RSS Feed

Author Archives: sars!

If You’re Still Standing That Means You’re Not Dead Yet

Posted on
Oh my lovely little snark doodles…. contrary to popular belief, I am not, in fact, Dead.

More like I’ve been on a short hiatus, recovering from killing myself by participating in the Nike Women’s Half Marathon, and then getting ready to start my new job, and spending some much needed quality time with my kiddos, because while I am super excited about my new job, I also signed something somewhere along the way that says I will not take any time off (unless I am legitimately ill) for the first 90 days of my employment. So that means I’m pretty much stuck in the coal mines, for the rest of the year…. sigh….

But enough about that. What you really want to know is all about my marathon right….So prepare yourselves for a cautionary tale of woe and misery. (We could be here a while, so maybe uncork yourself a nice bottle of wine, and for all my homies, open up the stopper on your box ‘o wine– don’t hate, appreciate).

On Sunday, October 16th, in the year of our Lord 2011, I ran (and by ran I mean barely jogged and walked) the Nike Woman’s Half Marathon. Myself and 22,000 other participants lined up in the streets around Union Square in San Fransisco by 6am, got crushed by the swelling crowds, got our ear drums blown out by the loudspeakers, and by 6:58 am I was this odd mixture of oddly excited and completely terrified. I placed my ear buds in my already sensitive ears, pushed the volume to max and got pumped up by Fergie’s “Here I Come.” Our corral crossed the official start at 7:11am.

Blowing out my eardrums at 6:30am

As feet hit the start line elbows started flying, runners taking off, pumping their arms back and forth, every inch of the street covered in excited women, finding their rhythm, excitedly chatting to their friends, concentrating at the task at hand.  My friends had already passed me up, and I was working on controlling my breathing, finding my rhythm, and cursing at myself. Right about the first half mile I had a great conversation with myself that went something like this…

Me1: Wow it’s a nice cool morning
Me2: What the fuck, i mean what the fuck are you thinking, we’re half a mile in and our chest already hurts
Me1: It’s not that bad, and we’re only half a mile in. We’re doing ok.
Me2: Ahh, watch out, elbow!
Me1: just got to duck and weave
Me2:oh you’re fucking hopeless.

The first five and a half miles went as planned. I ran at my pace, kept my shoulders back, remembered to just keep breathing, and enjoyed some of the scenery. While others were taking spills left and right (shifting air currents ya’ll), I was (amazingly) avoiding any major pitfalls and keeping up my target mile time: until I came to The Hill. Let me preface this by saying that anyone who had visited San Fransisco is surely aware of the “Hills” or mini mountains that make up the city and its outskirts. I knew the course was hilly, I had seen the map and elevation, and yet I still foolishly believed that these hills would not be the end of me. Oh how I was wrong.

The view from mid-mile 5, it was breath taking, I think I felt like barfing

The first hill claimed it’s place in my heart as the mountain that broke my running streak. By mid-hill my thighs were trembling, my ankles threatening to turn underneath me, my calves straining.  When I finally crested this behemoth I was greeted with a 200 foot plateau before descending into the heart of darkness and walking down another large mountain. I could feel my heart beat in my mouth, and the obscenities that my lower half of my body were screaming at me was enough to even make me blush. Still I soldiered on.

On rubbery legs, the 7th mile seemed easier to tackle, a little flatter, beautiful scenery, it promised some relief and I found the strength to start up my jog again. I had blisters, I felt them biting into the soles if my feet with every step. The hills continued through the winding course and slanted streets, and while the course itself was gorgeous I could feel myself dying as every belabored breath escaped from my mouth.

The view from mile 7, where my feet felt like they exploded…

Thankfully for me and the rest of the participants it remained cool and breezy for the entire duration of the marathon. I’m pretty sure that had the sun come out, or I had taken a tumble I would have had to been golf carted back.

Somewhere around the 9th to 10th mile I started crying off and on, for no particular reason other than I felt like I just had to cry. Many a runner and power walker passed me by with dubious looks on their faces and slight shakes of their heads, as if to say, “she’s so done with.” A few women were polite enough to ask me if i was okay and through my sniffles and snuffles I was able to indicate that I was, and watch them fly past me on Hermes (the Greek demi god, not the designer) gilded feet. As you descend through mile ten along the beach and through the Finisher’s Village (uh huh they actually taunt you with a glimpse of the finish even though you at least have another three mile to go, bastards), two mother daughter teams passed me up (and these daughters were oh I don’t know eight years old or so), and I felt my confidence start to crack and crumble. Whereas I had merely just been in  pain before, and was able to push past it, my mental resolve was now teetering on the very edge of completely failing me, and as mile eleven wound it’s say under my feet I did indeed have a total breakdown, or “hit the wall” as the other runners called it. It went something like this:

Me1: Hey Bitch, just stop, just stop now.
Me2: I can’t, I really can’t. Almost there
Me1: You’re going to collapse right here and die, and no one will find you, and everyone is going to point and stare
Me2: That’s true, maybe I should– no I can’t stop, must keep going….
Me1: Look you almost finished, our fucking legs are done with, you’re going to have to amputate them. You’ll never walk again…
Me 2: Amputate?
Me1: That’s right Bitch, I said amputate…
Me2: That would be kind of horrible
Me1: No Shit
Me2: But we’re so close to finishing, we can do this
Me1: You think you can do this, until we’re walking around on stumps because our feet spontaneously combusted.
Me2: Feet don’t spontaneously combust….
Me1: You never know….

And so the conversation went on back and forth, until I realized that I had reached the end of mile 11, and with one mile to go I was home free.  The promised 12th mile of “Chocolate” was in fact two large tables that had about six boxes of individually wrapped squares of Ghirardelli chocolate dumped on them, and did not live up the to the Willy Wonka hype I had pictured in my mind.  Also, I am sad to report that there were no fireman along the course offering their studly help, and so my well planned and coordinated  falls and trips were of no avail….

Instead when I finally crossed that finish line, a dumpy looking guy in a tuxedo (whom I suppose was in fact a fireman) shoved the Robin’s Egg Blue little box in my hand and urged me forward.  The race was over. While volunteers were busily shoving things in my face left and right, and wrapping me up in mylar, I was trying to not cry like a baby. At the end of the race I had this overwhelming feeling of just needing to let it all out, and when I saw Ms. VampireS I finally did. I stood there sweaty, hurting, wrapped in plastic and cried.

It felt so good.

Me post race, I know, I know, but I feel TERRIBLE


I then proceeded to INHALE the nearest food item I could find.  It was probably mildly disturbing, but Ms. VampireS had the graciousness to not stare, or comment. We limped back to the transportation buses, where I was still running high off adrenaline, and then hobbled back to the hotel room. I remember showering and falling asleep, or maybe it was falling asleep and then showering… at any rate, I missed dinner with Ms. VampireS and some friends, and when I finally woke up I was STARVING.

I decided to massacre my food at The Cheesecake Factory because:

1. It was close
2. I wanted to overindulge

While committing my food desecration people stared, I mean one person ordering three food items and a milkshake is a bit excessive, but for the most part, the rest of the participants easily identifiable by their silver Tiffany’s badge of honor just kind of nodded in an appreciative sort of way, and let me continue to pig out.

Overstuffed and in starting to really feel the damage I had done to myself, I paid my bill and stumbled out.

I have never slept sooo soundly in my entire life.

The next morning when I went to get up, I have never been in so much pain in my life.

It would take me a week to be able to walk correctly again.

I am proud of my accomplishment, but highly doubt I will do that to myself again, only because I like walking without wincing. I would recommend it though, to do one at least once in your lifetime, and trust me, if I can do it, anyone can…

So there you have it Snarksters, the race and my life in review. I’m settling in here (my new job) nicely, and cozying up to my new nonsensical title even better (Director of High Muckety Muck Mucks)…. so I’m officially back bitches………

Oh hey, did I mention that my sister is getting married on Novemeber 19th, I’m the Maid of Honor, she’s putting me in yellow, it’s outside on the beach, and every episode of Bridezillas has not prepared me for the horror she’s unleashed on my life………..

Oh no?

Well consider yourself forewarned….

So what have you all been up to while I was away? Please fill me in because I get bored easily and always need new reading material.


When Everything Stops Hurting….

Posted on

Dear Snark Doodles,

A quick note to let you know I have not gone to the big blogging forum in the sky. I in fact lived through my marathon insanity, and want to tell you all about it when I can once again move the lower half of my body without grimacing in pain.

Besides I’m only 99% dead.

Thank you for all the support and encouragement, I couldn’t have come back alive without you all behind me!

Snark Hugs and Kisses,


That’s What Friends Are For….

Posted on

All Righty my little snarkdoodles…

I know what you’re thinking…where have I been all week, what happened to Conversational Mondays, and Familial Fridays, where’s my weekly helping of Snark?!

Before the pitch forks come out, I apologize for not being able to give my two cents on all things snarky this week.

I am in the middle of a transition.

I will be starting a new job next week, and dying this week in San Fransisco, so maybe I won’t be starting a new job after all… Anyway while preparing my Last Will and Testament, and running around with the kiddos and overanalyzing a lot of everything else, I came up short on the posts this week, which I know is totally unforgivable, but I promise to do better, really…..

Luckily for me, I have some pretty cool friends, one of which wrote me a guest post for my poor neglected blog… so while I finish packing (don’t judge me), and worrying about everything I leave you with a guest post from a very good friend of mine, who’s topic on bitchy friends and forgiveness seems to come just at the right time since I done fucked up ya’ll (and was a total bitchy friend this week), but more on that later…

Should I return alive on Monday, I promise a post full of all the graphic details on how I almost died while running a marathon…….

Friends fight, friends come, friends go, and real friends know to apologize when things blow.  (Yes I felt the need to rhyme – I teach kindergarten for heaven’s sake!)   I knew that back in elementary school when one day Audra didn’t want to sit next to me at lunch anymore.  We got into a fight over this boy named James and Audra said she didn’t want to be friends with me anymore.  That is, until I won the science fair.  She nonchalantly came over to tell me I had a cool project and things were fine after that.  It was her way of saying, look, I did a bitchy thing, but I’m  over it now, are you??  I mean, because real apologies only happen in the movies – these are the kind of apologies that happen in the real world.  I knew that back in the day, and yet it’s still a hard pill to swallow as an adult if a friend stops being your friend.
I say this because I have been in the longest fight with one of my very dear friends for a long time now.  There was even a snarky blog about her and I admit, I loved reading it because it was true.  She did say a very bitchy comment.  And she’s a bitch.  But then again, so are a lot of my friends.  And that’s what I love about them.  Until she was a bitch to me.  It was great being on the friend side of the bitch.  It was horrible to be on the other side when you aren’t friends with a bitch that you cared about. 

Yes, I said care.  I’ve got a lot of feelings.  Too many feelings if there is such a thing.  I told myself, and to other people, she did a bitchy thing to me and I don’t care.  But deep down, I was really hurt.  She did do a bitchy thing.  I just don’t think she realized it was bitchy.  But I realized it and it hurt.  And I had to deal with it.  So while bitchy went about living her great life, I was ostracized and cut off from the circle.  It’s like no one wanted to sit with me at lunch.  Now, don’t get me wrong I have other great, equally bitchy friends.  But this particular bitch managed to make me feel as if the problem was me, which made me want to ostracize myself even more.
Now before I get too melancholy, I have to say, some really great things happened after I was ostracized.  I got in touch with a lot of older friends and it made me realize how many great people I have in my life.  I guess you can say, I finally got my nose out of the bitches ass to realize she was a bitch.  And I saw the light.  It didn’t make it any easier though.
That is, until I reached a point of an “aha” moment.  I started living my life not caring about the bitch.  I figured, if she wanted to end the friendship entirely, so be it.  She just wasn’t meant to be my friend then.  And truth be told, I got wayyyyy to damn busy at the moment to give a crap.  And  low and behold, as real life cycled again like  we were 7 year olds fighting over a boy at school, the bitch apologized to me.  It wasn’t your Blockbuster movie apology of I’m sorry.  In fact, I’m sorry was never uttered.  Bitches don’t say they are sorry.  But in between the lines of her email she sent this week, I was all too familiar with it.  Without saying it, she was owning up to being the bitch and saying she was in the wrong, and more importantly, that she missed me.  Now I am not saying I am back to sitting at lunch with her again, so to speak.  But it was what I needed. To know that one of life’s fucked up cycles of friendship happened. And as I made arrangements to see her this weekend, it made me realize, friends fight, friends come, friends go, and real friends apologize when things blow.  Ain’t friends a bitch.

Now enough of the “more you know” announcements with a shooting star going by.  This is real life bitches.  And I’ve gotta go brush my teeth, get dressed, and face the spirit rally at my elementary school.  (I’m jumping for joy.)  Here’s to all the bitches of the world – be nice to one another.  And say you are sorry when you should.  Us bitches gotta stick together.  We are a dying breed.

I May Just Come Back in a Body Bag….

Posted on

First of all my little Snark Bugs no one sent me questions, so I guess Q&A Wednesdays have gone the way of the way of the beeper,  no longer relevant but cool to talk about…. See if I ever ask you guys to do anything ever, ever again. HMPH (Stamps feet)

It’s ok though, because instead of pouring over your questions, I have been obsessively pondering the following:

What is Ms.VampireS going to tell the phubster when I come back from San Fransisco in a body bag.
(Go ahead, take a moment and let that soak in, s’ok…..)

So here’s the thing….. sometime in April or so…. I let one of my other good friends talk me into signing up for the Nike Women’s Half Marathon (there’s also a full marathon) in October of this year because I figured one of two things:

1. Our group wouldn’t get selected (participants are chosen at random by drawing)
2. If we did get picked I had over 8 months to prepare, so it would be ok

Imagine my surprise and the kick in the gut I felt when we were indeed “chosen” to be participants at this year’s marathon, followed by the weighty decision of actually having to train for this marathon. By train I mean walk around, and possibly run, maybe.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret here–> I hate running.

I’m not built for it with my one leg being shorter than the other (what it’s a real problem I swear), and my activity induced asthma. The mere idea of running is enough to send me at leisurely strolls pace heading towards the hills. And yet somehow I had gotten myself inextricably tangled up in participating in a half marathon aka 13 miles of PURE HELL.

I started training with a vengeance. I was determined for the most part to make good on this whole marathon thing, I mean I had to buy a ticket to San Fransisco, figure out hotel arrangements, etc. So I was going to put in the effort necessary to make sure that it would be a successful venture. None of this typical devil may care attitude. I was going to focus, get strict, eat right, train every other day, and………………….

After about the third week of this regiment, I broke down.

The kids got sick, I got sick, I got a cough I couldn’t shake, so it was hard to be aggressive about training. I figured I have plenty of time, and my friends (I had also talked Ms. VampireS into this utter nonsense) were keeping me accountable, so no reason to worry.

Over the next few months I trained off and on.

Today I looked at the calendar. Race day is 10 days away. I fear I may die.

Even at the height of my training I never got into the true rhythm running a full on marathon would require. My lungs would get tight, I’d stop and power walk, or I’d turn my foot funny and then I’d limp around for an hour. I think I may just barely squeak by if I really keep my mind in the game and bear through the inevitable pain, cramps, scrapes, cuts, and bruises. I am hopeful that I will at least make it across the finish line before I collapse and die. Again, the key word here is hopeful….

Although I won’t be too saddened by my many perilous tumbles as there will be most of San Fransisco’s finest fireman stationed along the course to provide first aid, etc. In fact a well timed trip or two, may be just what mama ordered….

Anyway the prize at the finish line is this really great Tiffany’s necklace (basically the only reason why I signed up anyway), and the only way to get it is to actually finish in the time allotted. Have I mentioned that I am pretty much shit your pants scared that I won’t finish, that I might in fact have a heart attack and die from overexertion, and then have to be shipped back home in a body bag….

I’m hoping to be able to push these fears aside and just focus on the task at hand. It’s too late to turn back, or amp up training any harder. I’m either going to drop dead, or barely stay alive. I’m hoping for the latter. I was thinking I should get my will drawn up before I leave next weekend, you know just in case… maybe leave a letter or two of apology, something for the kids to have to remember me by.

What can I say snarksters, I’ve got pre-race jitters and I can’t seem to shake them. Any tips, tricks, helpful meditation ideas out there?

Ms. VampireS–> let me just apologize now in case I do in fact die, and you have to ship my body home. I didn’t mean to collapse on you, I just really suck at running.

Lesson learned:

You probably shouldn’t attempt something you already know you’re really shitty at and from which you may possibly have to be toe tagged and shipped back home in Ziploc.

Prep for Q&A Wednesday

Posted on

Oh my little Snark Bugs…
I decided…

Why keep all this Snarky Goodness to myself? Why not share these revelations with the masses? I have great pearls of wisdom that I never listen to, therefore why not spread the wealth…

So I am introducing Q&A Wednesdays….

Please ask me some questions so I can come up with some Answers. Email me at

I shall do my best to be extra snarky, and extra helpful, whichever seems better!

I Didn’t Quite Cry Like A Little Girl….

Posted on
Well my little Snark Bugs I’m going to make it official. I think my liver is broken. Or my brain my be actually working, or I have been abducted by aliens: any one of these scenarios is highly plausible. Just when I thought I was going to be able to regale you with climactic and scintillating stories of this past weekend’s complete debauchary, I have a confession to make:

I have failed you.

And you better get used to that shit now, you know the lingering garlicesque quality of bitter disappointment. No matter how many times you brush your teeth that shit still sucks.  What can I say Snarksters…. I did not drink at all this weekend.


Let me retract that…. I drank a really watered down fruit cocktail with vodka, and by drank I mean I had two sips.

I can hear the feigned outrage and threatened lynchings now, so let’s just get to the punch shall we (yes I revel in irony the way some revel in power, or you know glitter and spanx).  It’s not that I didn’t want to drink per se, in fact I spent most of Saturday afternoon preparing for the onslaught of moonshine I was going to force on my gullet. I drank copious amounts of water, and an Urban Detox drink/elixir.  I had everything planned out… I was going to spend the night at Ms. VampireS’s place, we were going to do a little pre-party, the whole thing……. I had a free pass from the phubster to have a good time… and yet when the time came I just couldn’t do it.

I know…. pick your jaw up off the floor and keep reading, if you can….

But Becca WHY………… you’re asking yourself, or accusingly pointing at the screen and shouting….

Ummm…. to put it in a nutshell–> I felt homesick.

Oh God, and there goes all my hard earned street cred.

So here’s the thing, the phubster and I don’t see a lot of each other during the week, in fact we don’t see each other at all because of our work schedules, locations, etc I actually spend the week with the kids at my parent’s house and we don’t see him until the weekend.  Well we do see him during the week for dinner and stuff but we don’t actually stay together, and Yes, this is by choice.  The money we save on gas, and the stress that’s avoided by me not having to rustle the kiddos up early and drop them off is immeasurable, and so for a while, we’re traversing down this road.  Obviously it’s not all roses and peaches, and for the most part it’s pretty much vomit and shit, but it is what it is, so let’s just move on….

I had been planning on this party for at least 6 weeks now. It was promising to be an epic night, replete with funny drunken stories, and maybe projectile vomiting. I had a crazy morning trying to get everything together for the phubster so he could take care of the kids, and it took me forever to leave the house because he was being cranky, and the Crybaby was being extra clingy. It was just about World War 3 to get out and get over to Ms. VampireS’s place somewhat on time. And I was irritated too. I was really ticked off that the phubster and the kiddos had gotten me all sorts of pissy while I was trying to get into “get drunk party mode” and leave. I was in fact really happy and looking forward to all kinds of inappropriate fun just for spite. Ms. VampireS and I started off at her local nail salon, and the moment I sat down in the chair I knew it… I was screwed, because I was suddenly and desperately homesick for my cranky ass husband and insane kiddos.

But I was committed, and I was determined to push through this, I really was. So I swallowed the lump in my throat, and tried to ignore the texts with pictures of the kiddos from the phubster who really wasn’t helping the cause (and I take this tactic to be part of new strategy in his game, which I’m fucking on to, now….), and I was just going to go ahead as planned. Also in part (a particularly large part) I was embarrassed to be feeling like such a sissy crybaby, and not really willing to let Ms. VampireS know about my current blues. So the festitivites continued and I tried to keep it light, and I really wanted to drink, but as we got ready, and got our eyelashes done, and put on my going out face (aka spackle, aka make-up), I just couldn’t shake it. I was sure it would get better at dinner, where I would see some more of our mutual friends and for sure have a drink or too, at least to relax.

At dinner I kept meaning to order a drink, really. I did. But the service was kind of God Awful, and the phubster was still blowing up my phone (bastard), and when the food finally arrived I was only too grateful to just inhale, without thinking about drinking. After dinner, I promised myself I was going to have a drink at the bar. I was going to get drunk and dance on top of the bar and make a fool out  of myself, I swore it, but instead, the achy hollow feeling, filled up the space that was meant for my liquor, and pulsed in rhythm to the deafening music. I danced with Ms VampireS, kept the creepers off my girlfriends (and Oh LORD we’re there ever some fucking wierdos at the bar), told a drunk guy’s homie he better “check his boy” before I do, and made daggerous eyes at some insane fuck that sniffed one of my other friend’s neck.

I was told numerous times I should have a drink, and I wanted to, I didn’t have a good reason not to, other than the fact that I just couldn’t. Couldn’t bring myself to imbibe in some “forget the feelings juice” and let loose. I stayed until the bar closed and we all went back to Ms. VampireS’s place, where I guilitly broke down and said, “I think I’m just going to go home, the phubster was blowing up my phone all night.”  The look on her face could have recdued me to a puddle of toxic waste, but she gracefully aqcuiesed. I suddenly felt guilty, and knew I couldn’t fight either feeling as I did the walk of shame back to my car and drove home.

Ms. VampireS I’m sorry. Really. For being such a fucking pussy. Seriously. But I know you’re going to forgive me which is why we’re such good friends, and I promise that at your Star Wars themed wedding bacholorette party I’m going balls to the walls……………………

All the way home, the heavy feeling, like walking through a mucky pond became lighter and lighter as the miles flew under my tires, and when I finally arrived home I quietly went inside, laid down next to the phubster and went to sleep. I felt complete.

The next day I was exhausted, as though I had actually stayed up all night drinking. This is when I realized how incredibly old I’m getting, and that I really shouldn’t be out at the bar dancing if I’m not drunk enough to make my muscles loosen up to handle the torture I’m putting it through.

New rule…. I have to stop being such a pussy, and I really need to start doing some yoga or something, because shit, my legs fucking hurt.

So, ever felt homesick as an adult? Please share… emabrassment loves company…..

I’m the Mistress of Alliteration, and I Remember….

Posted on

The other day I was talking to a friend about being a thug,and maybe something about ho’s and pimps, and eventually we got to the subjectof my blog. She said something to the effect of “I’ve been waiting for you starttalking about you know, your story on your blog, are you going to?” I repliedwith laughter, and a quick answer, “well I think I want to keep it light. I’vegot so much blah blah blah blah going on right now, and I really like thehumor. I guess I could go there when things settle down, but I don’t know howserious I can get.” But you see, I was lying, not on purpose, not to be mean,but really I was lying to myself.  Ifthere’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s making up excuses, which is not tobe confused with procrastination. I am after all the Queen Grand High Poohbahof Procrastination; but what I’m getting at here is actually finding a stupidreason for not wanting to do something. (I know, you’re saying, but Becca isn’tthat really the same thing… well no, not really actually. Procrastinating is alot more fun than actually making up flimsy excuses as to why you don’t want todo something that actually doesn’t have to be done…) 
I guess I felt that I justdidn’t want to get into it, my sordid past (actually not very), and all theheavy luggage that goes with it (I don’t recommend trying to lift any ofit).  In an ironic way I didn’t want tomake myself vulnerable to you, the readers, because everyone loves a fun timegal, and NOT a Debbie Downer, right? Right. Or at least this is what I managedto convince myself.  But perhaps it’sworth a shot. If it doesn’t work I can go right back to slapstick and piratecurses, and we can just forget this whole thing ever happened. Deal?
It’s a motherfucking deal then.
So Snarksters, in an effort for you to get to know me, shallwe start Familial Fridays? (Oh man, do I have a way with alliteration—no notilliterate, alliteration, dude: look it up) Hmmm…. Now where to start… We couldalways go the traditional route ie “it was a dark and stormy night…” or thenon-traditional route, ie “sometimes you’re the statue and sometimes you’re thepigeon”… but all of that seems so convivial and trite at the moment and I’m inan erudite sort of mood (ok apologies my snark bugs, but I do sometimes usewords that are difficult to pronounce because they’re rattling around in myhead, but not because I want you to be more confused than you already are). Maybe we can try something more like this…
I remember.
I remember the first time he hit me. I thought it was amistake. In fact I was sure it was a mistake because there was no way that thisshining example of what it means to be a total shit bag of a human being wouldin fact actually raise his hand, pull it back and hit me. It was more shockingthan hurtful.
I remember.
I remember being frozen between halfway sitting and halfwaystanding, my fork precariously balanced between my fingers threateningclattering on the floor, bleeding out spaghetti. The tingle like insect legs onyour palm is what woke me up, as tears began to surge forward.
I remember.
I remember thinking, “why am I crying?” Why was I crying?The hot pools of shame wrestled their way down my face, leaving angry streakycomments in their wake. He had already sat down and had continued eatingdinner. “Sit down, and close your mouth.” It was almost whispered, and thrownat my way as to suggest I was the one who had caused the interruption in ourdinner routine. One more daggered glance sent me scrambling, limbs in everyimpossible and wrong angle to regain my composure and my seat, which onlydelayed the actual process of sitting down. “What’s wrong with you that you can’teven sit down.”  I wasn’t sure what waswrong with me, but it must be something.
I remember.
I remember we just kept eating. I did not utter one single syllable.I did not get up and leave. I did nothing. “It must be my fault” I told myself,repeatedly. I must have done something wrong. But what? I rewound the eventsbefore the conjecture of his hand against my skin, to ascertain what could havesparked such a discourse. We had been laughing over something stupid andinconsequential. He had asked me if I could go to a gallery opening, but Icouldn’t. I had a final to study for, and eventually had to go back to my ownplace. I had told him I couldn’t. We argued. It was settled with his physicalpunctuation that I would indeed attend the gallery opening.
I remember.
I remember I felt like I had eaten fistfuls of garden dirtfollowed by a cement chaser.  Later therewas whispered kindness, comforting embraces, and an insecure relief began tosettle at my feet, like a dog thumping its tail, warming the edges of my being.I stayed on. I stayed silent.
PHEW. That was HEAVY. And I’ve decidedly don’t do heavyanymore.  Such a burden. Really. But inall seriousness I dated a total douche bag of a human for about 4 ½ years.It/He was a large part of my adolescent life, shaping me, molding me in all thewrong ways. Things I’ve had to re-teach myself, re-learn what is or isn’t “normal.”In all of this I have managed to keep intact my sense of humor, somehow, andhere I am on the other side. Definitely, defiantly defying (ohh there’s that alliteration again) the statistics aboutbeing the product of an abusive relationship, what that means for futurerelationships, what that means to the future you.
Here’s a little bit of advice that has taken me YEARS tolearn, and I’m still struggling with it:
You, YES YOU, are a person of immeasurable worth.
You deserve to be treated with respect.
You deserve to be loved in an appropriate manner.
You are capable of loving in an appropriate manner.
Snarksters, NO ONE has the right to lay their hands on youin a manner that is physically abusive. Don’t stay silent, and don’t think thatthis is “NORMAL.” I assure you, it’s not. Please seek help if you are in anabusive relationship and can’t leave.  Help and resources can be found here.
Now that we’re done with those un-pleasantries you will allbe very happy to know that this weekend I’m attending the belated birthdayparty of Ms. VamipreS; so next week’s Conversational Mondays should be superAWESOME. I’ve promised to try to behave myself, but shit, who are we kidding?It’s me, after all.
“Pictures of last night ended uponline, I’m screwed, Oh well…” (KatyPerry, Last Friday Night) I’m guessing that’s summing up my weekend… how about yours?