.  I'm going mental.

Thank God for the best girlfriends.  She held me until my sobs turned to sniffles.  Without speaking she built a girl-scout sized fire then handed me the Aqua Net hairspray.  I love her!  I had a mini-flame thrower and I felt powerful!  I'm sure my face was red and swollen from crying, my eyes were stained with smudged mascara and I could barely breath when I dropped the first pair into the fire.  I watched them melt, combust and disappear under the blue and orange flames. I might have had a few moments of laughing hysteria. Don't judge.  I felt insanely fantastic!

Sparks rose into the dark sky, burning then dying.  I like to think that fire took some of my rage with it.  Burning then dying.

I felt a little better.  a little.

because my life isn't just about surviving

Hello!  That's Tina Weymouth and Grand Master Flash!  Music. Style.  BOOMBOX! I love it!!

Poo has hit the fan at my house but I can see that my husbands problems aren't really mine.  Sure, I have to deal with the fallout and that sucks.  Today I still find joy in lots of things around me and I have a particular love affair for some tomboy style.  

Thank you Lizzie Garrett!

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

In the beginning...part 6
Follow the story. 
Read the previous entry here.

The apex.
The implosion.

It isn't hard to guess.  His trip to the country-that-must-not-be-named wasn't for healing and closure from the life altering accident he'd had 15 years ago.  His travel buddy wasn't really his travel buddy.  My husband traveled alone with the intention of sex.  It was a sex-cation.  An erotic vacation.

Landing at the airport and hailing cheap transportation he made arrangements at a dingy hotel full of single rooms.  Floors and floors of this hotel filled with men from Australia and Germany and the US, all seeking the same thing.  Cheap sex.  Can you imagine the rickety, contaminated mattress with it's faded blue and gray ticking?  What would a black light expose?

He spent 4 nights paying the ill-treated call girls across from his hotel at the Dollhouse. My requests for connection, for intimacy, for sex the night before he left went ignored.  My emotions are raw and numb and tortured.  This is my D-day.  This is my Holocaust.  My eyes are gaunt, viewing myself out of body.  Being gassed.  Heart stopping.  Breath suffocating.  Body like clay, cold, thin and dying. Landslide, swallowing me.  Lungs filling with mud.  Burning. Limbs numb.  Time whirling, ticking.  The unimaginable is now REAL.

The truth took 6 months to reveal itself.  During much of that time I was frozen, lethargic.  Life kept rolling.  I worked, cared for my kids, attended parent teacher conferences and soccer games and forgot to eat.  I bawled.  I was silent.  I went mental.  I bonfired all his underwear.  I added the F-word to my vocabulary.  Half-heartedly I listened to our therapist tell me it was my fault my husband cheated. I was numb as I nodded.  Brainwashed.  Watching a once healthy self-esteem give up and sink deep into the dark choppy sea.  defeated.

He wasn't apologetic or sorry.  He was the same.  No changed behavior.  He was still hiding. Like I said, the truth took 6 months to reveal itself.   Six numbing months of trickle-truth.

And then one day, the truth revealed itself and my blinders fell off and I was strong again.  And I was pissed!

I knew who he was.
I knew who I was.

I couldn't be bamboozled anymore.  He screwed Asian prostitutes.  He lied.  He lived a double-life.  He had to leave.  I generously gave him 24 hours to pack his shit and move out.

It's like one of those giant underground zits just under your nose that's so painful to touch it makes you cringe and your eyes tear up.  You try squeezing it and pressing it.  You try leaving it alone. You try a hot wash-cloth.  You even buy that expensive zit cream from Wal-greens but nothing works.  And then, it's ripe.  With a gentle pinch the core bursts!   Shooting it's contents on the mirror---and you love it!  Purging gives you freedom.

I had purged.
He was gone and I was free!

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

In the beginning...part 5

Follow the story. 
Read the previous entry here.

November 2010

The weight of his lies.  Denial was still kind of a safe place to be.  I couldn't hold all the weight at once.  So many years ago, I bought into the idea that pornography wasn't such a big deal.  But for him, it clouded everything.

There were bits a pieces of it speckled through our life.  I never spent a lot of time caring about it. But once in a while I would confront him.  There were times when I felt like the porn was replacing me.  Sex became just sex.  Our intimacy was stolen.  Sex was about body parts. Devalued.  It became ugly. He always responded with the excuse we all hear "every guy does it". Or even worse, "if we had more sex or the right kind of sex, I wouldn't need it".

I was hurt, disgusted and ultimately turned off.  He was no longer the sexy, kind man I'd married and respected a few years before.  He was disgusting and gross.  So, I kept my distance and detached my heart.  I didn't know it then, but now I can see his words were the excuses and blames of an addict.

I didn't know it, but the pornography crescendo-ed into back-alley porn arcades (I mean really, what the hell is a porn arcade?) which found him jacking off where hundreds and possibly thousands of men had also left their marks.  This need surged inside him and there he was parked next to the Pizza Hut, sneaking past the legitimate eatery and ducking under the red neon sign into the darkened doors of the Diamond Spa, touting therapeutic Asian massage. Translation: hand jobs and sex with hookers.  The legally illegal brothel. The happy ending.  "You like?  You want?"

I imagine there's a lot of shame when leaving a place like the Diamond Spa.  When you use a baby wipe to clean your junk and zip up your jeans while handing over a 100 dollar that a proud moment?  When you sneak out the front door, jogging to your truck, checking over your shoulder and then driving home just in time for supper with your beautiful wife and that a proud moment?

My husband was well liked, managed a large business, a respected family man.  The kind of guy who helps neighbors with car trouble and charms the elderly ladies down the street with chatter about their lovely flower beds.  Friends and acquaintances often asked him how he'd gotten so lucky in life.  He had everything he needed to be happy.  All the gifts of deep blissful happiness were in front of him.  I could never understand why he wasn't happy.  When you find yourself in the stained massage booth of a prostitute finishing up and deleting all evidence of unfaithfulness, I imagine you don't feel like a Man.  In that sober moment, don't you wonder, "what the hell am I doing?"  And you see that you are your own life's napalm bomb.  The destruction is your own.

Destruction is an infinity easier than creation.

This must be why an addict like my husband finds a kind of twisted peace in living a double life. Detaching from his own hell.

The man who plays with his kids and kisses his wife and helps the neighbors trim an overgrown tree isn't the same coward who seeks the raunchy companionship of an exploited prostitutes vagina.  Isn't this where the split-personality, the double life, the sociopath persona are born? Then comes the breakdown of self-respect.  It's snuffed out like the last drags of a second-hand cigarette.

The story of my discovery ends back at the beginning.
My husbands trip to the country-that-must-not-be-named.
Our 10 year anniversary.
My nightmares.

The apex of this story implodes as he returns home from his vacation and we meet in the airport.

Friday, March 2, 2012


I thought I made this word up!  A little narcissistic? Maybe.  But the last year and a half has felt like a heap-load of relationshits to me.

Turns out the Urban Dictionary fair definition too:
Nausea, diarrhea, or just a plain old upset stomach caused by the drama of a tumultuous interpersonal relationship or event(s).

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Did this adorable girl just discover some relationshits?

In the beginning...part 4


Follow the story. 
Read the previous entry here.

April 2002

He says it all started with pornography.  Looking back, I can see that's the truth.

I want to curse the day I agreed to "steal" satellite TV.  Karma.  We managed a small apartment complex full of young married couples, almost all of us attending the university across the street. I loved that time of our life together.  Poor, young, fun, just married and Apartment 21 was the life of the party!  Ramen dinners with friends, poker games, bonfires and cookouts; seriously, even doing the laundry was somehow fun.

In the spirit of saving money for poor college students a friend offered to help install free satellite TV.  I've never really been drawn to the TV but Mr. Scabs jumped at the chance to have a million channels for free.  And so, one day I found the two guys climbing around the roof of the 3-story apartment running wires and drilling holes setting their satellites.

Over a year later, I was sick, lying on our second-hand brown floral sofa when I said to myself, "Perfect day for surfing every channel."

Somewhere in the mid-400's I paused, twisting my head to the side and squinting my eyes a bit. "What are they...whoa!  How in the...weird!"  I'd seen porn before.  Glimpses here and there.  I knew it was powerful but I had no idea it was creeping in my home from stolen satellite.  I never imagined he would click to that channel somewhere in the mid-400's and stop to please himself. Our sex life was fresh and satisfying.  I couldn't imagine he'd go elsewhere.                

That night, over mac and cheese, I asked about the mid-400's.  He brushed me off and said, "Oh, I know, but I don't look at that."  I believed him.  Karma blew up in my face 9 years later.

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