She’s very pushy.

And I am fat because of her. Which feeds her.

So there are more grilled cheese sammiches.

And trips to the freezer for a few spoonfuls of french vanilla.

And I’m out of chocolate.

No. Not this kind. Thanks. Already got this kind.

So, not only am I unemployed and apparently unemployable, even by temp agencies…

Now, apparently, my old, ugly, decidedly uninteresting car is worthy of breaking into.

6 a.m.

My doorbell is buzzing.

It’s my nice neighbor come to tell me she found the back passenger seat window of my car has been smashed.

I walk out to see why someone would do this thing.

Apparently because some moron needs to rummage through the trash on the front passenger floor, throw it in the back seat, and go through the glove box.

No, idiot criminals of Fresno, I do NOT keep valuables in my car. No, idiot criminals of Fresno, I do not HAVE valuables. I am probably WAY more broke than you are.

And now, thanks to you, I have to figure out how I can cover the deductible for the insurance on my aging car so I can repair the window that you destroyed; a window you destroyed to get NOTHING.

Hm… unless you got into my trunk and fucked around. Not that there’s anything worth having there, either, but hey… maybe you really wanted that case of drinho soymilk that I’ve been too lazy to carry upstairs for a week or two.

I’ll go check on that.

GDMFSOBPOSAHRB petty criminals!

May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your nether regions.

Jesus, I’m pissed. Why MY car? You can’t tell the car of a person who has nothing at all?

So, now I have no life… no love… no job… no money… debt piled up so high I can’t see past it… no relief in sight… and now I have unwanted primitive air conditioning in my car.

I have no idea how I’m going to pay to get this fixed. NO fucking clue.

At least the day can’t get any worse, right?

Update – 9:50 a.m. Ok, so my insurance deductible for this is less than what a new window would cost, but I don’t even have that. So… if you feel sorry for me, click this and give me a dollar…

And if you’re in Fresno, the lovely, gorgeous, wonderful, very kind friend Solitaire, has set up a “Save The Joy” effort… She’ll be tending bar at The Starline on Tuesday, August 12. Show up, buy drinks, tip her, and I get to pay for my car window! See how this works? I’ve volunteered to be her barback/slave for the evening, because I should work for my charity handouts… so we’ll see if that’s going to fly with the powers that be. If nothing else, I’ll be there, cheering her on in her bartending efforts. (And she’s just way cute anyway.) So… yeah.

I’m not proud. I can’t afford to be anymore. Give me a handout. I SWEAR I’ll be grateful and bless you for it.

Second edit 12:19pm Ok. Just in case anyone is wondering, no I do NOT spend my days sitting in front of the computer. I just happen to be doing that today because I’ve been doing job searches and job applications online. It is really surprising the amount of time this takes, especially when they require you re-enter ALL your resume info for EVERY single job for which you’re applying. Time consuming. Tedious. A little depressing. Can you BLAME me for watching the email and checking the comments that come through on my blog in between searches and applications?

Wish me luck, people. I just really, truly want to be in the position that little things like today don’t throw me off so drastically. If you know if anyone is hiring, send ‘em my way, or me theirs. Being gainfully employed would put a COMPLETELY different perspective on the events of my morning. It would just be another thing to take care of and get fixed rather than the choice between the phone bill, the food bill, the insurance payment, or the power bill.

I know it won’t last forever. I’m hoping it won’t last another day or so.

The GOOD news is, my shower is fixed, so it isn’t constantly running. Joe, the maintenance guy, was very nice, and I am grateful to him. See? The day’s getting better already. I can shower now. And be NOT smelly.

Onward!

Of course, what’s in there is all stuff on which I should NOT be focusing. The important things keep getting crowded out by the frustrations and emotions and other nonsense that I seem to be having more and more trouble controlling. It is to sigh.

This is not to say I don’t have good days. Last week had several good days.

I’m not sure if it was Monday or Tuesday. Monday, I think. I was invited out for some fun (and food and drink) at the Public House. The first of my personal Cosima sightings.

Wednesday was fun, being around nice people, singing, laughing. Cosima took this photo at the combined Suicide Lounge Rehearsal/Ritual Seasonal Burning of Meat.

Thursday was also fun, hitting the Taste and Toast of the Tower. (Or whatever it’s called.) Wandering down the block, sweating, sampling wine, eating cheese and various other foodstuffs, sniffing tiny cigar samples that I will never smoke (anyone want a cappuccino mini-cigar? It smells REALLY good…), impromptu shopping and purchasing of a silk dress to wear on the spot, and ending up with a PERFECTLY CRAFTED mojito and camaraderie at Veni Vidi Vici. And here’s a couple Cosima sightings of that evening.

Friday found me having dinner with the podling, her dad, and his parents. I enjoyed the chance to visit, and of course, I always enjoyed his cooking, so that was lovely. After dinner I left to meet a lovely woman to see the Elemental Dance thingy at Severance. This, too, was very enjoyable, and some of those dancers gave performances that were far beyond their years. I’m so glad I went. After, we adjourned to Veni’s again, though this time they were out of mint, so no perfect drink for a sweltering, sultry night for Joy. The alternative lemon drop was nice, but I’m no fan of overtly sweet drinks. The conversation, however, was wonderful. She’s a lovely woman and a lovely friend, and I’m so glad I’ve made her acquaintance.

Saturday. Partying wit da girls. zx3gurl is getting married soon, and so her last weeks of freedom had to be commemorated with the traditional bachelorette shindig. We wore corsages that each had a tiny penis with a wee pearl peeking out of the tip. It was strangely mesmerizing to fiddle with the little plastic appendages to alternately make them show, or not show, the pearly suprise. (Ingenious craftiness by one of my favorite bartender girls, who, incidentally, was wearing THE hottest red Marilyn-style floaty hem dress I have EVER seen. She was freaking GORGEOUS!) I imbibed from a penis-shaped straw. I artfully took my sparkly clothes off for the bride-to-be AND taught her how to remove her gloves in an interesting fashion.

(Photos courtesy of Tracy Olsen Photography)

(And PLEASE don’t look at the pictures too closely. I had not been home all day, spending the majority of it trying to get my car repaired. I had 5 minutes to grab my stuff, spritz some perfume on my sweaty self and high-tail it over to the party. Less than glamorous hair and makeup. And I’m chubby. I do not like it.)
I wore a button that designated me the “TEASE” of the group. (I am not one, by the way. – unless you count the entertainment aspect of my newest dance interest, but that doesn’t count on a personal level – If I indicate interest, I mean it. If you’re unsure if I’ve indicated interest, then I clearly have not.) It was NOT an evening of refinement. It was, however, an evening of fun and frolic. Wonderful people, fabulous dinner at Rousseau, drinks and funk at Landmark (I was sorry to leave the VERY ENJOYABLE funkaliciousness, but the party was moving on), a pedi-cab ride to Starline brought us to some trancey driving beat music and dancing… and finding myself dancing with a 22 year old naval weapons tech. (WTF?! Dude, I could be your mama. Don’t stand… don’t stand… don’t stand – or dance- so close to me.) Bride-to-be made me proud, imbibing liberally, but remaining upright and vibrant throughout the night. She was game to wear the veil decorated with LED flashing penises… penii? hm. Yes, and the enormous LED flashing diamond ring. These cheez factors combined with her gorgeous red sequined top made her shiny and HOT… in the good way. Not many girls can be covered in genitalia, in public, and still carry themselves with dignity and grace. Not only did she accomplish that, but she did it with sass. We had fun, and finally staggered back to her domicile somewhere around 1:30 am. The party started at 7 pm. Not bad. Not bad at all. But I HAVE filled my quota of penis-related jokes and innuendo for the month.

Sunday. Rest. Relaxation. Laundry. A little homework. Not nearly enough house cleaning. Then an evening outing with lecram for spaghetti and meatballs, an oddly refreshing but too sweet cranberry/peach shcnapps/vodka thingy, and a chance meeting with one of the previous night’s partygoers still suffering through the aftereffects. We had a nice visit. I mostly ate and listened. It was good.

So there was my week. I honestly don’t consider myself a social butterfly. But it seems I do keep busy in fits and starts. I have weeks where I see no one and do nothing. By choice. And weeks where I’m never home and the laundry piles up and the dishes litter the sink and counter.

Which brings me to this. A while back I picked up a little book called

It’s a light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek explanation of what makes a girl a bombshell. (At least I hope it’s light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek. I HOPE no one takes such nonsense so seriously that they waste time soberly researching such a thing…) And it took me all of 30 minutes to an hour to read from cover to cover. It’s not deep literature.

I’m starting to think I may be a bombshell. Granted, I’m no Marilyn Monroe (who I have never aspired to emulate). I’m not even like one of my heroines… Ann-Margret. No… in looks, I don’t qualify. I’m a little too old and a little too round in places that roundness isn’t a good idea. But I might qualify in other areas. Such as…

In the list of things a bombshell can get away with that ordinary women can’t, I qualify on about half.

“Having no domestic prowess – She doesn’t mastermind the home; she lounges in it. She beautifies in it. She orders in.”

Hallelujah. I am justified.

“Never paying – For drinks. Dinner. Or anything.”

This I don’t do on purpose. I even try to pay. People stop me. Who am I to rob them of the opportunity to be generous and kind?

“Showing up late, but not as late as divas – She tries to be on time, she really does. But heels break, puppies slow her down and she can’t resist picking up the phone if it rings when she’s running out the door. Not stopping to talk to an elderly neighbor is unthinkable.”

I don’t have elderly neighbors, but if I did, I certainly would NOT be rude to them. It has to do with being ridiculously respectful of others (well, of those who deserve respect, that is).

“Reckless attire – A Bombshell is innocently inappropriate. She will go braless or wear stilettos and tight sweaters to office meetings. Seamed stockings and fishnets are also acceptable as are “rocks” for day, always strategically positioned.”

I’m not quite THAT bad. I never go braless. That would be tragedy, but I do wear 4 inch heels daily, tight sweaters are preferred to baggy ones, and I adore seamed stockings and fishnets. Granted, I don’t wear them ALL the time, but I can tell you that when I get a job, it will HAVE to be with people who aren’t too ridiculously conservative. With today’s fashions, on me, most v-necklines are cleavage city, and I refuse to wear high necks. They make me look fatter and older than I already am. Or… I will work at Starbucks, or somewhere similar.

“Petty crimes – Not returning engagement rings (when she calls it off) or jewelry and couture gowns borrowed for public appearances.”

I’m more along the lines of not returning borrowed DVDs or CDs or books… I would never call off an engagement, because I would never accept one unless I meant it. As for borrowed couture gowns and jewelry… I wish! I might not want to relinquish one once I had it in my soft little paws.

This book also contains quotes from famous bombshells. A couple of my favorites:

“I find that I regret nothing. There are three words I have never said, and never will. The are, “I am sorry.” – Dolores Del Rio

I generally try to avoid regret, myself. I HAVE said I’m sorry, but I do try to avoid it if I can. And it’s usually not because I truly have regret, but because I wish to assure someone else that I feel badly for having upset or disappointed them, which is NOT the same thing as real regret.

“I am not difficult. I am definite.” – Hedy Lamarr

Yeah.

Apparently I sit like a bombshell, too.

“Bombshells don’t sit exactly. They perch, curl, curve, and occasionally fling their legs up over the arm of the chair or back of the sofa. This also goes for seats on airplanes, cars and trains.”

Mostly, I lounge. But I have been known to curl and/or fling my legs over the arm of a chair. It’s a natural position for me… draped. And I find it’s genetic. The podling does this as well.

I’ll leave out most references to the chapter on bombshell underpinnings, except to say that yes, stockings win out over pantyhose/tights every time. I made the decision to eschew the little egg with the wrinkled up nylon years ago for truly practical reasons. Pantyhose are uncomfortable, sweaty in all the worst places, and make strange silhouettes. I’d rather go bare-legged, but if leg covering is required, I will generally resort to garters and stockings. For far too long, I was relegated to thick tights in cold weather, but I have now found a delightful NON pantyhose/tights alternative. THICK, HEAVY stockings. Hooray Sock-Dreams!

There’s a chapter about handbags, and I am certainly particular about mine, though I don’t quite go for the sorts of things they mention in the book. But it IS all about style.

The same with footwear. I prefer heels. I prefer heeled boots. I prefer anything that has a sense of style to it. Flat footwear has to be spectacular in some way for me to want to put it on my feet. Elsewhere in the book it reads “You will never find her commuting in running shoes with socks over nylons. She hast too much self-esteem. To a Bombshell, a girl wearing unglamorous shoes in public is saying ‘I hate myself, this part of my life doesn’t count. I resent the shoes I am supposed to wear at work and besides, they’re not comfortable and I am not interested in men.’ ”

Well.. I’m NOT interested in men these days, but it doesn’t mean I have to look the part.

Hair: “When it comes to styling, there are two main looks. Done and undone.” Well, I guess I’m mostly undone. I prefer my hair flying around and in my face, unless I’m trying to concentrate. Then it gets pulled back. For a while.

“The Bombshell finds a sudden thunderstorm thrilling. She appreciates the spontaneity of an impromptu drenching and doesn’t mind if her white polka-dot dress turns transparent and clings to every curve.” True enough. Also, the part they mention about removing the shoes and splashing around sounds like something I’d do. Though sometimes I do it with shoes on… but not if they’re GOOD shoes.

There there’s the day-to-day bombshell lifestyle.

“The bombshell abhors routine. She is ready for anything at a moment’s notice – a movie, a trip to Istanbul, a cocktail. She knows that a phone call can change her evening. Hell, it can change her life.

There is no such thing as a typical Bombshell day. She might wake up (to the 1812 Overture; see Music, page 120), slip into her peginoir and matching mules, pull the manual typewriter from under the bed and work on her memoir for an hour, or until the phone rings.

If she feels like it, she may clean the bathroom tiles with an old toothbrush before taking a shower…”

THAT certainly sounds like me. Although pulling the manual typewriter out is, these days, replaced by sitting down at the computer and blogging.

And then the chapter about ‘The Bombshelter’. (Don’t you love that chapter title? Clever, no?) It’s all about decor and the home. I don’t exactly quite qualify here, except that I never use rooms entirely how they were intended to be used, and everything is always in flux. My dining room has no dining table. My living room has full-length mirrors. My spare bedroom is my costume room. That sort of thing.

The Bombshell diet fits me, however. I don’t diet, but I diet. I eat whatever I like, then become concerned that my calorie intake (and midsection) has gotten out of hand and make an effort to cut back. It’s less of the yo-yo/rollercoaster of dieting, and more of a hormonal flux sort of thing. But I like to eat, and when offered a good meal, I eat it. This is countered by the fact that I RARELY cook, and certainly not for myself. There’s a sort of balance there, somewhere. Isn’t there?

“The Bombshell is a liberated woman. She enjoys being a sex object and feels virtually no pressure to have culinary prowess.”

I don’t know about the sex object thing… I guess, as long as no one approaches who is not invited. But the culinary prowess thing is spot-on.

One place where I do NOT qualify as a bombshell…

“The Bombshell doesn’t like things men drink. Scotch, bourbon, especially beer unless it’s indigenous. She has an innate disdain for anything new and pretentious like cosmopolitans, and things have to be pretty bad for a Bombshell to order a Bloody Mary – too blowsy, lushy and depressed. Bombshells love to have a bottle of mineral water for the table, with gas. Bombshells also drink Coke”

Hm. I love scotch, usually the more expensive the better. Haven’t tried bourbon. I like beer, a LOT, but it has to be really good beer. I’m not interested in cosmopolitans, but I’d order a Bloody Mary. I like red, I like tomato, and I like bite. Mineral water is good, but I’d rather it not be sparkling. And I do not drink Coke. Nor do I drink Pepsi.

Ok. So mostly I qualify as a bombshell in that I don’t do housework; I don’t like to cook but I can if necessary; my refrigerator contains leftovers for meals eaten out (for breakfast the next day) and a jar of pepperoncini, a tub of olive tapenade, some juices, some Irish cheddar and some romaine hearts; I like pretty shoes; I don’t wear pantyhose; I’m particularly fond of good clothes; I actually enjoy constrictive underpinnings of the corset variety (if not laced TOO tight); I lounge in my seat, rather than sitting properly, no matter the setting; for all my world-weariness, I still have an odd naivety, innocence, and habit of being genuine that even I can’t understand or define, but it’s certainly there.

Now… if I could JUST figure out how to be pretty and curvy and not have to worry about how to pay the bills like everyone’s favorite bombshells…

And I need a haircut.

Here we are, half through this Year of Self-Redefinition, and I’m still not… well, anything. Really.

Granted, I am more and more certain of who I am NOT. I suppose that should be at least a little helpful. Still, who and what I am, and where I’m going, not to mention where I am now? Clueless.

For example, I know that the thing that I have been spending all this time going to classes to learn, while still interesting to me, is NOT the thing I wish to do several hours a day for the rest of my natural life. (Which is how long I’ll have to work, given that I’ve managed to get such a late start on the whole “planning for the future” process.)

Ok, so I know what I do NOT want to do. And I will hopefully soon have a piece of paper that says I learned a bunch of things toward being able to do what I don’t want to do.

Hm. So what do I want to do? What do I know how to do? What AM I going to do? I need to figure that out, or soon I will be doing whatever it is while living in my car.

I’d rather not redefine in that way.

In other ways, I can’t help but be clearly redefined, but I didn’t actually manage that all by myself. I am no longer defined as a married woman. I am now a divorced woman. I have to say, I really don’t care for that distinction. (Then again, I wasn’t really all that fired up about the distinction of being a “married woman” either.) Not that there’s anything inherently WRONG with being a divorced woman. Except… personally. It is a personal failure. No matter how I look at it, that’s all I can see. Failure to understand, or put up with things that drove me nuts. Failure to be able to conform into person I was expected to be. Failure to look ahead and see how I would grow and he would grow and how that growing wasn’t in the same direction. Failure to realize that the life I wanted and needed isn’t the one he wanted and needed. Failure. My failure. His failure? Our failure.

Was it a mistake?

How could I possibly think it was a mistake? There were so many good years. We produced such an amazing kid.

I’m still left wondering why we could have failed one another so horribly.

Then there’s the OTHER one. I was certain of that, too. I knew, without doubt, without a question anywhere in my soul that I was loved by someone who truly cared for, understood, and desired me. What is funny… or tragic… or comically tragic… is I reached that conclusion, I truly trusted and believed, completely, finally, deliriously happily, and within 2 weeks of that internal capitulation to what I had been told and pressed to believe… I was abandoned so completely, so cruelly, so callously, that even I – the person who abhors the very idea of taking one’s own life – considered that very final, very silly, alternative to continuing to live a life enduring an unending betrayal, living on without the one perfect match to my temperament, personality, and desires.

Can I view THAT affair of the heart as a mistake?

I have learned so much about myself that I might never have known. I have experienced and understood things that might never have even crossed my mind. It’s true that I can’t help but wonder if I might not have been better off remaining unaware and oblivious. Knowing something is possible, and knowing I will never find its like again is far worse than naivety.

But it has certainly caused some redefinition. I’m no longer sure of myself and my decisions. I don’t know that the things of which I am SO certain, of which I have such conviction and faith, are really true, or real, or good, or right. I just can’t know anymore. I don’t know that the wonder of a moment, or a span of time, or the giving in to a feeling is worth the emptiness once it is gone. And I certainly no longer believe that anything lasts. I used to believe that was possible. Now I know that nothing EVER lasts, no matter how much another person promises to “make it work”. They never are up to the task, no matter how much I give up to please them.

How and where did I fail when I gave everything, every part of my heart, mind, body and soul? Does that really mean that I am JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH? And honestly… HOW could anyone deliberately fail ME? That’s just an insane thing to think about. I deserve, at least, the ATTEMPT at not failing. Yet, there it is, right in front of my nose, someone deliberately CHOSE to fail me. It’s one thing if it’s inadvertant inability, it’s quite another to choose to fail.

Chalk it up to my more than healthy ego. (And blame it on my astrological sign if you must.) I know what I’m worth, and I know what I deserve, and nothing and no one will ever convince me otherwise. I’m much more forgiving of the person who tries and fails than I am of the person who fails without even making an effort.

I’m not really thrilled with the idea of my Year of Self-Redefinition meaning that I’m now someone so unsure of anything that I’m perpetually undecided, cynical and disbelieving.

But it does sort of look that way.

I don’t WANT to be that chick. I just AM that chick. My choices and the (in my opinion, BAD) choices of others have brought me to where I am now.

Oh… but Joy, dear, don’t give up hope.

You know that expression “hope floats”?

My retort: “So does pond scum.”

I don’t need hope. I need good results. I need what is real, and true, and good, and loving, and right, and caring. I need to see proof.

I don’t need words, or platitudes, condescending and patronizing placation.

Those things don’t make me safe. They don’t keep me warm at night. They don’t feed my belly OR my soul.

Hope doesn’t catch me when I fall. It disappoints me when I hit the ground.

Hope is about as useful as regret. (Something I also make it a point to avoid.)

I want truth. I want reality. Say what you mean, and what you know you’ll mean in two weeks, or two months, or two years. Don’t say what you think you might mean but is open to interpretation and redefinition. Don’t say what you think I should hear, or what will further your interests. If you don’t truly mean it, forever, keep your mouth shut.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
I deal in absolutes.
Hope has no place here.
I’m certainly not going to give you any hope.
I will tell you what I think, what I feel, and what I intend. I expect the same from everyone else in my life.

So… this Year of Self-Redefinition. I’m not sure if I’m redefining, or just returning to who I was years ago. For too long I’ve thrown caution to the wind and allowed myself to believe in the professed intentions of others. And I have been repeatedly disappointed.

Maybe I AM insane. After all, I’ve been trying the same thing, over and over, hoping for different results, and I’m still always hurt and surprised when I get the same old disappointment.

So maybe that’s my self-redefinition. I’m a high-functioning nut job.

A while back, I can’t quite pinpoint the exact moment, I decided I would start being more present during the ride. You know, rather than just make sure my bags were stored properly and my ticket was accounted for, I would start paying attention not just to the destination, but to all the sights and sounds, impressions, and feelings of the journey. Where would I be at any given moment?

Doing this, however, I have seen and felt many things I would probably rather have missed. That’s the price you pay for living fully. Or, at least, TRYING to live fully.

Even so, sometimes I still turn away from what’s flying past me. I think it’s self-preservation. Duck! (quack) Things are flying at me too quickly! It’s scary! It’s new! It’s different! It’s… not-what-I-was-planning or not-what-I-wanted or not-what-I-was-expecting!

The thing is… even if I’m not looking, it’s still happening. I might as well look, pay attention, and learn to deal with it.

Still working on that. Golly, that’s uncomfortable.

It’s nice to know, though, that the world is peopled with individuals just trying to get by in the way that I am. It’s even nicer to see examples of people who are determined to overcome.

I recently learned of the personal struggles of someone I do not know, but have admired from afar, who I thought was perfect, had it all together, had the perfect life, the perfect situation. But I’ll be damned if life didn’t go speeding along and take HER to a destination she certainly wasn’t planning. I take no pleasure in knowing that it did. I do take pleasure in the fact that she IS as cool as I thought she was and more. She’s even stronger, more determined, and through all this, more human to me.

I guess it’s just from seeing that despite the fact that everything seemed to crumble around her, there she still remained. Still upright. Still the same person. Still possessing the same talents, abilities, intelligence, strength… all the assets that got her where she was before.

I shouldn’t be surprised at all. I’m not really. Great people remain great, and when things go wrong, they just rebuild around themselves. But it IS a lesson to me. No matter what happens, or HAS happened, I’m still who I am. I haven’t changed.

I’m still strong-willed. I’m still intelligent. I still have the same wry sense of humor. I’m still Joy, no matter where I am on the journey.

Something pertinent to where I’ve been, where I am, where I’m going:

So, life is going on… and on… and on…

I know where I want to go. I don’t know if I can get there, because I’m not driving. Every time I try to drive I get slapped. Hard.

So I’ve quit trying to drive.

Some would say that’s not a good idea. It might not be. I just can’t do anything else. I can’t get off the ride. I’ve tried. Jumping from the car while it’s in motion is also not a good idea.

So… I don’t know my final destination. I do know that when I get there I will be Joy… Joy as she is now, Joy as she was, and Joy as she should be. I’ll know where I’ve been. I’ll know how I arrived. I’ll know what happened along the way.

That’s something, right? I still have me.

Turns out that what I “knew” was based on false data.

So I wonder.

It’s my own damned fault. I probably should NOT have been on the skateboard. But I was bonding with the podling.

In the car (which she had to start and put in gear for me), on the way to the hospital, I remarked to her that the first thing I would be asked when my arm was being examined would be, “You’re nearly 40. What were you doing on a skateboard???”

We arrived at the hospital, I checked in at the emergency desk (which is really more of a double paned window that’s hard to talk through) and waited with the rest of the wretched.

Having finally been called back into triage, podling and I found ourselves in a small exam room with a very efficient, fairly personable, and not unattractive young male triage nurse. He took my vitals. He got date of birth and other pertinent information.

“So what are you in here for…”

“I’ve injured my arm. It’s possible I’ve broken something.”

“How did this happen?”

“Well, I fell backward from a skateboard and broke my fall with my palms. My right arm took the bulk of the force.”

He stopped writing and began to examine the arm, then looked me squarely in the eye and said, “You’re 38 years old. WHAT were you doing on a skateboard???”

I looked over at the podling sitting across the room and smiled smugly, to which she just rolled her eyes and shook her head.

He was kind enough to let us wait in triage for me to have my x-ray and the rest, rather than send me back out into the waiting room with the wretched to wait. It was entertaining, in a morbid, realist sort of way, to watch the little scenes play out as new patients came through. Medical professionals working in that environment almost HAVE to be jaded and have a morbid sense of humor to retain sanity. Drama after drama comes through that door… and in between they take the time to buy a dozen tamales from the guy who brought them in to work… then go right back to dealing with the dripping, ulcerated foot of a diabetic homeless man who refuses to, and maybe hasn’t the capacity to, manage his diabetes and all the problems that arise with it.

The end result is… there were no visible fractures on the x-ray. I was sent home with a sling and admonishments to not doing anything with it that hurts. No shit. The arm hurts like a mother when I move it. I can’t extend my elbow (which is where the pain is). I can sort of write, in small bursts. I can type because that doesn’t require much movement of the elbow, but it hurts quite a bit to do so and takes forever. I can’t contort my arm properly to eat, brush my hair, or do anything else useful with it.

I can deal with the pain. Ibuprofen has been my friend since Thursday. Ice packs for the swelling, and arnica gel and supplements to promote healing. (Don’t know if arnica really works, but the psychological effect is that I feel I’m doing SOMEthing to move this along.)

This is just damned inconvenient. It takes for-bloody-ever to get anything done (including typing this post), and even when I do get things done, they are NOT done to my standards.

This is ridiculous. I hate it. Helpless is NOT good for me right now. I can’t afford to sit around doing very little, or nothing. I MUST remain busy. If I don’t I’m going to lose my mind to the emotional horrors I’ve been trying to conquer. One can only watch so many movies, read so many books.

It doesn’t help that my dad just got out of the hospital after a triple heart bypass. He has mom, but she still can’t drive and can only get around with the use of a walker. I’m the only relative within reasonable driving distance to be of use to them…

Except I’m useless just now.

Thank God they have the ladies of their church to help with bringing in meals and that sort of thing.

Still hurts like a sonofabitch, though not as bad as it did at first. I have slightly more range of motion, but not really. And it looks absolutely WRONG when I hold both arms out to my sides in a T. Totally wrong. Bleh.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:

Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes

Within a dream.

BRING IT! Is there anything else that’s going to bring me to my knees?

If I’m going to find myself prostrate, sobbing, vomiting, and unable to breathe… let’s just get it all over with at once, shall we?

So I was cast aside this week… and now, I am told that it looks like my divorce is final.

And while that has been coming for some time now, it is still… very sobering. It’s real. Truly ended. And the feelings that come with that ending are devastating.

It hurts all the more, because the one person I’d have told first… the one person that it mattered to me to tell, to share the news with… is the one person who has informed me that I am not a real part of his life.

I’m laughing as I’m crying… because… I’m not sure if this qualifies as irony, but it IS damned ridiculous.

I shouldn’t be typing this. I can’t really see the keys or the screen anyway.

I’m so tired of hurting.

No. Really.

Let’s look at this…

January… on the first I began to suspect something… well, wonderful.
January 9, I found out the truth of something I wanted more than any other thing on this earth.
By January 16th… it was no more. The only thing I have ever truly, fully regretted in my life.

That was very, VERY hard to let go. And handled incorrectly from any way I look at it.

Then a few months of ups and downs, lots of emotional confusion. Podling finished 6th grade… goodbye to my pre-adolescent… HELLO adolescent! Not sure if that goodbye is good or bad, but certainly inevitable, and she’s cool no matter what, even when she’s a bundle of emotion. But I have to let go of my baby, and learn how to work with the new young lady she’s become.

Summer came round, and I began to find my stride in a few things… I have hopes, aspirations, and plans to progress.

Old Joy is still on her way out, New Joy is emerging in fits and starts.

Ok. That’s not a bad thing to let go.

Then tragedy struck, and by the end of the summer I had lost one of the dearest people in my life. Ever. Even now, tears spring up thinking of it.

I said goodbye, with her friends and family, in the beginning of September.

Bad goodbye. BAD. VERY hard to let go.

Today has been, with certainty, another, very final letting go that has been looming since that second week in January. Maybe earlier than that, but I was just too stupid to see it. Definitely didn’t want to see it.

It’s amazing what we tell ourselves when we fall in love with someone. I had. I did. So completely that I lost myself irrevocably. I let go of myself entirely earlier this year, and that was a mistake, given that it gained me nothing, and now I still have to let go of HIM. And I still don’t want to.

Oh well. Goodbye to that. Goodbye to my heart and soul, my hopes for fulfillment. Goodbye to safety and security in the knowledge that I AM loved.

Goodbye Joy that trusted unconditionally.

Goodbye to believing that two people who love each other can make it work.

Nah. Even when they’re made for each other, and deserve each other. Doesn’t work out.

I’m not doing THAT again. Ever.

whew. I can’t even convey how much it hurts. Words don’t do justice to the sadness and betrayal. I really could rant on and on about being misled and taken for granted, used, and made a fool of.

But why not just let it go? It’s the year for it.

Ok. I will.

Seriously.

Can we have enough of the Year of Letting Go?

I don’t even want to THINK of what the next two months could possibly have in store for me before I’m free of it!

Dad has heart surgery in two weeks. I’m having that “bothersome lump” on my chest smashed on Monday…

The only letting go I want to see there are goodbye to WORRY and IRRITATING HEALTH ISSUES.

UNDERSTOOD, UNIVERSE???

I have had it! ENOUGH, already.

Stick a fork in me.

Well done.

And I am NOT the only person who’s been letting go of people and things that mean a great deal to them, all freakin’ year long.

Can next year be something a bit more upbeat, please? How about “The Year of Fabulous Surprises” or “The Year of Finding Peace”… maybe “The Year of Financial Freedom”???

Can we? Please?