No really. From here on out I am a Barbie doll. Not even Barbie because she’s too sexy what with her waist smaller than her head and all. I’m more like Skipper, her sexless friend, or Ken or Midge or even the Dreamhouse, inanimate and safe. On Friday night Bryan perused my blog which he hardly ever does and said he thinks I say too much. About us “doing it.” About my boobs. He says that there are weirdos out there and I agree. The world is chock full of people gone bad, thieves and drug addicts, murderers, the p-word which I don’t even want to type as I don’t want any traffic associated with those people. (Hint: it rhymes with theyshouldbekilleddeadophiles.) And so even though it makes me laugh to imagine some creep sitting alone at his computer at night with a tub of vasoline, using one hand to search for “married people sex” or “doing it” or “boob cancer,” I vow from here on out to be a little more cognizant of my nether region. Wait, is that too much? Nether region? Down below? The area which I cover at all times with a thick poly/flannel blend printed with calico and dusted for fingerprints? Yeah, that. Shhh.
On Saturday we went out for breakfast. Me and my wholesome family. I ordered the veggie frittata. Is frittata too sexy? I think so, too. Okay, I ordered the veggie egg scramble cooked into a shape. The shape was not a p*nis but more of just a block, a brick of breakfast. There we were eating when all of a sudden this woman stopped by our table. Bryan? she said. And my heart dropped. Don’t blog about that, Bryan said later, and I am sorry. This is my life, too, he reminded me, and it’s true. He didn’t ask to be married to a blogger, a blabber, a Barbie doll with boobies and a computer. My waist is way larger than my head, though, and so when that woman stopped by our table I slid back in time. When we were 20 Bryan and I were broken up. But we weren’t. We were everything and nothing and boy was she something. Well she sure has gotten cankle-y, I said as soon as she left our table. Does Elmo want a bite of potatoes? Bryan asked Zoey. You can’t even look at me right now, can you? I asked him, trying to smile. I mean don’t you think? She’s gotten kind of fat? Surprise, surprise, Elmo would not eat the potatoes. Look at me, I said. No, Bryan said, nervously laughing. I’m afraid to. You’re going to freak out. It’s been 15 years and you’re going to freak out. And again he was right. I was. And this is his life, too. And so I cannot tell the story of seeing her again, how that woman standing by our table beckoned forth the ghost of a person I do not ever want to be again. Weak. I was weak then and now she is thick. And perfectly nice, yes, I am sure she is nice. Nice if you like v*ginas and wh*res and a knife in your he*rt. But I don’t. Not anymore, anyway. I am no longer that girl, twenty and weak. Because now? Now when I sit at the computer alone at night this is what I type into the search engine: Bryan. Zoey. Calico printed panties. Dreamhouse. My animate life, strong and safe.
Happy Monday. But I have this.
Blog poster from here.