I Don’t Want to Talk About It (an essay of 445 words)

angel sad statueIn November of 2012, I wrote a blog post called I Have a Pimple.  Two thousand and twelve, y’all. That was over three years ago and the pimple was already pretty big by then.

In 2013, I wrote Are You There, God? It’s Me, Linda, which is another post about my pimple where I don’t talk about my pimple in all its glorious and gory detail.

I tried to deal with my pimple by managing my own life better.  In 2014, I decided to be more outwardly focused and I joined the board of directors for a non-profit. (If you have buckets of money to donate to charities, call me! Text me!)

I entered into 2015 with a mindset of standing up for myself. Ends up, 2015 was a year of big changes.  I quit my job. I remember distinctly the day I put my notice in. I remember because I tweeted this:

It was a glorious summer. Everything a summer with no job should be.  I will be forever grateful for the summer of 2015.

And then October came and the winds of change blew hard. It took me awhile before I could share openly, but in early December, I made my Emancipation Proclamation and broke the news of my pending divorce.

In other words, that damn pimple exploded all over the mirror of my life.

Divorcing in the age of social media is hard. He and I have agreed to be kind and considerate of each other, so I’ve mostly kept my damn mouth shut. But here I am writing about it. Actually, I’m writing about not writing about it. I know he could easily be reading this, and my children are possibly reading it too – at least the brave and rebellious ones who click the link even against their better judgment – so I won’t be talking about it. I won’t tell you about my pimple. Just that it has popped and now it needs some TLC so it can heal.

But you should know that even if I’m (we’re) not talking about it on social media or on our blogs or at the Thanksgiving dinner table with all our relatives, we are dealing with the mess of this pimple. He is and I am and our children are.  We won’t bleed all over you, we’ll just bleed quietly over here where we won’t bother anyone. No, really. Don’t worry about us. Could you hand me that tourniquet, please? Thanks.

Back in 2012, I wrote a post called Strength is a Clever Disguise.  We’re being strong. We’re dealing with the mess. We’re healing. But be gentle with us, OK?

Because sometimes what we can’t talk about takes all of our energy.


By |February 10th, 2016|Indiscriminate Drivel, Married Life, Not even a little funny|Comments Off on I Don’t Want to Talk About It (an essay of 445 words)

Marriage of Convenience

poison-coffee-1393811431I used to say my marriage was held together by my husband’s great sense of direction and common debt.

Really, I used to say that. Maybe I’ll keep saying it, who knows. You never can tell with me.

Upon reflection, there are probably many things that hold it together. For example, everyone talks about how love will keep us together, but then Captain left Tennille or maybe Tennille left Captain and if those two stalwart denizens of love didn’t have all the answers, what hope do the rest of us have?

I’ve watched a few of my friends reenter the dating world after divorce and witnessing this has given me some insight on what really holds my marriage together – pure, unbridled fear.

It’s true that I have a divorce behind me, but I was 26 when that happened and my body was still under factory warranty. I was a certified preowned human. But now I’m 50 and the transmission could blow at any time.  I don’t go past 2nd gear and rarely can hit the highway speed limit anymore. And one of my headlights is pointing straight down.

The truth is, I can’t even reach some of the places a single person would need to shave before going on a date.

So while love may keep us together, it’s more than that. It’s more than common debt. And now that we all have GPS on our smart-phones, it’s definitely more than just his good sense of direction.

Getting back into the game is terrifying to me. And it’s more than just the thought of shaving the back of my thighs, it’s breaking in a whole other person about all my many many foibles and flaws. About where that itchy spot on my back is. About how anxious driving in the rain at night makes me. About how I have to eat my Kraft macaroni and cheese right out of the pot while it’s still very hot because if it gets cold, gross, just throw it in the trash. About how the sound of someone chewing can make me homicidal and IT’S CALLED MISOPHONIA, LOOK IT UP, IT’S A REAL THING, I CAN’T HELP IT – IT’S SCIENCE!

And we won’t even talk about my body. Holy hell, the thought of putting my 50 year old body back into play is enough to leave me rocking in the corner catatonically, if only my body could still squat down and assume the required fetal position which it can’t so I’ll be rocking figuratively in my Barcalounger.

The truth is I’m not confident enough to handle a hip cramp during a first-time sexual encounter so I guess I’ll just be married forever, over here cushioned in the safety of my unshaven thighs and my screaming hip-cramps and my unapologetic misophonia.

None of that sounds very romantic, so we’ll just call it love, OK?

Love. Love will keep us together. Just ask Captain and Tennille – they know.

ps: I don’t even have a Barcalounger. I’m 50, I’m not dead.

By |July 10th, 2015|Indiscriminate Drivel, Married Life|Comments Off on Marriage of Convenience

Well, this explains a lot…

busy mind 2It was a typical evening, nothing out of the ordinary. A Friday night, heading into the weekend. Kids all asleep, house quiet. We turn off our devices and nightstand lights and climb into bed, kiss each other goodnight, and then cuddle to sleep.

Well, that’s a lie. See, we were already in bed and we never cuddle, but I was taking creative license.

So let me try this again.  We turn off devices and lights, and like any couple married this long, we turn away from each other and sort of grunt a goodnight in the general direction of the other.  I hug the edge of the mattress like it’s a life preserver. Try not to swoon.

As I start to relax, my brain wakes up.

Brain: Hi! Hey!! Hi! Hi, Linda. Wanna play? Let’s play!

Me: Go to sleep, Brain.

Brain: But no! I have so many thoughts. Things that I need you to consider. Did you RSVP for that stupid birthday party? When will the kids be old enough to do their own RSVPs? You’ve got to get those boots sent back to Amazon. I bet that salmon is going bad in the refrigerator. You should have known you wouldn’t make that salmon recipe this week. You do this all the time.

Me: Shut-up, Brain.

Brain: We have so many thinks to think. The Christmas stuff has to come down this weekend for sure. I hope the weather breaks so we can get the outside lights down without suffering hypothermia. But we should at least unplug them even if we don’t get them down this weekend. It’s bad enough to leave them up but to keep letting the automatic timer turn them on every night…

Me: Goodnight, Brain.

Brain: You have to prep for that Steering Committee Meeting on Tuesday. You were supposed to do that today. And let’s create a proposal for your charity to improve their use of technology. You said you were going to do that, now is as good as any time. We should do something fun with the kids. Sarah goes back to school Sunday. Something active. God, I hate winter. It’s so cold out there!

Me: Why do you do this to me? Why can’t you be like him?

Brain: Him? Who?

Me: *nudges husband with foot*

Husband: *grunts* *farts* *snores*

Brain: Gross.

Me: Hey, honey?

Husband: *grunts* *gropes*


Husband: WHAT?

Me: What do you think about when you go to sleep?

Him: Your nipples.

*turns over* *snores*


It’s just so much more complicated being a woman.

By |January 10th, 2015|Indiscriminate Drivel, Married Life|Comments Off on Well, this explains a lot…