Moving into the New Year

So, here we all are, perched on the precipice of a new year. A brand new year, full of promise and possibilities, that's just itching to get started - a blank calendar ready to be filled with appointments, memories, dates, and events.

The WCM and I had an epic argument about a week ago. It was the most powerful argument of our entire marriage, indeed, because the marriage itself hinged on that argument. It lasted two days. Those were tense, miserable days indeed. I am not a confrontational person by nature. I tend to pull back and wait things out - not the best strategy when dealing with my bullish spouse, who will make a big noise, pawing and stamping, charging to get his way. This time, though, I stood my ground and got what I needed. I said my piece - reiterated it, restated it, rephrased it until it was completely understood - and finally won my concessions.

We will be starting therapy this year. We need it. I will no longer accept coming in last in my husband's attention. He will endeavor to remember that intimacy in marriage is as important as companionship. Without the former, one might as well have a roommate.

Peevish Place will be starting out 2010 at the bottom of the hill. It's a good place to start, in my opinion, as one can only climb up.

Choices and Changes

I've made no secret that I've been having troubles with the WCM lately - mostly because I refuse to accept that what I've currently got is going to suffice for the rest of my life. There are choices to be made, and changes that come with them.

One of the things that I've always believed is that people don't change who they are. You must accept them for who they are and not think that you can change their personalities, their appearance, or any of their less-than-perfect aspects. Sure, they can try to change what you don't like, but when they do, you run the risk of them resenting you for it. The WCM and I have embroiled ourselves in a bit of a power struggle, where I think I've been the one doing all the changing and accommodating, and I find myself resenting him for it. I also resent that after all the things I've changed for him, there is always something else he wants me to change, something else that's wrong with me and I need to fix, before I'll become acceptable. And lastly, I resent that he expects me to do all the changing, and won't honor the one simple request that I've made at least once a year for the last 18 years. It's a request that most men wouldn't mind in the least. I dare say, most men that have been married 20 years would be thrilled that their wife was making this request. But then, the WCM is not most men.

I played a very dangerous game last month. I went out to a bar with a friend and flirted. A lot. I collected phone numbers from very interested men. I heard all kinds of ridiculous flattery, drank lovely coctails that I didn't have to pay for, and had a lot of fun.

At the end of the night, when I was throwing the phone numbers away - because at the heart of it all, I wouldn't do that to the WCM, even though some of them were REALLY tempting... - I couldn't help but hear that cynical bitch that lives in the back of my mind as she snarked "well hell, honey, there were at least seven men that you wouldn't have to change shit for."

I honestly believe I've reached my breaking point. There are choices and changes in store for me in 2010. I just hope that I can live with them.

Heart Dog

I was never a dog person, much preferring cats. Who wouldn't prefer sleek feline independence to slavish canine slobbering? Cats are much neater and far less demanding than dogs. A cat is never going to wake you up at 3:30 in the morning because it has to pee. A cat won't bug you for a game of fetch, barking at you endlessly to throw the frisbee, Throw the Frisbee, THROWTHEFRISBEE!!!!!!!!! No, indeed. A cat has way too much dignity to lower itself to ask you for anything. Cats are cool.

Imagine the surprise felt by my family when the WCM and I went and got ourselves a puppy. It was September 1996, shortly after a shocking and emotionally traumatic miscarriage. I needed desperately to mother something, anything, to help heal the huge hole left in my heart from losing a baby I'd barely known existed but had wanted with every fiber of my being. The WCM suggested a puppy.

I'd long loved the look of the big-eared, short-legged Welsh Corgi. Having found a breeder, I learned that she had only one puppy available: a little black-headed tricolor boy. We went to visit him that night, and I fell instantly in love. He was a charmer - playful, affectionate, loved to cuddle. The WCM wasn't exactly convinced, as he wanted a larger dog - a Lab or a Shepherd - but he caved instantly when I found out that this puppy and I shared a birthday.

We had to name him after a dance, according to the breeder, so we named him Electric Slide and called him Slider. He became my firstborn, my furry son, my heart dog. I taught him to catch treats out of the air, to play fetch with a frisbee, and to sit on command. He used to snuggle up on my lap and fall asleep as a puppy, and would always come over if I sat on the floor, giving me his belly to scratch. He used to love riding in the front seat of the car. Too short to get his head out the window, he'd press his nose up against one of the air vents instead.

As he got older, we got him a pet - another corgi that we named Zippy - so he wouldn't be lonely while we weren't home. Zippy's a trip. Where Slider thinks he's a furry human, Zippy knows he's a dog. Make no mistake, Zippy's an animal, and he's happy to be one. For ten years, they have run the house together, and I have loved every minute of it. I, who was never a dog person.

Slider is now thirteen and a half years old. He's got arthritis, has gone deaf, and is going blind. Today, we found out conclusively that he has lymphoma and hasn't got much longer to live. I do not know what I am going to do when I have to take him for that final ride in the car. I can't stop crying.

My heart hurts.

Mirrors

She was a small child, dark haired, with big eyes. More used to speaking to adults than to other children, her speech often surprised grown-ups, as she used words that to them, sometimes, were unfamiliar. The playground was a strange place for her, and negotiating those first friendships wasn't easy. She didn't speak the language that the other kids rattled off so fluently. School was a place that she went during the day, where she got to go to art and music classes, had to learn boring math, and was always sent to the library during reading and spelling time, as her own reading level was several grades above the rest of the class. There, she would pore endlessly over the stacks, losing herself in new and different worlds, inventing her own, authoring her childish fantasies in volumes bound with construction paper and yarn.

When things interested her, she was very involved in them - to the point of leading the group work, bullying the others into doing things her way. When she was not interested, however, you often found her ignoring the task at hand, staring out of the window daydreaming, or lost, once again, in a book. Her parents, feeling she needed structure, provided lessons of all sorts - ballet, piano, gymnastics, girl scouts. She did all with some degree of success, ultimately discontinuing all but piano. She was good at it, and it provided her with some degree of identity - The Girl Who's Good At Music.

Her parents, still unsatisfied with her inconsistency, had her tested psychologically. The tests revealed above-average intelligence and an eye for details, but no more. She had a very vivid imagination, and needed to be motivated to learn what didn't interest her. Learning for learning's sake was not something she thirsted for.

This little girl grew into a woman, married, and had a child who is almost a clone of herself. With a few differences, such as more ability and interest in math and art and less in reading, her child's elementary school experience is mirroring her own.

***

Today, I took Miss Peanut to a psychologist to be tested for Attention Deficit Disorder - something that they really didn't know about when I was a child. Her last three teachers have all suggested, some more gently than others, that she should be tested. I finally caved, knowing the kind of child I was, and knowing just how much she is like me. It's been very difficult for me to do this - nobody wants to think that there could be anything wrong with their precious perfect angel. In this, I am no exception. I was prepared, though, to hear the worst. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised.

The psychologist asked, after interviewing both me and Miss Peanut, then Peanut on her own, if I'd ever had her intelligence level tested, as she seemed to be off the charts (in a good way!). She said that without further testing, her diagnosis at this point would be inconclusive, but that it could be that Miss Peanut does indeed have some ADD. This, when combined with an overactive imagination and high intelligence, leads her to be distracted in class when she's bored. Having heard that countless times from parents of students (and having mentally rolled my eyes every. single. time.) I felt compelled to point out that even if the work is boring, she needs to do it and understand it without the distraction of ADD symptoms. The psychologist agreed, and we're going to explore further testing, to either rule it in or out.

It's an interesting nature versus nurture question for me, though. I've been raising Miss Peanut in a much more open and much less strict environment than the General raised me. Mr. Peevish and I are still married (for better or for worse, it seems), where my parents were divorced before I reached Miss Peanut's current age. She is an only child, where I had a pesky younger brother. I went to private school, and she does not. Yet, we are, it seems, still as alike as we look..

Endings

I've never been so happy to see a month end. This past November was one of the worst months of my life, and I've lived a few doozies, let me tell you.

I missed a very important deadline in the academic world, thus ending my streak of always having my grades in on time to date. I was officially called upon the carpet for it and have officially apologized to parents and students alike. Safe to say, I will never make that mistake again.

Also ending this month was any free time that I ever had - now with another person hanging around the house, an adolescent person who needs a ride to and from work, swim practice, and school, I've found I've less time to indulge in my afternoon winding-down rituals.

Scarily, almost ending this month was my marriage. For nearly 20 years now, my union with the WCM has been stable - boring at times, irritating as sand in your swimsuit at others, but always stable. It was rocked hard this month, and the sad part about that is that he doesn't even know it. Suffice it to say that I should have a fucking Oscar on my mantelpiece for the acting that I can do. Believe me when I tell you that he knows what the problem is. He just doesn't know the magnitude to which it affects me. I've told him. Repeatedly. He just. doesn't. get. it.

Lastly, a few of the illusions I've had about myself have ended. I've had the chance to look clearly at myself in the mirror and examine the parts of me (physical and not) that have been giving me agita for a while. I've accepted that I'll never wear a bikini, but that I can look damned sexy with the right lingerie. I've accepted that I'll probably never find what I'm looking for within my marriage, but I don't know what I want to do about that at this point. I've accepted that I could and should work a little harder at my job, but am not sure what I'm going to have to give up in order to do that.

So many endings without subsequent beginnings. No wonder November was bleak.

Friends and laughter

I have a long road ahead of me, teaching this new course. Already, I've had some bumps on that road, and will now have to redouble my efforts just to stay on target. I know that this uncertainty about my abilities has played a part in my depression this last month.

For my whole life, I've both judged myself and been judged on what I can do - my worth was always measured by my intelligence. Twisted as it sounds, it was one of the things that allowed me not to care about how I looked: as long as I was "worthy" inside my skin, it really didn't matter what the outside of me looked like. It reinforced my belief that putting emphasis on one's looks made one shallow. I've since achieved a slightly less skewed balance on that viewpoint. Because my self-perceived worth has been challenged this school year, I've dropped into this depression.

Today, I spent the afternoon surrounded by friends at a bridal shower. Tonight, I'll be helping another friend celebrate his upcoming 40th birthday. I'm thinking some friends and laughter will be just what the doctor ordered to drag my out of this.

On the verge

For the last month, I've felt as though I've been constantly on the verge of tears. I usually only get this way a couple of days out of the month - why, hello, Aunt Flo. So miserable to see you. - but this went far beyond those days. This was systemic. It affected my work and my relationships.

I'm familiar with depression and how it feels - like being constantly shoved underwater, unable to surface through the thick barrier of ice above you. I've been there. This is similar.

I've deliberately kept myself busy, attempting to push through the feelings and come out on the other side of this mini-depression. That has failed, colossally. I've tried to smother those feelings in chocolate. That was a major disappointment. I've tried losing myself in the internet. Nope, didn't happen.

So now I have to feel these feelings - and just what am I supposed to do with them?

Medically-induced melancholy

I picked Miss Peanut up from her after-school care on Tuesday evening and noticed that she was a tad subdued. "My throat hurts," is what I got from her. I didn't think too much of it, but told her I'd check it out when we got home.

On the ride home, however, I began to be concerned, as my Miss Peanut is normally a loquacious individual, prone to rattle on for hours if unchecked, and she was remaining uncharacteristically silent save for an intermittent sharp intake of breath. I wasted no time in grabbing the flashlight when we got home and peered down at her tonsils. Whooo, boy! Her throat and tonsils were swollen and inflamed, and there was a tell-tale white patch on one of the tonsils. She was running a low-grade fever, and I figured it was Strep. I did all of the Dr. Mom steps - Children's Motrin for the fever, chicken noodle soup and peanut butter crackers (traditional family invalid food), called in my sick day and arranged sub plans, and then cuddled the invalid until she fell asleep.

At seven years old, Miss Peanut is just shy of four feet tall. She's small for her age, and as she's my only child, I tend to baby her a tad. Times like these, when she's sick and her natural vibrant independence has been dampened, usually find her in my lap with her head tucked between my shoulder and chin so I can rub her back. This clinginess often fuels my melancholy.

You see, it's times like this when I remember that I will never cuddle another infant of my own body. I'll never count another set of fingers and toes or cradle a downy head in my palm while I make loony faces to a baby of my own. While, intellectually, I don't think another baby is a good idea for me, emotionally - and hormonally - I find myself suddenly grieving the loss. My uterus is now just so much useless real estate. It makes me sad and angry by turns.

My amateur diagnosis was confirmed the next day by Miss Peanut's pediatrician - Strep Throat. We spent all of Wednesday - save for the doctor visit and the resulting trip to Target for antibiotics and pudding - lolling about in our pajamas. There were naps, movies, and Spaghetti and Meatballs for dinner. There was medicine, bedtime stories, and snuggles until she slept.

Today? Fresh pajamas, same agenda, with, hopefully, less melancholy.

Halloween Frightmares

There has been a lot of talk on the Weight Loss Surgery boards about Halloween Candy and the inherent evils thereof.

Pish posh, say I. And fiddlesticks, to boot.

I mainly roll my eyes at grown women (and to a lesser extent, grown men) who talk about candy like that. If they want to live their lives never tasting the glory of a Reese's cup again, then good for them - all the more for me, I say. What irritates me, though, is when they talk about completely depriving their children of candy. Oh, they say, my child never gets candy at home. We don't have cookies, chips, candy, or soda in the house ever. They have healthy fruit and whole grain snacks. They hear all the time from me how bad sugar is for them and how they should NOT eat it. Pardon me, but Get Real.

That shit gets on my nerves.

I understand the reasoning behind it - these are people that, like me, resorted to drastic measures to curb or cure their obesity. They don't want their children to suffer the same fate, naturally, so they eliminate all temptation from their homes. I get that, and I applaud the sentiment behind it. I don't want my Miss Peanut to have to cut out the majority of her stomach and reroute her guts, either.

That shit still gets on my nerves, because I want to scream at them that it won't work! Behavioral extremes rarely work. I should know - I grew up in a house like that. Sweets were rare - my tall, slender stepmother grew up constantly surrounded by them, and was a little chubby as a child. I've seen pictures - she was cute, and not at all heavy. Her family were what I call "pushers," though. If you didn't take seconds, you had to be feeling bad. You were sick, obviously, because you didn't want any more of the good food available. So my stepmother was probably a couple of pounds over where she should have been as a child. She was nowhere near obese. She, however, felt fat and phobic, so as a result, our sweets were severely limited. The only time we had cake, ice cream, or soda in the house was when it was somebody's birthday or a holiday. Even then, soda was rare. Cookies were limited to one a day, for dessert, after dinner. Halloween candy was severely rationed, and usually pitched by Christmastime, as it got old before we could eat it. Because I am a perverse creature by nature, I naturally rebelled, and ate all of the forbidden foods I could once I was able to purchase my own. Yeah, I developed "issues."

It didn't help that my mother, who was a stunningly beautiful woman, started telling me I was fat when I was seven years old. I have pictures. I wasn't fat. I was growing, and I'm built solid, like my father's family. My mother, raven-haired, ivory-skinned, fine-boned, and petite, was a delicate fairy to my sturdy gnome. I'm afraid I was a constant disappointment to her, rounded where she expected me to be slim, quiet when she expected me to be vivacious, clumsy where she expected me to be graceful. Our relationship has never really been mother-daughter, as my stepmother did the majority of the childrearing that I received. Even so, my mother's disappointment only reinforced my issues - even though I looked normal, because I wasn't slender, but instead sturdily built, I was fat.

So now that I have a daughter of my own, a normal-weight daughter, mind you, I am very careful not to forbid the candy and not to push it, either. I want her to learn how to live with it, and not to have to ban it from the house just to feel safe from it. I want her to know about moderation, and that no food is bad or good, but is all part of a balancing game that we play every day called "Healthy Nutrition." My daughter is all but a clone of me as a child - she's got the same big bones and chunky muscles that I had as a little girl. She's not a waif, and she'll never be a ballerina, but she will be healthy. She will have a positive body image. And as the Flying Spaghetti Monster is my witness, she will be allowed to eat her Halloween candy, as part of a balanced, healthy, realistic diet.

Just not before I've mined all the Reese's cups out of it. Motherhood has its privileges.

Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life, Uncovered

Ok, so follow along:

* irritability and mild depression suddenly descend,
* concurrent ingestion of sweet & salty foodstuffs increases,
* disdain for my spouse multiplies exponentially with every breath he takes,
* overnight (and I mean literally overnight) five-pound weight gain, and
* major intense case of accelerated sex drive... (yeah, TMI, but still germane)

I am an idiot. PMS. Duh.

You'll want some cheese with this w(h)ine...

So recently, I've started to feel a little blue, a little melancholy, a little down. I've had the urge to shut myself off a bit, to close people out, to retreat into my shell, not unlike the astrological crab that represents me. It's a defense mechanism, this withdrawal, to use that hard shell while I recover from my wounds.

It's no one person that's hurt me, it's no single event. It's nothing I can pinpoint, except a vague feeling of dissatisfaction with almost every aspect of my life. My job is major-league stressful, even though I love my students. The WCM is a nagging thorn in my side, for whom I can do nothing right. My house is a wreck and I hate cleaning. I've been rushed off my feet every day for the last three weeks, spending hours after school just keeping current with grading, yet I'm still responsible for everything at home, from Miss Peanut's homework, to scrubbing the toilets.

I need a break. I want to rest. I can't take all of this whirling about any more. I want somebody to do something for me for a change, without asking for or expecting recompense, instead of having to take care of all and sundry.

That's not likely, given who I married and the nature of my employment. So, I'm just going to cocoon a while, pull back and watch the world go by for a bit, until I feel like myself again.

Eleanor Roosevelt can fucking kiss my ass!

You know how Eleanor Roosevelt said that "no one can make you feel inferior without your consent?" Well, I've had me an Eleanor kind of day so far.

First thing this morning, right? I was getting dressed and the WCM pops out with "gained a little weight back, chubby?" I'm all "What the fuck? Did I?" so I ran off to the scale and hopped on. No, goddammit, I hadn't. As it happens, I'm on the low end of my normal range. So I spent a couple of naked minutes in front of the mirror checking for stray lumps and bulges. Nothing out of the ordinary presented itself, but let me tell you: the tone for the day was set.

So next, I head downstairs and scavenge some ice for a protein shake, since my fridge has been out of commission and I have no eggs. Plus, I'd started feeling fat. Yeah, rationally, I'm not - lumpy, yes; fat, no - the WCM's needling had actually affected me more than I wanted to let on. While I'm at the computer drinking a shake that tastes like Strawberry Monkey Butt (don't ask me - you don't want to know) my fridge arrives. I IM a friend and we start "talking" about this and that. I wanted to get his opinion on my relative fatness, as he'd seen me recently, when he started raving about a current popular actress. Well, shit.

Now, normally, that wouldn't have bothered me at all, seeing as I look nothing like said actress and actually like her a lot myself. However, my self-confidence had taken a bit of a beating already, and now I was hearing all about another woman's hotness. "OK. FINE. I GET IT. SO NOT HOT." is playing in my brain and I just had to go. I couldn't even sign off with my customary cute bye-bye.

Feeling more than a bit peevish and out-of-sorts from having my two favorite men indirectly (and unintentionally, I'm sure, on my friend's part) slap me down, I spent part of the afternoon looking for a plastic surgeon who can remove this extra skin I've got and possibly make my breasts look normal. A word of advice? If you're ever trying to feel better about yourself, DO NOT DO THIS.

Now, my brother-in-law has invited us for dinner and a swim in his pool. I hauled out my bathing suits from last year - the first time I'd comfortably worn a bathing suit in years, mind you - and find that they're all just a bit baggy now. After I slid into my favorite one, I took a good long look in the mirror. My ass is gone, my tits are saggy, my stomach looks like a can of freshly-opened Pillsbury biscuit dough* and I wonder why nobody finds me sexy?!

So now I'm going to haul my sorry wrinkly ass over to the pool and try to hold my shit together. Hopefully I can blame my bloodshot eyes on the chlorine.

Aw, crap...

I just found out that my wonderful magnificent neighbor, a man who has been like a parent to the WCM and me and a grandfather to Miss Peanut, has cancer. It's in his prostate and kidneys, and has even spread to bone and lymph nodes.

I love this man and his wife - they're truly kind, generous, warm-hearted, funny people. To think that we might lose one of them, that one of them might lose the other, is heartbreaking.

There's hope that they might arrest the spread, but there's no hope for a cure or remission. I have to go get a tissue now, because my heart is leaking out my eyes. So sad.

RIP George Carlin

One of the funniest men I've ever encountered.

Rest in Peace, George.

Bitch, bitch, bitch!

So the WCM comes home and proceeds to not notice the clean house. Whatever. Then, he tries to dirty it up, earning himself a shitstorm of protest from me. Following his shower - because he was a tad, er, fragrant from his travels - he installed himself in his chair, parked his laptop on his lap, and commandeered the remote control. Oh yes, and he inquired about dinner and its incipient state of readiness. Business as usual.

And he wonders why I'm a complete bitch sometimes...

I scaled the heights of bitchdom later that night when I told him I'd rather not sleep with him, and quite liked having the bed all to myself. (Listen, pervs, I wasn't using the euphemism here, although that seems to be applying recently, as well) I told him he could keep to his own half, thank you very much. Well, the shock and awe that greeted that statement was quite the sight to behold, as this is really a first in my near 20-year relationship with the WCM. Frankly, I think it's good for him, and long overdue. This might be the bitch speaking, but I think he takes me too much for granted. I'd really like to see him try to exist comfortably without me. I don't think it can be done.

Tonight, he's taking us out for dinner. If he grovels enough, perhaps I'll allow him to snuggle later. If not, an "accidental" thigh to the goolies ought to put things in perspective for him.

I don't ask for much. Recently, though, I've begun thinking that I've never asked for enough, and that's starting to show.

Happy Memorial Day

Ok, so you all know I don't do patriotic very often. But since I miss my PopPop, I'm kind of sad remembering him today.

My Grandfather was a World War II vet, having fought in France and Germany. PopPop was a gentle man, soft-spoken and friendly. He was an avid gardener, and was always happiest working outside among his plants or in his two greenhouses. Cacti were his specialty - he had some of the most unique specimens, and could always get them to flower. One of my first phrases was the name of one of his most impressive cacti - Euphorbia Lactea Cristata. I'm sorry I didn't inherit even a smidgeon of his green thumb - I can't even keep crabgrass alive.

Unlike me and my athiest father - his son - PopPop was a deeply religious man, who faithfully attended church every Sunday until that church had to fold from declining population. PopPop led the choir, calling himself a Shouting Methodist, while my Grandmom played the organ. They both dragged me to church whenever I spent the weekend, half-fearing for my immortal soul. It didn't do any good, but it did impress upon me that, in the right hands, organized religion can be a useful, positive, productive thing - unlike what I see in the world today.

There were always animals in my grandparents' home. There was usually at least one dog, sometimes some fish, and an occasional hamster. My favorite pet, though, was Edgar Allen Crow, a crow (obviously) that lived in a big cage outside. Edgar was huge, and it was my job, when I was there, to feed him. This was usually a can of table scraps. I remember being terrified of this giant black bird, reaching my pudgy child hand into the door of his cage and depositing the can on the floor. Edgar must've been very well trained, as he never pecked me once. PopPop taught him a few words, and he'd caw on command. My father tells me that there were always animals around when he was growing up - turtles, snakes, rabbits, and - his favorite - pigeons.

PopPop was a collector, and a clutterer. His house was one tremendous culch pile. His workbench was always just a huge mass of tools, a plank or two, boxes of nails, and piles of sawdust. He somehow managed to use it just fine, though, making planters, window boxes, and various and sundry other small projects sold at church bazaars. He had enough clay pots stacked out behind the small greenhouse to supply Home Depot.

My grandfather passed away over a year ago, on December 9, 2006, nine years to the day after my grandmother. Today, I honor him, as I miss him.

Crumbling

Disclaimer: you thought I was done with this, didn't you? Well, this creative writing experiment is drawing to a close, as you'll see with this latest installment. Standard boilerplate applies: this is just creative writing, not my real life (THANK GOD!!).

I crave my bien aimé.

I need his hands to anchor mine, stretched high above my head, while our mouths meld. I need the lean line of his body flush against mine, pressing me into the mattress. I need his legs tangling with mine, touching every nerve and pulse point at their sensitive juncture. I need the tenderness of his kisses, the surety of his hands on my body, the feel of his arousal rampant against my belly.

I need to feel physically, because I am numb emotionally. I sit in my place on the sofa, hands running over the smooth leather cover of an old book. My husband sits in his chair, pointedly ignoring my presence, yet covertly curling his lip at me when he thinks I cannot see. His cold disdain would be more cutting than his hot anger was last night, were I invested in it. Where there were accusations, fury, and boiling emotions now there is icy disapproval. Intellectually, it is sad that he hurts, but in my heart, I am not sorry. No, I am not.

The book in my lap is from my school days. It is by an Italian writer, dating from the Middle Ages, full of stories from that time. One, in particular, begs to be read. It is of a lady, Madonna Filippa, who was caught being unfaithful to her husband and brought before the court for punishment. Once there, she calmly told the court her tale: she had a wealth of love to give, but her husband did not want it all. He turned her away when she sought to give it to him. She never denied him her love, but being so constantly turned away left her with a surplus. What was she to do with it? She very practically found a willing recipient and gave it away.

I am not sorry that he hurts, because for years, he turned me away. He denied me. He withheld his affection, and left me with a surplus of love to give. Our relationship became unbalanced, and the foundations, once solid, began to crumble under the unequal weight. Now it is rubble and dust at my feet, creating mountains of emotional debris to climb over.

Boccacio’s common-sense solution hasn’t worked well for me, as I am unable to remain as composed and insouciant as Madonna Filippa. Instead, I am numb.

Listen, bitches...

Welcome, welcome, welcome all you lovely people to Rag Week here at Peevish Place! Not only do you get your normal dose of peevishness, you get a double dose of irritability combined with stunningly attractive bloating. Included in this deal are tension headaches, fluid retention, and abdominal cramps - all at no extra charge!

During this week's special offer, we've thrown in Constipation as an added bonus. Just when you thought it couldn't get any better, we're offering you a gift with purchase - uterine shedding that only Moses could part! The purchase? Extra-absorbent tampons and overnight pads!

You can't afford it you say? Tosh! It comes free with every set of female reproductive organs!

No female reproductive organs you say?

Lucky fucking cunt, say I. Fuck back off to wherever you came from, because Rag Week here at Peevish Place is living goddamn hell.

Don't like it?

Fucking bite me.

Talk me off the ledge, people...

Ok, so I tend to acquire new wardrobe items in spurts. This month, it's been jeans. I just got this pair of jeans last week that were a size 4. Nice, when you used to wear a size 24, right?

So I was at Target yesterday, just checking out what was new for "Spring" (because we all buy Spring clothes in fucking January, right?). There was a cute short-sleeved pink gingham shirt - very girly! Also very Daisy Mae Clampett, but that's beside the point - and some jeans.

I will admit that I am a bit of a jeans whore. I would live in them, given the opportunity. I like them to fit snugly. Not tight, per se - I don't like camel toe. But snug is good, with a bit of give in the thigh. I was dismayed when the size 4s were loose the second day I put them on. Oh yeah, I will wear my jeans a couple of times between washings - unless there's been a spill or something, you know, if I dump a container of minestrone over my head, as some have been wont to do... but I digress. The size 4s were loose on Day 2. Loose.

On a whim, I tossed a pair of size 4 jeans into my cart, then thought "what the hell!" and threw a pair of size 2s into there, too.

The size 2s fit. Not tight. Snug. With give. No camel toe. Arse looks incredible, if I do say so myself.

Of course I bought them. I'm wearing them right now. Having a hard time wrapping my head around this. Tiny. So tiny are my pants.

You know, I used to be a large woman with a large personality - expansive, robust, full-bodied, exuberant. Apparently, I'd have been an excellent wine. Now, I feel somehow diminished. Like I'm less of a person. Smaller body, smaller personality? I don't know.

Damn. Size 2. Who'd'a thunk?

Found wanting

I want to feel small and safe – a precious treasure - nestled against someone’s heart, held close by strong arms. I want to feel cherished and cosseted and intensely loved for a few short moments. I want the gentle strokes and quiet caresses that speak of love, and hint at ardor. I want someone to shield me and care for me, for just a little while, while I breathe in slow, sweet serenity.

I want to feel womanly and powerful, siren-like and sexy. I want to beguile and captivate, to seduce with my regard, my voice, and my body. I want to take and be taken, to devour and be devoured, to destroy and in turn be annihilated by the force of shared passion. I want to be the temptress, the wanton, the woman that wields wiles like weapons and has her prey begging to be slain.

I want to feel soft and giving, to love and nurture, to cuddle and protect. I want to provide sustenance and give life. I want to be the ease and comfort, the safe haven for another seeker, the keeper of secrets. I want to hold the answers to the mysteries, dispense wisdom and advice, and all in sage measure.

I want to guard my love, keep it fiercely private. I want to whisper it into a matchbox and tuck it quietly into a corner of my heart, to be opened by only me when I need it. I want to hold it warm in my hand and feel it radiate toward my heart, healing the daily bruises and scarifications.

I want it all. And I have none.