tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293940557712098912024-03-04T22:43:59.743-08:00Hypnic JerkJennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-82837832872957164322018-05-02T10:02:00.002-07:002018-05-02T10:02:36.813-07:00Write Literally AnythingWrite something, write anything. I really don't expect to accomplish anything today other than putting words on the screen. Tomorrow, tomorrow I will flesh out an idea. Work on a character. Work on a story. Work on a real blog post. Work. I'm not getting any younger and I have a head full of ideas that get foggier and foggier with distance. Tomorrow I will see if I can't chase some of them down, get a little closer, notice the details. Today I don't even edit, I will just keep writing. I probably should have set a timer for this. Kind of like with the yoga I didn't do this morning. I did the stretches, though, which I think totally counts. If you don't think that counts, we'll just have to agree to disagree. Today I intentionally moved a body part that I have not intentionally moved for months. Tomorrow I will do it again, and add something to the pile. Maybe even crack open that video on making the most out of my metabolism. Probably not, but I might.<br />Anyway, this is a test. This is only a test. Tomorrow I get it right. Or I get it wrong, but with purpose.<br />For now, I wrote a thing. Wasn't even that hard. For the love, Mel Robbins and Amy Landino and Gretchen Rubin and those minimalist guys (Josh and Ryan, I can't even pretend I haven't listened to seven thousand hours of their podcasts) are right. Why did I not know this sooner?Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-64388689116256751292014-09-06T09:09:00.001-07:002014-09-06T11:36:35.508-07:00Things No One Tells You About Living in an Apartment (When You're an
Adult and You Start Giving a Shit)Living in an apartment when you're an adult is not so bad.<div><br></div><div>Except when you have a job you must get up for, kids who must go to school in the morning, or when you wish for a modicum of privacy.</div><div><br></div><div>No one tells you that your neighbors will cook foods with smells that defy the laws of physics and displace the oxygen in your stairwell with the scent of burnt curry.</div><div><br></div><div>No one tells you that while you thought you had heard a lot of bad pop music, you haven't really experienced it until you've heard it blared from a teenage girls slumber party, replete with the background squeals of... teenage girls.</div><div>At one in the morning.</div><div><br></div><div>No one tells you that it will become your habit to lock everything, all the time, because the little bastard who lives in the next row will steal... anything-your daughter's gardening tools-for sheer spite.</div><div><br></div><div>No one tells you that your neighbors will have finely tuned the art of waiting for you to move your car so that thirty of their very closest friends and family members can park right in front of your apartment.</div><div>Seriously, you were only gone for 15 minutes to get a damned gallon of milk.</div><div><br></div><div>No one tells you, but everyone knows, that your postal worker is literally certifiably insane, but they still aren't going to give you your mail when it comes to their house by mistake. It's every man for himself out here in the 'hood.</div><div><br></div><div>No one tells you about the weird pinwheel flower memorial in the flowerbed for the one woman that everyone liked. (Surely there isn't a new tenant already? They NEVER move anyone in that fast.)</div><div><br></div><div>No one tells you that you will start to hope that you are the "loud sex neighbor" because you don't want any of the other available labels.</div><div><br></div><div>No one tells you that you will have a flower pot burial for your pet rat because there's nowhere else to put him and tossing him in the dumpster will upset your kids,</div><div>and just feels wrong anyway.</div><div><br></div><div>No one tells you this shit, because no one in their right mind would believe it.</div><div><br></div><div>RIP Sandy, you were one of the good ones.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-89010401462554937092014-07-18T20:00:00.001-07:002014-07-18T20:03:21.959-07:00The Missing LinkI've been angry.<br />
So, so angry.<br />
Beating my head against the wall and wondering why it wasn't hurting any less.<br />
<br />
I was married.<br />
If you don't know about that, you've come too far. Turn around and read the rest of the blog.<br />
I'm not married anymore,<br />
and as good as that feels, it has also been frustrating.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's not (not anymore, anyway) that I wasn't important, that despite all his begging and pleading and plotting and arm-twisting, when I didn't come back,<br />
<br />
I was almost instantly replaced, like a set of fucking steak knives.<br />
<br />
It's not the name he foisted on me that I hated, although I didn't waste any time giving it back.<br />
It's not the money I've lost or the opportunities I've lost or the (questionable) friends I've lost<br />
or the credit that is now forever in the garbage<br />
-I'm in the 22% APR circle of Hell for all eternity-<br />
or even my long-term affair with anxiety, low self-esteem, and gut-wrenching poverty.<br />
<br />
(Because, it seems, being not wrong also entitles you to not pay court-ordered child support.)<br />
<br />
It's that he will never, EVER, be sorry.<br />
He will never, ever admit to being wrong.<br />
He will never regret anything he did while we were married,<br />
or in the name of getting me back, and then later to keep me away.<br />
He has told his story so often and so vehemently that he believes it himself,<br />
and he<br />
will ne<br />
ver change.<br />
<br />
Because he's a brute.<br />
For all his need and his cunning and his inability to lick his own nutsack,<br />
he's an animal.<br />
<br />
Realizing that he won't get it,<br />
I mean really knowing it,<br />
has helped a little.<br />
It doesn't change anything but my perspective, but that's the last thing, I think.<br />
That's what is restoring that last little bit of sanity that I'm going to get back.<br />
Knowing that he can't get it, and not only is it not my fault,<br />
but it's not my responsibility to fix it, or live with it.<br />
<br />
I don't even CARE if it gets fixed now.<br />
He's wife number TWO's problem,<br />
and gooooood fucking luck to her.<br />
<br />
I'm good, now.<br />
<br />
Becoming successful and wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, just out of his reach, however, wouldn't hurt either.Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-10229700130730800022014-06-09T07:06:00.000-07:002014-06-09T07:06:09.452-07:00Things You Should Know Before You Bring Home a Cat<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Leave nothing that you love on the floor.<br /> Or the table. Or out at all.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> If your cat is a jerk,<br /> ...<br /> No, wait...<br /> WHEN your cat is a jerk (this will be nearly all the time)<br /> he or she, or it (does the spawn of Satan have a gender?)<br /> will be in your clothes basket, on your work table, chewing on your eyebrow (not even kidding) standing on your nipple...<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> There will be hair.<br /> On everything. In everything.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Your cat will attempt to taste test your tea after stirring your toilet water,<br /> lay on your keyboard, stick its butt in your face, knock over your<br />
house of cards (literally and metaphorically speaking) and pee in
places you didn't think likely or possible</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">(really, they can pee
straight out, parallel to the floor-not just the boys)<br /> and use everything as a scratching post.<br /> Except the scratching post.<br /> This same rule will apply, albeit arbitrarity, to the "cat" furniture, dish, toy, food...<br /> anything you bring home that is specific to the cat.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> They will show you the soft, furry, underbelly, but you will learn not to touch it.<br /> Your inner Admiral Ackbar will warn you, "It's a trap."<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> A cat will teach you all about catch-22's and circular problems,<br /> sometimes by destroying something, but usually by being sick,<br /> when you can least afford it.<br /> If you get the broken cat from the litter, this will be all the time.<br /> You will not be able to afford another trip to the vet because the cat will always be sick,<br /> and the cat will always be sick because you can't afford another trip to the vet.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
But they are cute and furry and entertaining and suspiciously nice to
you when you are sick.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Maybe because they know if you die no one else
will ever put up with them.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> So of course, I got three.</span></span></div>
Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-77212446053464267352014-05-29T07:20:00.002-07:002014-05-29T07:20:20.891-07:00Being Poor: Part 1, 137<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I used to be a right-wing conservative.<br /> Twenty years ago I'm not sure that was the term, but that's what I was.<br /> Then I married an abusive idiot.<br />(Of COURSE I didn't know he was an abusive idiot at the time.<br />What kind of question IS that?)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then I got poor. Really poor.<br /> Too poor to get out, poor.<br />So poor, I woke up one morning to go to my two jobs to find that a correlating number of my tires had gone flat overnight.<br />Worn to the belts.<br /><br />Literally too broke to go to work, now there's irony for you.<br /><br /> There's more, and if you know me you know a lot of it.<br /> If you don't know me, the story is too long. I cannot sum up.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Read the rest of the blog, some of it is there.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> But I wasn't lazy, or uneducated. I wasn't raised in the system.<br /> My parents were upstanding, responsible members of the community.<br /> My childhood was awesome.<br /> Fucking awesome.<br />Amaze. Balls.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
And I realized the difference between me and most of the people
I grew up with.<br />I got poor, and they did not. I won't say they didn't
have their rough patches or their financial woes, but I will say that a
rough patch or a financial upset is not the same thing as</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">being<br /> poor.<br /><br /> Being poor is like being in a boot camp only it's your life.<br />Everything revolves around it and there is no time limit.<br />It's not a sixteen week course. There's no end date.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You are broken and, if you're strong enough, rebuilt,<br /> but you are not the same as you were before.<br /> Your skin is thicker and your attitude a little tougher,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and you probably swear a lot.<br /><br /> But...<br />your heart is kinder,<br /> and you don't think the way you used to.<br />You see the human element in every person,<br />and you are stunned by the inhuman elements in other people<br />because<br />your brain is wired differently now.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> There is no point, here.<br /> I can't demand that everyone spend a certain amount of time poor.<br /> I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy.<br />I mean that.<br /> I'm just saying you'll never get it.<br /> Maybe it's because you can't.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Just don't let it be because you won't.</span></span></div>
Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-20296669702676202902014-05-23T09:46:00.001-07:002014-05-23T09:46:44.297-07:00OPP (Other People's Parents)<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent">The flyer for the TAG (the gifted program for our school district) picnic looked innocuous enough,</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQCUh0H6Z8_yTnvtoFh17GJXJQv3qZVk-yFjHxBKoMbIgVEfP5kpDSeIHGZS8XH8tSocp5NGKiuuo6KjTqPQJNRks7KDSZ8hn2K9aiuec3WWNoTypZ4KhiEAKkzEtM0YKpQrDPFEWE4Xy/s1600/photo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQCUh0H6Z8_yTnvtoFh17GJXJQv3qZVk-yFjHxBKoMbIgVEfP5kpDSeIHGZS8XH8tSocp5NGKiuuo6KjTqPQJNRks7KDSZ8hn2K9aiuec3WWNoTypZ4KhiEAKkzEtM0YKpQrDPFEWE4Xy/s1600/photo1.jpg" height="215" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span class="userContent"></span>For the students in the gifted program...</i></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"> </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent">so I thought, "Sure, we'll go to the park, and I'll suck it up long
enough to make small talk with the other parents while the kids play
catch or get their faces painted<span class="text_exposed_show"> or build bottle rockets or something.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">Why not."<br /> <br /> Well, I will tell you why not:<br /> Eleventy billion people.<br /> Inadequate parking.<br /> Nowhere to put down the covered dish I was asked to bring.<br /> No obvious place to put the toiletry donations I was asked to bring.<br /> No one I could see to collect the dollar I was asked to bring.<br /></span></span><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show">I also forgot (a second time) to grab a blanket to sit on after I angrily trudged my deviled eggs back to the car. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL91051fswG4ZNBfSID5ReT_l8_1jCMGSSaXjvNz8JA284V_BOt1F6YW6HgeKS-MTVXfhnsjA9M0OXGHNznddnAj0MkvrCXVwYxsPDdO0DK2-K1YbawUWGV2XqWPG6jy4jtDkw_SJIc3LH/s1600/towel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL91051fswG4ZNBfSID5ReT_l8_1jCMGSSaXjvNz8JA284V_BOt1F6YW6HgeKS-MTVXfhnsjA9M0OXGHNznddnAj0MkvrCXVwYxsPDdO0DK2-K1YbawUWGV2XqWPG6jy4jtDkw_SJIc3LH/s1600/towel.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span>At least I knew where my towel was.</span></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">Okay, the blanket was on me,<br />but did I mention the pollen count?<br /> And the eleventy billion people?<br /><br />The event was an organizational disaster.<br />The phrase "monkey fucking a football" comes to mind.<br />Not exactly what I expected from</span></span> the people leading our county's best and brightest...<br /><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"></span></span><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">Eventually,
and by eventually I mean approximately eight minutes, my daughter found
me, declared that she only found two people she knew and that the ant colony
of kids on the play equipment made it impossible to actually play and
that she wanted some deviled eggs. So she and I went to the car where
she ate them while we debated whether we should go back into the fray for a drink or
call it a day.</span></span><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"></span></span><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">Bet you can't guess what we did.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIB6jjqbqtZ5zQhq0jfXiCQClp6DY-wzRCmoq4r1E6m4S0pCUeAcJP8JmLWd_yPMV0EIjlnEMgGItfs3XsPIqzCxtIF2867hLxexeq0JBn1U0F2lv0YQdXJEXEx_7dF0vQKsQrb-23B048/s1600/Nehi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIB6jjqbqtZ5zQhq0jfXiCQClp6DY-wzRCmoq4r1E6m4S0pCUeAcJP8JmLWd_yPMV0EIjlnEMgGItfs3XsPIqzCxtIF2867hLxexeq0JBn1U0F2lv0YQdXJEXEx_7dF0vQKsQrb-23B048/s1600/Nehi.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The convenience store we stopped at on our way home had peach Nehi,</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>which made up for a lot. </i></span></span></div>
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"></span></span>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-53957084157139794822014-04-28T06:51:00.003-07:002014-04-28T07:06:53.668-07:00To All You Normal Guys<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The other day I was getting ready to run some errands of the sort that require real, grownup clothes, and as I moved a computer chair (not mine) to lean over a laundry basket (not mine) and a coffee table (mine, but full of stuff that is not mine) to slide open the closet door, an effort further hindered by the dress shirts (not mine) hanging from the sliding-door track, </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I pulled out an acceptable three-quarter sleeve mom-top, and<br />I realized I didn't care.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I. Didn't. Care.<br /><br />I didn't care that my delicate fucking sense of order was disturbed by random stuff.<br />I didn't care that I was going to have to lean over all of it again to put clean stuff away,<br />eventually.<br />Later.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">(I hate putting the clean stuff away.)</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anyway, yeah, the house is a hodgepodge of mismatched shelves crammed with all manner of books, games, music and knick-knacks I have been lugging around since childhood,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">but damn it, those things have their place.<br />The only thing stopping me cordoning off the area and labeling them all is that I already know where they go.<br /><br />So in the midst of the casual arrangement of... of...<br />of empty Excedrin bottles and torn envelopes and winter hats piled, essentially, in a room where there is<br />"a place for everything (except my own clean laundry basket) and everything in its place,"<br />not caring is a huge deal.<br />Huge.<br />HUUUUUUGE.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />Anyway, All of You Normal Guys...<br /><br />Okay, yeah, you're cute, and goofy, and smart, and fun.<br />The kind of guy we should have dated except when we were young</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">we didn't know any better,<br />but also...<br /><br />You don't lose your nut when we forget the Horsey Sauce. You don't tell us we're incompetent when we drive by the post office twice in one day and don't check the mail. You don't insinuate we cannot do things because we are women, but sometimes you do those things for us anyway because you are nice and have a little spare time.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You don't have a creepy dynamic with your mother.<br />Love her, hate her, you've picked one.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hopefully the first one, but points for consistency either way.<br /><br />You don't freak out over words like "forgot," "lost," "broken," "cat puke," "male friends" (any friends) or "electric bill."<br />You don't automatically accuse us of having an affair with the drive-through bank teller or the guy at Subway when we've been out twenty minutes longer than expected.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Seriously. The guy at Subway. Because you went to get the sandwiches that CAPTAIN CRAZY ASKED YOU FOR.)</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You don't insist that you want us to be stay-at-home moms while simultaneously being angry with us for being unemployed.<br />You don't beat up the cat.<br />Or the dog.<br />Or the refrigerator.<br /><br />You don't question when we hold back a little because we still have that murky reservoir of fear.<br /><br />You bring us flowers and listen when we ask you to not put our favorite mug in the dishwasher. You smack our asses AND treat us like we're interesting. You give great hugs and wash your own laundry and watch The Princess Bride with us at least once and are nice to our families and understand that we might want to see Counting Crows and Toad the Wet Sprocket in concert even if you don't.<br /><br />Oh,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and you wash the dishes.<br />DAMN that's sexy.<br /><br />No, we're not twenty, and we're in piles of debt, and we might be a little reactive...<br />and trying to squelch it.<br />Not well.<br />But we love you.<br />So all that normal stuff?<br />Keep that shit up.</span></span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br /></span></span>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-74331746216773614892014-04-21T20:07:00.001-07:002014-04-21T20:07:41.718-07:00Part V - About Leaving
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ellie
Goulding is singing on my Spotify station, <i>"This love will be your
downfall,"</i> and I wonder aloud back to Ellie, "Oh, Ellie, where in the
Hell were YOU 18 years ago?"</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My Achilles heel (and, apparently, Ellie's) thinking that I can pacify the
disturbed and soothe the needy, and that I reflexively feel that is something I
should have to do.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That's
what really got me in trouble, because the worst thing about dealing with someone who's emotionally
crippled is how they think they need you, and how they convince you of the same
thing.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And
they really do think they need you when what they need is:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">a
parent<br />
a cheerleader</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">a
cook, maid, secretary, financial adviser...<br />
<br />
But they don't need YOU.<br />
They don't care that you're smart or an artist or that you're good with dogs or
that you know how to use a level and you're really good with a power drill or
that you can locate the alternator on your Japanese car and that you're a damn
fine customer service rep with a knack for explaining the concept of
"proportion" to little old ladies who are frustrated with the copy
machine.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That you are three quarters of the way to two college degrees. (No, that scares them.)<br />
Not unless it's a bragging point for them.<br />
Not unless it comes in handy for them.<br />
<br />
They don't need YOU, because "You" come with feelings and friends and
a family and needs of your own, and so they systematically strip the part of
you that makes you... you until all that's left is a weird, compartmentalized
shell that houses:</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A
driver (someone has to pick up the auto parts)<br />
A scapegoat (for when someone has ordered the wrong auto parts)<br />
A verbal punching bag because now the store is closed and they still don't have
their auto parts. Or door hinges. Sanding belts. Enough ranch dressing for
their fries. Whatever.<br />
<br />
You are introduced as "the wife" when you are introduced at all.<br />
You become sort of an extension of his body that just so happens to walk and
drive to the parts store independently of his body when it needs to be done.<br />
<br />
Eventually, if you have a good friend, or you had a good upbringing, or you see
those hokey public service announcements in the year-old Woman's Day magazine
in the doctor's office, or maybe you are just strong enough to be holding on to
some vestige of your self-worth,<br />
you'll hear a familiar voice that whispers to you when it's quiet,<br />
"This feels wrong."<br />
<br />
You'll discredit that voice for a while,<br />
until you realize it's yours,<br />
and it's right.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, you leave.<br />
<br />
</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Later
it will seem so obvious that you weren't the problem.<br />
<br />
I mean, it's just sense,you can't make someone happy who is clinging to the
boat anchor instead of the life raft.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">They're Hell-bent on going down, and
they'll think nothing of taking you down with them,<br />
<br />
and they won't even be grateful for the company.</span></span></div>
Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-19473626788891663282014-03-30T19:56:00.000-07:002014-03-30T19:56:30.395-07:00The Bookshelf<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This past week I was driving to the grocery store and just inside my periphery I saw it,<br />the propped door and the lit "Open" sign, right beside the paper ones announcing "Going out of business."<br /><br />I had thought The Bookshelf to be closed for weeks, and indeed, it would have been better for my bank account had it been true, but it turns out they were operating on another of a series of extensions to clear out the store and make just a few more dollars before boxing up the rest of the stock and leaving the building empty for the next small business that couldn't quite swing the within-city-limits tax rates.<br /><br />The sign made me feel happy, sad, and guilty and all before I could even turn the car around.<br />I was glad that by chance they were still open, but I knew it couldn't be for much longer and that I should have stopped in earlier. I know those people, I have talked to those people, and boy, have I unloaded a lot of used books on those people.<br />Also, boy, have I purchased a lot of used books from those people.<br /><br />And it's a nice place.<br />Not nice in the pristine, shiny coffee-bar type way, but nice in a homey way. It's clean, but with the dust and smell of thousands of books in the air. Neat, but in a clutter-y way, with boxes of unsorted books stacked in the corners. Well lit, but not with that obnoxious bright fluorescent assault lighting. Sure, there are a few fixtures, but the natural light coming in the windows makes all the difference. Quiet, except for the conversation if Jim happens to be working.<br />And Jim is an interesting guy.<br />He wears shorts to work in March and speaks snippets of other languages (learned from books) and torments your children (but only a little) and makes good recommendations if you ask and knows the location of almost any book you like in a store that changes by the day.<br /><br />Julian is more reserved. Helpful, and he'll talk to you if you really are a book person and not a "tourist" in the store. He's got a lanky kid who hangs around the store sometimes and is also helpful when called upon to lift boxes of books in or out of a car trunk. There are other employees and volunteers who pop in and out to help with stocking the shelves and moving things around.<br /><br />And books, of course, thousands of them. All genres, ages, and conditions. On shelves and counters, in stacks and boxes, piled in corners. Yellowed Louis L'Amour and Agatha Christie just around the corner from Marion Zimmer Bradley and Douglas Adams, and throughout, hundreds of obscure authors with big dreams who just didn't quite make enough noise to get noticed in all the chaos.<br /><br />Kind of like The Bookshelf.<br />I'm glad to hear there's been a low roar at word of the closing that indicates some people are paying attention and are displeased. I wonder where they've been all this time and if they have money and hope they really will step up to the plate now.<br />I mean, The Bookshelf, in it's current state, is on its way out, but there is already talk of re-opening it in another location, jazzing it up and adding a record section and forcing it into the social media spotlight because, well, facts are facts, now you need coffee and seating and hipsters to keep something like this alive. Unless you want another Sheetz down the street from the Sheetz or a third Panera or yet another damned college bar.<br /><br />So, anyway, if you think that, just maybe, a college town ought to have a local bookstore, get out to Greenbag Road this week and add your name to the email notification list, cross your fingers, and hope for the best. And while you're in there, buy a book.</span></span>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-42124359492143656652014-02-26T16:00:00.001-08:002014-02-26T16:00:12.018-08:00Today: February 26<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Today:</i><br /><br />It is two weeks until I am out of my terrible job.<br /><br /><br /><i>Today:</i><br /><br />I should have had a job interview, but as is the habit of the universe it was rescheduled just as I was completely prepared for it.<br /><br />That interview is now in two and a half weeks, on the day I am scheduled to start the new job I don't want.<br /><br />This new job is a job of desperation, which is what most of my job offers are for,<br />and I wonder if accepting it was the right thing to do, or if I should have held out for the customer service position that was also a compromise, but a compromise with a chair and a better paycheck.<br /><br />It seems I am always in this position,<br />and I always take what is offered "now" rather than waiting<br />and am left wondering "what if" I had waited.<br />Taking the offerings of "Now" is what put me here, in a fast food restaurant instead of the temp pool at the university. Money and position now instead of the gamble for better later.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Granted, the last time I had fewer options, with a checking and a savings bled dry,<br />and two kids to support with sketchy financial assistance.<br />The financial assistance was a cruel joke, then, and little more than a memory now,<br />but now I am in a better place. I have a paycheck or two coming, money in the bank, and a few more interviews lined up.<br />I still have those two kids though, and they need stuff. Pretty soon my daughter will be borrowing my jeans, but until then I have to do something about the plumbers crack exposed by hers.<br />So I took the sure thing.<br />Again.<br /><br />I will go to the second job interview anyway. It is at least at a different time.<br />It can't hurt, right?<br /><i><br /><br />Today:</i><br /><br />I medicated a rat. Again. Not a euphemism.<br /><i><br />Today:</i><br /><br />Arin and I turned "Bob" the tiger moth loose today.<br />Bob, who has twice convinced me beyond a shadow of a doubt he was dead.<br />Bob, who has laid eggs in the glass bowl without the aid of a mate.<br />Bob, the mystery.<br /><br /><br /><i>Today:</i><br /><br />I went underwear shopping without leaving my apartment.<br />Assuming Victoria hasn't played musical sizes with my favorites again I will have new cheek-hugging cotton comfort within the week. The standards and then a couple with stripes, just because.<br /><i><br />Today:</i><br /><br />I brought home the gift from the foreign student at work.<br />She is one of my favorites, and I wish she had a better grasp on English, or I had a better grasp on Thai.<br />It is a tote bag she brought back from Thailand because I admired hers a couple of years ago.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hers was baby blue with cowboys and bucking broncos on it, and she said she couldn't get the same pattern, and I said she didn't have to get me anything at all but she insisted, and when she went home over the winter break she remembered.<br />She was right. It isn't the same. It is pink and slick and shiny and has frothy coffee drinks advertised on the outside and looks like it is made of candy.<br />It is nothing at all like I'd ever have purchased for myself,<br />and I love it.<br />It is one of the hundred ways the foreign students have extracted me from my comfortable place.<br />It is a reminder that if I just go of certain expectations I might invite brighter, shinier things.<br />Even if they are pink.<br /><br /><br /><i>Today:</i><br /><br />I am sipping Earl Grey and dodging phone calls and wondering how to become independently wealthy when I'm not cleaning hospital water fountains. I would like to think I have the skill, but when I look at so many of my truly talented artist friends who work hard at their craft and still struggle, I don't merely entertain my doubts, I stand on my head and juggle for them.<br />I mean, I think maybe I could do it if I could find a niche, but the world is pretty well explored and I fear I don't have much that is new to give.<br /><br />I will have to be brilliant.<br />More than brilliant, I will have to be lucky and blessed<br />and hope it is my time.</span></span> Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-57274534346194788512014-02-02T17:59:00.001-08:002014-02-02T17:59:48.613-08:00Part IV - The Worst Part is the Silence<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]">"I guess we just don't have anything left.</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"><br /></span></span></span><br />Huh. No, I guess we don't.<br />Click." </span></span></span></i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then comes the silence,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">but this time the silence is your ally.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's the silence that allows you to accept what has just happened.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is silence in the face of the panicked ringing of the phone that's still in your hand.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is a silence that seems like hours instead of seconds, and you are afraid to break it because you can't be sure this is real and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if it is, this is the easy part.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">At first you don't trust the silence because it has not always been kind.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This all <i>started</i> with silence, <i>remember</i>?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">First came the subtle discrediting of your inner voice, that took the things you knew as wrong and made them right, or maybe it was the other way around. You're not sure, anymore. Your inner voice could try to talk sense to you, but nothing you had to say worked on him. Those aren't arguments, they're discussions; no one is yelling, right? You aren't wrong, you are a liar. You didn't make a mistake, you're incompetent. You can't defend your point because your point is indefensible and not just because you don't like to...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"discuss" things.<br />You can't even be sorry because that's not acceptable either.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">If you were really sorry, you wouldn't have done...<br />whatEVER the hell it was you did<br />in the first place.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Your silence became your best back-handed defense,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">when you would have preferred a baseball bat.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The silence of his voice,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">that was the calm before the storm.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes it meant that he was content, full of cheeseburgers and curly fries and ranch dressing, watching while John Wayne just "Pilgrim'd" the shit out of everyone, spanked his woman and started another bar fight at top volume on that huge. fucking. TV.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Other times it meant that he was watching you, and he was thinking, and the more he would think the more COMPLETE INSANITY he would think OF and the angrier he would become before you even knew what was happening.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There is the silence of people who are going through it just like you.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">They are women who went to school with you, women who went to church with you, women who worked with you. You bump into each other at the grocery store and on the internet, but you are alone and they are alone, all of you and your muffled inner voices.<br />You can't help them or they you because no one believes this could be happening to anyone else. You won't know about them until much later. The strong ones who manage to get themselves out, and you will wonder how many more haven't made it, yet.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You do not know now that for months you will bounce from couch to couch and spare room to spare room, that you will borrow money from your parents for a deposit on a miniscule apartment, or that you will have to give up your job and most of your "friends."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You do not know the lengths to which he will go to get you back.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You do not know he will play your family (or he will try) against you,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">and then he will use you against them.<br />You don't know how low he will sink.<br /><br />And it is low.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />You don't know, and it is better that way, because what you haven't gotten yet that is that living with HIM...<br />has made you tougher than you know.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-72639226098772626342014-01-21T22:53:00.000-08:002014-01-21T22:53:13.056-08:00Part III - How Do Women Stay Married to Jerks?<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]">"You bide your time.<br />You have to."</span></span></span></i></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]">You realize, now, you are married to a jerk.<br />You've known it for some time, but you've just come to grips with it,<br />so what do you do?<br /><br />I mean, you've tried to obey "the rules" but the rules always change.<br />You've talked about counseling. You've even scheduled the appointments,<br />but as he's mentioned, you'll be the only one going because you're the problem.<br />You're out of ideas, hope, and quite frankly, not only do you not love him anymore,<br />you've stopped giving a shit.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]">For a while, escape is a fantasy, and you fantasize a LOT.</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"><br />None of the scenarios are particularly appealing, but some are slightly less...<br />unpalatable...<br />than others.<br />The least awful is the hope that your spouse will leave you.<br />You hope that they will fall out of love with you.<br />Little do you know that this has already happened<br />and they're still around because, well, you're reliable.<br /><br />You plan, and "one day" becomes your favorite time.<br />You make plans while you wash the dishes, while you weedeat the yard,<br />while you're stuck with him on the couch watching another fucking John Wayne movie.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]">Your spouse loves John Wayne.</span></span></span></span></span><br />You have learned to think of John Wayne as the root of all evil.<br />You begin to wish posthumous harm on John Wayne, his entire family and all of his fans.<br />You want him to come back to life so you can push him in front of a bus because if you have to watch one more gods damned John Wayne movie and listen to your spouse go on about how much he'd love to live in "those times" (presumably those times being the ones when you could spank your woman for talking back to you and then go off and start a bar fight for, well, for no real reason at all) and then watch him hunch up his shoulders and do that stupid walk and laugh that stupid laugh and talk through that unlit cigarette (and you just now realized that he probably unintentionally as much as intentionally modeled his every move on stupidJohnWayneandhowdidyounotseeitBEFORE!?)<br />and where was I... ?<br /><br />Oh.<br />John. Irritating. Fucking. Wayne.<br />Is probably a whole separate post.<br />Gah.<br /><br />So. You make your plans. You will get the two of you out of this hole because he's not going to do it.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]">Except that since the reason you're in the hole is he won't hold down a job and is always around.<br />You're spending too much time putting out fires to properly fix the wiring.<br />Your plans become for YOU to leave.<br />But not now.<br />When the kids are older, that's when you'll do it.<br />Or when your grandma is too senile to realize you're getting a divorce<br />or when he finally does something in front of someone that you can take to the police.<br />When you can put a little money away (hahahahahahahaha....) for gas and an apartment.<br /><br />You finish your college degree. In between jobs. In between kids. In between crises.<br />You fight and scrap for it, too, because he will think of every reason for you to not do it.<br />You will tolerate his suggestions that you are not really going to classes but are instead having a torrid affair, like you do when you go to the Hardee's drive through window (at his request to get his food) or out to pay the phone bill or to the library or anytime you are out of his sight for more than five minutes.<br />You fight until you can't. You start agreeing to things you don't agree with just so he will shut the fuck up for a minute and let you get on with things. You apologize for things you aren't sorry for. You learn to say the right words and dance the right steps.<br />You do what you must.<br />Until one day.<br />You have.<br />The thought.<br /><br />The thought that you've had a thousand times except this time it's real.<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]">You've kind of shocked yourself with this truth.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"></span></span></span></span></span>You really ARE going to leave.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]">It really IS a matter of time.<br />It's going to happen.<br />You just don't know how, or when.<br />You aren't ready for active participation yet.<br /><br />I don't know how it works for everyone, but I had that "last straw" moment.<br />I mean, I'd kind of checked out of the marriage already anyway. I kept going through the motions because I didn't know what else to do. I had helped him, pushed him, into another job that he hadn't yet managed </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]">(but was trying like hell) </span></span></span></span></span>to get fired from<br />and I will remember for as long as I live,<br />that long distance cell phone call,<br />when, from over two thousand miles away,<br />I heard the words that were designed to guilt me into apologizing for being in the bathroom or whatever when the phone rang, when I wasn't sorry that I was still in the bathroom when he called three more times in the next two minutes,<br /><br />"I guess we just don't have anything left."</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"><br /></span></span></span></span></span><br />Huh. No, I guess we don't.<br />Click.</span></span></span></span></span>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-29105403781206115652014-01-14T03:10:00.001-08:002014-01-14T03:10:26.348-08:00Blergh. Morning.<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">6:06
am:<br />There's already an epic battle for the universe going on in my
living room. Or honor, or tiny animals in plastic eggs, or whatever it
is anime characters are fight about these days.<br /> Too.<br />Early.</span></span></span>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-17679689042911207292014-01-11T18:50:00.000-08:002014-01-11T18:50:00.049-08:00Part II - Why do Women Stay Married to Jerks?<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">"...By the time you figure it out, by the time the vitriol has been turned on you,<br /> it is often too late. You have kids. Or aging parents. Three quarters of a college degree.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">A
shared livelihood. Whatever. You are in a compromised position
where his entire social network overwhelms yours because he has slowly
but very systematically cut you off from your friends, family,
co-workers and replaced them with... him.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Maybe you believe that he will change. He did promise...."</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /><br />But that's not all.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br />There's the "shame." You that wonder if it's your fault, especially when you have someone telling you it's your fault, and so there is the anvil of failure just hanging there, over your head, waiting for you to lose your grip on the rope.<br /> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">You think you're too far in. You have been part of a pair, and never mind you're the stronger half of a broken, limping, barely breathing pair, there is the part of you that wonders how you will do it all by yourself. Where will you live, how will you pay the bills? (Yes, you know they aren't being paid now, but that's going to change any minute now. It WILL, this time.)<br />How will you extricate yourself from his family, his remaining friend, your joint checking account?</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">What about the dog?<br />The emotional toll of just thinking about it is costly.<br /><br />Then there's the paperwork.<br />You can't afford a lawyer.<br />Hell, you can't afford either of your mortgages or your electric payment,<br />how do you expect to pay for legal representation?<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">There is the part of you that wonders if you will be that one case in a hundred where the court sides with your awful ex.<br />Not so farfetched a theory as One. Might. Think...</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">You don't want to go crawling back.<br />To your friends.<br />Let's face it, you've treated them badly.<br />Yeah, you've done it out of cowardice with a touch of altruism.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">You know you can't keep a rein on his mouth, you know how he is, and you don't want to subject people you like to that.<br />You don't want to have to be apologetic on his behalf later, so you don't go anywhere with him,<br />and God knows you can't go anywhere without him.<br />So you just stop seeing people you care about, with a lot of excuses and little explanation.<br />Sooner or later they stop calling.<br /> <br />Then there's your family...<br />Your "normal" family.<br />And by normal I mean your dad.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819292}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Mr. Calm, Cool and Collected, even when you wreck the car. Okay, not so much when he's fixing the toilet, but no one's perfect.<br />Your mom. The sweetest woman you know. She loves British humor and introduced you to Billy Joel. She is nice to everyone and will offer you tea and sandwiches Until. You. Crack.<br />Your sister. Even though you tried to kill each other on a fairly regular basis during your childhood, she's okay now. You share a love of heavy sarcasm and Joss Whedon and chocolate. She's got good kids. Your brother-in-law is not too bad, either. He makes a mean sausage-gravy-and-biscuit breakfast.<br />Your "little" brother. You used to smack him on the head and how he's a foot taller than you, but instead of getting revenge he talks to you about nerd stuff. Batman is the tie that binds.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[2]"></span><br data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[3]" /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]">You don't want them to worry. You don't want them to interfere. </span></span></span></span>You don't want your ex to drag them down to his level. That's his specialty, but you won't let him turn your family into a pack of snarling, howling, revenge-bent werewolves.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]" style="font-size: small;"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[455fl].[1][3][1]{comment10201716942138670_5819924}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[4]">You have enough to deal with without having to sneak them handcuff keys in their prison birthday cupcakes.<br /><br />You bide your time.<br />You have to.</span></span></span></span>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-76529929650851639922014-01-06T07:10:00.000-08:002014-01-06T07:23:59.917-08:00Part I - Why Do Women Marry Jerks?<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;">I have been asked how girls fall for the wrong guy,</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;">or, more specifically, how I fell for the wrong guy.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;">I wrote a blog post about it. Liketohearit?Hereitgo... (Only works in David Alan Grier's voice.)</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;">An asshole will be nice to you. At first.<br /> His asshole-y actions?<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> They will be directed at people you don't really know, they will involve family or friend dynamics you don't truly understand,</span></span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> they will be muted or even seem somewhat justified at the time.</span></span><br />(It takes all kinds, right? This is how they handle things? I guess?)</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show">It is only years later when his family stops talking to him and friends get fed up and stop coming around that you realize that, no, it wasn't your imagination, he really was being a hateful prick.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show">Your parents were normal.<br />
And by normal I mean they weren't always sniping at each other and
making each other feel horrible. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show">Talking meant talking.</span></span></span> There were no volleys of insults or subtle degradations. No one needed thick skin. They were nice to each others friends
and families. They surrounded you with love and other people who loved
you.<br /> You were raised in THAT.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> You cannot believe such people as your new guy and his lot exist outside of Lifetime TV or episodes of <i>COPS.</i><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">By the time you figure it out, by the time the vitriol has been turned on you,<br /> it is often too late. You have kids. Or aging parents. Three quarters of a college degree.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">A shared livelihood. Whatever. You are in a compromised position
where his entire social network overwhelms yours because he has slowly but very systematically cut you off from your friends, family, co-workers and replaced them with... him.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Maybe you believe that he will change. He did promise.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Other stuff.</span></span></span></span></span>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-25668749333197547112014-01-05T18:29:00.003-08:002014-01-05T18:29:29.669-08:00Are You Chicken?<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">My neighbors have been cackling for two hours.<br /> Cackling.<br /> <br />
Like, if Popeye had decided against being a sailor and had instead gone
into chicken farming, and he lived next door with his (loud) chickens,
and he thought his chickens were really hilarious,<br /> <br /> that is what it would sound like.</span></span></span>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-16348827796129841092014-01-04T11:28:00.000-08:002014-01-04T15:31:11.569-08:00The TARDIS and the Tomato Sauce<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'd decided on a day of relaxation. Not the one where you're supposed to be doing stuff but you screw off instead and feel guilty about it later, but the one where you give permission to self to not do anything except eat and watch "Scrubs" reruns with your good-lookin' boyfriend and watch some Adobe tutorials on the internet.<br />In your TARDIS pajamas.<br /><br />(Day One: Our protagonist is wearing TARDIS pajamas. No related blog post, though.)<br /><br />Day Two:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our heroine returns, boosted by the self-confidence that only several Facebook-likes of a footie pajamas selfie can give,<br />ready to tackle the world of relaxation, Netflix, and homemade chili.<br /><br />The ingredients are all there, the hamburger browned the night before.<br />The cookware is clean.<br />The comfy TARDIS pajamas are on.<br /><br />She gathers the onion, the black beans, the tomato juice, the various and assorted spices.<br />She pulls the recipe card out. She slices, she dices, she chops.<br />She goes to put the tomato juice in...<br /><br />Now, our girl is not one to have extra kitchen devices. She won't buy an electric can opener. No, she has the hand crank model.<br />One in a long line, as she has broken many of them.<br />The hand crank model, staple of camping and bomb-shelter kits.<br />The stuff of our forefathers, who valued hard work and scorned convenience for scorning convenience's sake.<br />She scorns the them because they hog counter space and waste electricity.<br /><br /><br />... and the hand crank model, as so many before it, latches and slips with the first turn.<br />And the second, and the third, and the fourth. Eventually, though, the can opener is coaxed into perforating enough metal that the can should yield its contents with one simple push on the top of the can...<br /><br />Yeah, you see it coming, now.<br /><br />... and the contents explode.<br />Not literally, as they are not volatile compounds, mostly just tomato and water, but they exit the can with such force that they coat the counter and the wall, they run onto the floor, they splatter our heroine's feet (because she unzipped and removed the feet of her footie pajamas when traction became an issue)<br />and her TARDIS pajamas.<br /><br />There is lots of swearing as she hurriedly exits the kitchen, while the good-lookin' boyfriend (GLB) says something about skunks which our heroine does not fully hear because all she can see is red<br />-probably from the tomato product in her eyes-<br />and she is busy stripping off pajamas on the way to the washing machine...<br />where she finds that the load she put in before is still spinning.<br />DAMN AND BLAST!<br />A new plan is formulated and the TARDIS is hastily thrown under the spigot in the bathtub where<br />(oh thank GOD) the tomato sauce rinses out of the bright white of the police public call box windows.<br /><br />After a quick pj and foot rinse the washing machine is ready to tackle its next challenge,<br />and so she starts the new load (cold water and a little extra soap) and heads upstairs for the very fuzzy, very comfortable,<br />very purple pajamas of a Christmas long past.<br /><br />Upon her return to the kitchen, GLB is hard at work wiping the counter, the candy dish, the side of the refrigerator, the floor, and who knows what else,<br />because he is awesome.<br />A thousand times better than footie TARDIS pajamas.<br />And that is a lot.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-65649066562145280492013-12-24T19:25:00.000-08:002013-12-24T19:25:03.865-08:00<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Have you ever been depressed?<br />Really depressed? Not bored, or lonely, or stressed out.<br />Depressed, and for no reason that makes sense to any sane person.<br /><br />It's the holiday. You're supposed to be happy on a holiday. You're supposed to clean your house and watch movies and eat junk food and lounge in your pajamas even though allllll of your laundry is clean. Very, very clean. And folded. And put away. You're supposed to read that stack of books on your nightstand and work on your drawings and chase the cat off the wrapping paper five hundred times even though it would be easier to put her in the bathroom until you've finished wrapping the gifts.<br /><br />But sooner or later, that stuff gets done and then it's you nursing a mug of tea and thinking your unhealthy thoughts and falling asleep in front of Star Trek again, and you wonder if the holidays were as much a misery for the adults in your life when you were small and you were just so busy being a kid you didn't notice. My brother concurs. He feels it, too.<br /><br />I'm sitting here with the tree I forced myself to decorate even though it sat around the house for over a week in garbage bags driving the cats bonkers and making the place look bad. I put it up when the kids were here but left it bare because no one else seemed to care, either. It wasn't until two days before Christmas I begrudgingly hung just enough ornaments to fill up the three quarters of it you can see. I wound the tinsel around to cover the same spots.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />Just where you can see.<br /><br />I never do that. I remember a story I read once about the sculptor who carved the Lincoln monument. He carved in excruciating detail every part, even the ones people would likely never see because HE knew they were there.<br />I can't say my Christmas tree compares to the Lincoln monument. I don't think there is anyone suffering under the delusion that my tree is even pretty this year, but that is how I used to operate; like someone might stick their head in the corner and see that I had decorated the whole tree, even if that person was me. I wasn't excited about it, but I cared about the little things.<br /><br />This year, there is no detail.<br />There is no smaller secondary "Grinch Tree" which was all about me, anyway, but still, the little things...<br />There are no cookies, nothing is wrapped, there's been no attempt at greeting cards.<br />The greeting cards are always a fail, but I usually at least try.<br />I haven't seen Ralphie in his rabbit suit, Max pulling the sled, Jack Skellington fucking up everything.<br /><br />And I don't think it's just me.<br />I don't think it's just my family.<br />The world looks tired.<br /><br />I need a new<br />point of view.<br /><br />What do you do for the holiday that makes you happy?<br />What do you do that gets you moving?<br />Where do you find your joy?<br /><br />I'm serious because...<br />I<br />don't<br />know.</span></span> Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-14978813198207461422013-12-24T07:50:00.000-08:002013-12-24T07:56:54.515-08:00It's the Holiday and My Kids Aren't Here<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's the holiday and my kids aren't here.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />No, it's not that kind of post. I wish my kids were here.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The kids not being here means my house is cleaner and more orderly than the house of any parent has a right to be. There are only a few dirty dishes in
the sink. The couch blankets are only a little disheveled. But for a pair of
socks and a dishtowel, the laundry is clean.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The kids not being
here means I worry, now, about those half dozen dishes, the token
socks and dish towel. That light layer of dust on the base of the TV.
The books that the cat has knocked off the shelf and I have put back on until there is no sense
of order at all. Ray Bradbury and Laura Ingalls Wilder sit in uncomfortable silence next to Stephen King, and
together they look in puzzlement at Stephenie Meyers and wonder how it came to this.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As clean as everything is, I have the hardest time not doing those tedious tasks. I keep telling myself, "If only I wash up the last few dishes, if only I wash those last few
towels, if I stop for a minute and wipe the base of the TV, it will all
be perfect."<br /><br />But it won't.<br />It will not be perfect.<br />It will never be perfect.<br />It is never, ever, perfect.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Those things, they do need to be done, but doing them does not mean they won't need
done again.<br />That something else won't then fail to be up to snuff.<br />That, and need is such an overused word. Do I "need" to
sort out my tea cabinet?<br />Maybe for my sanity, but the house won't fall into disrepair if I don't do it. Nothing
will catch fire if I don't do it. The cats won't notice if I don't do it. The only cabinet they notice is an empty cabinet with a cracked-slightly-open door.<br />The tea I
drink is all near the front, anyway.<br /><br />And there are other things to do.<br />I have art that is gathering even more dust than the television set,<br />cookie-baking ingredients that are fast becoming the first, second, and third helpings of my breakfasts, TARDISes to build, blogs to blog, and an amazing boyfriend whose company I should enjoy while we both have the time to spend.<br /><br />The question is, "How?"<br />How do you not OCD people, and maybe more appropriately, how do you completely OCD people stop looking at the state of your silverware drawer and get to the important stuff?<br />I'm really asking because,<br />I<br />don't<br />know.</span></span> Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-529394055771209891.post-89007013960456645782013-12-21T06:54:00.002-08:002013-12-21T06:59:11.389-08:00The Grinch Who's Too Broke for Christmas<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent">Friends,<br />
Christmas is almost upon us. Shoppers and stores in a state of last
minute panic. People are filling in the holes, or just now getting
started...<br /> And you're trying to buy for that one person who has
asked you to please, please, please, for the love of God, don't buy her
anything.<br /> <br /> That person? Is serious.<br /> No, reall<br /> NO, re<br /> NO. Shut UP a second. (I saw that with love.) She really is.<br /> Yeah, I know you want to. I know you've told her she doesn't need to reciprocate because that's not why you're doing it.<br /> I knOW you mean this.<br />
But when you're honest with yourself, if someone buys you something,
and you don't buy them something back, don't you feel just a tad guilty?<br /> Be honest.<br /> You do.<br /> Yes, you do.<br /> <br /> And that's what you're buying your friend for Christmas.<br /> A big ole' box o' guilt.<br /> Awesome.<br /> <br /> Are you seriously still arguing with me?<br /> There's no, "But I wanted to do this!"<br /> No. Not how it works.<br /> <br /> If you've really gotta do something, hang out with your friend.<br /> Heat some boiling water and have a sit-down mug of tea.<br /> Watch "The Nightmare Before Christmas" and share a cookie.<br /> Your broke friend probably can't bake.<br /> <br /> If you wanna be nice for Christmas, do that.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3,"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent">(Disclaimer: This is not directed at my mom. She's unstoppable.)</span></span></span> </span></span></span>Jennifritzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12929514483825756657noreply@blogger.com0