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He Put My Ring In His Pocket!!!


Daily Prompt: Tainted Love..

Ever been dumped by a boyfriend or girlfriend? Was it a total surprise, or something you saw coming? Tell us your best worst breakup story. Never been the dumpee, always the dumper? Relate the story of a friend who got unceremoniously kicked to the curb. Change the names to protect the innocent if you must.

I swear, I laughed out loud when I read this prompt.  Loud guffaws.  Tell about a break-up?!?  Hell, this blog was STARTED as a way for me to work through the rambling musings bouncing around in my brain post-break-up with my former love!  I have written mmmaaaannnnyyyy posts about the very subject.  Well, more about the aftermath than of the actual event, but still.  I’ve also written about the end of my marriage.  May haps I should just link my whole damn blog!?

But, I shan’t.  As while those are interesting stories, they are not one of those epic “Oh. My. God.  Are you kidding me?!?” break-up stories.  But, honey, have I got one for you.  Buckle up!

I have mentioned before that I was engaged TWICE in my early twenties, neither of which “took.”  I am not three times divorced.  Just once, thank you very much.

So, here is the story of my break-up with fiancé #1 – AKA Fratboy.

Fratboy and I met my first year of college.  Became engaged my second year, and were planning a wedding the summer I graduated.  Right on schedule.

Fast forward to the summer before my final year.  We were in the homestretch!  10 months before we were to be married!  Life was perfect…or so I thought.

I show back up to school for my senior year, my head full of plans for the future, and a U-Haul trailer full of my stuff.  Fratboy meets me at my dorm to help me unload and to help carry all my things up three flights of stairs.  WHAT A SWEET BOYFRIEND!!!  Was I lucky OR WHAT?!?!?

*snort*

Back and forth we go for 45 minutes.  Everything seemed fine.  We had  spoken the night before and he told me how happy he was I was going to be back the next day and how happy he was that I was going to be back in the same town with him and how much he missed me and loved me.  Blah blah blah.  While I had chattered on about how I had just gotten my ring professionally cleaned and how sparkly it was and how I couldn’t wait for him to see it.  Ah…bliss.

So, here we are on the final trip down the stairs to get a few more things, when about half way down Fratboy says to me, “Hey, let me see the ring.”

I grin and hold my hand out for him to see the sparkle.  “Isn’t it beautiful?!?”

“No, let me SEE it,” he replied.

Being the trusting young thing I was, I slid the ring off my finger and held it out to him to look at.  Makes sense, right?  I mean, we were GETTING MARRIED!!!!!  Weren’t we?

He takes the ring from me, and then…

(ready for it?)

PUTS IT IN HIS POCKET!!!!!

My ring.  It was no longer on my finger.  It was no longer in his hands.  IT WAS IN HIS DAMNED POCKET!!!  What the hell?!?

My two-thirds of a carat heart-shaped diamond on a gold band FREAKIN’ CUSTOM-MADE FOR ME engagement ring WAS IN HIS POCKET!

Ok.  In retrospect, the ring was incredibly cheesy, and I want to go back and slap the shit out of my 20-year-old self for ever loving it in the first place.  But, HE PUT MY RING IN HIS POCKET AND I WANTED IT BACK!

I remember I kinda laughed and said, “Hey!  Give it back!”

“No,” he said.  “I’m going to keep it.  I don’t think I want to do this any more.”

(BTW, gentlemen, “I THINK” is a passive statement.  If you are in the process of breaking up with someone, passive terms do not sugar coat the situation.  Use plain language.  A helpful little hint from me to you.  You are welcome.)

All this happened as we were walking down the three flights of stairs to go back out to the parking lot of my dorm.

At this point I am somewhat hysterical.  Standing, by now, in the parking lot next to my 1974 orange Volvo SOBBING.  He asked if I needed him to bring my things up to my room.

I just answered, “NO!  I WANT MY RING BACK!”

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t do that right now,” and he got in his car and drove away.

Somehow I made it back upstairs and into the arms of my best friends who started calling him every name in the book, and how they never liked him, and how I was better off, etc., etc.

And how right they were.

If I had married him, I know for a fact that I would have either divorced him, or killed him.  Either way, I would not be with him now.

Ironically, he ended up marrying another girl from my college.  She is Facebook friends with several of my Facebook friends.  I can not tell you how badly I want to stalk her pictures and see if she has a cheesy two-thirds of a carat heart-shaped diamond in a yellow gold band engagement ring sitting on her finger.  Just so I can laugh, and know how she was given the ring that was custom-made for ME!

Oh, and to be ever so grateful for the day that Fratboy took it back.

Being a Mother Can Suck


There. I’ve said it. Being a mother can suck.

Please understand, I am not saying that it sucks to be a mother. I love the monkeys with all my heart and soul.  But, there are times when it sucks to be the mommy.

This morning was one of those times.   One of those mornings when I wanted to throw in the towel and just give up.  One of those mornings when I want to call the Monkey Daddy or the Nonna Monkey (my own mother) and admit my defeat and beg for them to simply raise them.  One of those mornings when I found myself envious of the childless.

Even as I write this, I understand how horrible that sounds. I understand there are those who are childless who desperately want to not be.  I understand there are those that due to custody issues would kill to have time with their children. I understand there are those who as they read this are looking up the number for Child Protective Services.

But, I also understand there are those who as they read this are thinking, “Finally!  Someone who has the guts to say it!”

This morning I found myself asking what I had done to deserve this. What kind of bad Karma I had brought upon myself?  What god had I angered to incur such a punishment?  And for how long was I to endure it?

I felt like Nancy Kerrigan, after she had been whacked on the knee, crying out to the heavens, “Why? Why? Why me?”

And the question wasn’t just rhetorical. I really wanted an answer, damn it!

Alas.  None came.  And I am fairly confident none will come.

So, I’ll say it again. Sometimes motherhood sucks.

But, I also know that when the Middle Monkey comes and sits next to me after Sunday School, he will snuggle up next to me, and say in that sweet little lisp, “I am sorry for screaming at you this morning.  I love you.”

And my heart will melt and I once again be reminded how much I love him and all will be right with the world.

At least until the next time.

*sigh*

The Middle Monkey and me, in a time where being a mother did not suck

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Lessons from Sochi


I haven’t written in a while.  Not just here on the blog (to those who followed me, and have missed me, I am deeply sorry), but NOT AT ALL.  It just seemed like the prolific words which flowed off of my fingertips simply vanished.  Nothing.

Ok.  Well, maybe some of it was intentional.  I needed to keep some thoughts private.  And you know me – once I start writing, there ain’t much I keep private.

With that being said, something did come to me tonight.

Like most of the world, I have been watching the Olympic Games in Sochi.  Not that I am a huge winter sports fan, or anything like that.  I mean, I grew up in South Florida, for God’s sake!  I still can’t handle the “cold” of Atlanta!  But, there is something about watching people put on the uniform for their country and “go for the gold” – even if their “gold” is the simple fact that they are in Sochi – and not at home.

And while it is always lovely to see someone win, I am particularly taken by those athletes who don’t.  Those who falter, yet some how manage to pick themselves up and go on.

Jeremy Abbott

During the men’s figure skating short program, one such event happened to a US athlete,  Jeremy Abbott.  He went up for a jump, missed the landing, fell on the ice, skidded about 10 feet and SLAMMED into the wall.  The poor man was obviously in pain.  He laid on the ice for a few moments, clutching his ribs – as his music continued playing.  When he got up off the ice, he appeared to be skating towards the judges to withdraw.  You could see the process running through his mind.  As his music continued playing.  But, then the most amazing thing happened.  The audience started cheering him on, encouraging him to continue.   And he did.  He finished his program.  Oh sure, his scores weren’t great, but he finished.  And the next night, he set a personal best for his long program.

He finished.  In the face of injury.  In the face of the humiliation of lying on the ice in front of the world.  He finished.

Those moments were repeated time and time again during these past two weeks.  Snowboarders who fell from the top of the half-pipe getting back up for their next run.  Bobsled teams flipping their sleds getting back in for the next run.

How many of them wanted to say, “I don’t want to do this anymore.  I’m done” and call it a day?

There’s a lesson for me to be learned in this.  To get back up.  To not let that fall, that setback, that disappointment, keep me down.  It is far to easy for me to say, “I don’t want to do this anymore.  I’m done, and have no intention of ever doing it again so I won’t get hurt (disappointed, etc.) again.”  Especially when it seems like every time I set foot on to the proverbial ice, I slam into the wall.

Maybe the next time it will be a personal best.

Daily Prompt: Name that… You!


Daily Prompt: Name that… You!.

My name.

I’ve had a love/hate relationship with it my whole life.

I have never really felt like a “Susan,” whatever that should feel like.

I guess I just always felt it to be an old-fashioned, plain name.  And I’ve never really felt “old-fashioned.”  As a child I certainly felt plain…but DEFINITELY not now.  Now, I am sassy and fabulous.

I do not know where my parents came up with the name Susan.  My hunch is that I was named for my father’s best friend’s wife.  Both of my parents deny it.  I don’t believe them.

Susan comes from the Hebrew, Shoshana, meaning “graceful lily.”  Ok.  Well, I danced for about 19 years, so I could see the graceful thing.  But, there is no way my parents would have known that as I was but a wee little 6 pound, 11 ounce baby lying in my hospital bed.

My middle name is Katharine.  It came from my mother. It  was her name, and the name of her German grandmother.  There was never any doubt in my mother’s mind that her baby girl would carry the name.

Katharine comes from the Greek, Aikaterine or katharos, meaning pure.

So, when you put the meanings of my name together it is “a graceful lily that is pure.”

I kinda like that.  THAT sounds poetic and lovely.

In light of that, henceforth I shall be called, Pure Graceful Lily.

Oh sure, it’s a bit of a mouthful, but it’s my name and I can do what I want to with it.  And why shouldn’t my name be as fabulous as the wonder that is me?

I think so!

The Most Terrifying Words in the English Language


I have just discovered the nine most terrifying words in the English language…

“I should send you the link to my blog”

I guess I should clarify that.  Those are the nine most terrifying words in the English language when spoken to someone you are getting to know,

Particularly with my blog.

As we have discussed before, dear readers, my blog was formed almost a year ago as a way for me to express all those things going through my head after my break-up with my former love.  In the year since, it has become an outlet – a sort of therapy session.  I will write about just about anything that pops into my head.  And honestly, that is how I write – it just pops in there.

I have shared my inner most pain.  I have bared my soul to all of you.  None of what I have written has been fiction.  Everything has been based on the reality that is my life.

Some of you only know me through my writings.  Some of you have known me for years.  And I am glad I have affected you all in some way.

But, there is something about sending someone new – where we are still “feeling each other out” – over to read my random musings.

The words were out of my mouth (or in this case, off my fingers, as it was written in a text) before I knew what I was doing.  And once I had sent the link, suddenly, I felt naked.  I had just given access to all my innermost thoughts and fears and anger and pain to someone I haven’t even MET yet.  Oy.

You may ask, why am I able to throw these words out into cyberspace and not have a neurotic panic attack?  Hells if I know.  But, I do know that the anger and the pain don’t  fester in my heart any longer.   And yes, it has been because I have had a place to put it all.

I guess all I can do it breathe, and hope that I don’t come off as TOO crazy.

Just the right amount of crazy.

Absolution


I harbored the pain
Inside my heart
Allowing it to grow –
to fester –
Until it consumed my soul.
Unwilling to permit it to ebb
Forcing it to flow once again
Until it drowned my thoughts.

Releasing the pain meant –
Releasing you,
Releasing us,
Releasing what we were,
Releasing what we were to be.

Releasing my pain meant –
Releasing you,
Releasing your guilt,
For what we never would be again.

My pain –
Your guilt –
Became our life line
Keeping us tethered
Unable to rejoin the past,
Yet
Unable to move forward.

Only in allowing the pain to ebb –
Only in severing the bond –
Only in releasing you –
Can true healing come.

So-
I offer you forgiveness
For my pain.
I offer you freedom
From our ties.
I offer you absolution
From your guilt.
And the peace that can only come
From
Release.

Drowning in the Dating Pool

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Now that I have poked my big toe back into dating pool to test the waters, I have just one reaction.

I hate dating.

There I’ve said it.

I mean I reeeeaaaaallllllyyyyy hate it.

I never was very good at it.  And, unlike a fine wine, it hasn’t gotten any better with age.

The whole process is nerve-wracking.  I meet someone.  We chat on-line.  We text all day.  We talk for hours on the phone.  I am witty.  I am charming.   Everything in going swimmingly.  Everything is clicking.   We decide to meet in person.

*gulp*

The big day arrives.  We text about how nervous we are.  How excited.

And it goes beautifully.  I am witty.  I am charming.

“You are so amazing!  Why are you still single?,” I am asked.

“Such a good question,” I reply as I flash my brightest smile.

The evening ends.  Things feel kinda good.  My head is above water.  I’ve learned to not get my hopes up, but…

More texting.

Discussions about meeting again.  We try to work around kid schedules.

Texts start to get farther and farther apart.

And eventually nothing.

And I know I am about to have to go through this all over again.

This is my cycle.

And frankly it makes me want to get as far away from the dating pool as possible.

It is exhausting to have to go through it over and over and over again.  My psyche is blue and shivering, longing for a thick warm towel to wrap around my shoulders.

I know several people who do not know how to swim, and don’t care to learn.  So, they just avoid any situation where they might be surrounded by water.

So, to continue my metaphor, perhaps I should just remove myself from the pool.  Get far far away.  After all, I can’t drown in the dating pool if I don’t get in.  But, I am not sure that is how I want to live my life.

I’ve already learned to ease my way into the water.  I no longer cannonball off the edge.

Maybe it’s just that I have forgotten how to swim and I need to put back on my floaties.  Or, get a swim instructor.  Or find a new pool.

Somethin’.

Because right now, I hate dating.

Really I do.