To Whom it may Concern (that should be you, honey)

C__:

I've given it some thought, and I think we really should further discuss some Other Options.

Those Other Options being:

1. You seriously consider seeing a 'professional', as outlined in my proposal on Saturday. I know you think I was being coy and Female or whatever, but I was SERIOUS. Serious like "I'll find you the prostitute/escort/whatever". Honestly. At the rate we're going, I'll have the sex phased out in about another 18 months. No biggie to me, but as I know you'll be whining about it in approximately 30 more days, I think it's only fair that I bring this idea up again. You want sex the way you want it -- without any real foreplay, without talking, a simple in-and-out, with no noise and with your partner following orders? It Can Be Arranged. No, I won't mind. I'd even want to talk to her, see if she can offer any insight.
2. We get counseling. Sex Therapy. Yes, I said it, and I will again: SEX THERAPY. We're miserable at it. I can't be alone in this. Don't you think there's something you aren't getting? Aren't feeling? Is this what you really think it's supposed to be like?
3. You start getting comfortable with me expressing myself sexually. It's a damn difficult job, keeping one's mouth shut every time she wants to say something naughty or make a reference or suggestion or express a desire. It's hard to cut that part of oneself off. And even if you succeed, the phantom sex-limb pain is a bitch.
4. Phone sex ain't cheating. See #3. If i can't do it with you, why are you worried about it?
5. And you want KIDS? Give me an effing break. I'm up watching late-night Sinemax because it's the only mental/thoughtful foreplay I'll get for the next 40 years and you think this is a)an enviornment that can produce children, given how often we even have sex, and b)an environment in which a child should be conceived and raised? Pah! We'd have to make a Therapy Fund alongside his/her Tuition fund(s).
6. Don't ask where the sex toys come from. You don't want to know, and you don't want to know why I have them or when I bought them. You sure as hell don't want to know how often they're put into use. That 'ignorance is bliss' attitude you have? Keep it in mind here. You can't compete with a Rabbit and cyberotica CD.

I'm like Blackbeard's wife. It's the one thing we can't discuss, and the one thing we need to.

oh well....

at least i get the trois discount at mysweettemptation.com.

reprieve

So the Memorial Day Holiday Effect (i.e. Thinking it's Monday when it isn't, and thus writing down "Wednesday, 9 a.m." when you meant "Thursday, 9 a.m.") was certainly upon me.

Car reservations made, crises averted.

Unfocused.

Reasons I forgot to make car reservations for a Senior VP yesterday afternoon for This Morning:
1. Way too excited about potential puppy, which I won't be able to afford after I get fired for forgetting to make car reservations.
2. Thinking about house, which I won't be able to afford after forgetting to make car reservations.
3. Thinking about sexless marriage and lack of communication, which will both disappear after C. divorces me because I've been fired for forgetting to make car reservations.
4. Messing about on internet, which I won't be able to afford because I'm homeless anyway after losing both my home and marriage becuase I forgot to make the effing reservations.

And here's the kicker -- NOW, at 2.10 p.m., I see it in my notes, after I was crossing stuff off I did yesterday. Yep...

I'm a dumbass.

A soon-to-be-jobless dumbass.

fuck.

I wonder when the DVD will come out.

We're in the middle of packing to move, and it's really emotional.

For me, anyway.

C. couldn't be happier about moving away from here. A lot of the old white neighbors here view him as "The One Who Married The Other One" (actual quote), The Guy Who Comes in Late And Could Possibly Be A Drug Dealer Because He Is Black, Wears Baggy Clothes, Keeps Odd Hours And Drives an SUV (albeit without loud music), and The Guy You Feel Comfortable Asking to Do Things Like Go Into the Dumpster And Get Something You Saw In There You'd Like To Have.

He says he's tired of being looked at funny and having old white women all but shriek in terror at the sight of him.

I can understand that -- I work in a place where I've heard a black man referred to as "that colored fella" and my twists called "Medusa things" and people's mouths gape open every single time I rock a 'fro. I'm no stranger to the discomfort of knowing that some people will either always think you in some way lacking, or a strange exception to the rule.

But even so...I liked it here. I grew up here, in a way. This was my bachelorette pad. I loved and lost and lost again here. I had my first dinner party, my first heart-wrenching breakup. I regained my sensuality and lost it again here. I found and lost jobs and boyfriends. Lost, found, and lost myself.

And when I leave next week, there's a part of me that will be here. My Single Girl self, that idealized self that holds so much possiblity and promise. She was sexy and sometimes beautiful, soemtimes insecure, sexy. She dreamed and teased and wrote and created. She had friends and work and fun.

And now...not so much. I'm married and old and not as attractive, and i'll just end up being a brood mare and someone who says more often than not "No, we can if you want" and "Whatever you want to do, babe."

I didn't think I'd end up this way. I suppose I should be happy. This is what I said I wanted, right?

Packing up the pieces of the life I once led is like writing my own epitaph. If I died tomorrow, and someone had to come and rifle through the boxese, I wonder what they would say, what the pieces of my world would tell them. I wonder if they'd think I would have been worth knowing. Or if I were a show, if I'd be worth watching.

Khalua mudslides and old love letters don't mix, either.

TLC has come out with these great figurines. My personal favorite?



As evidenced by my open email to B. I posted last night, Kahlua and old love letters are a just as lethal mix.

True to form, my husband was nothing but lovely and sweet this morning, understanding and consoling when I realized someone had kindly glued to the (cheap, awful) frame the only remaining photo of myself and my parents and I couldn't get it out -- and consequently railed and stomped around the house this morning, further reminding me of why I married him.

The whole passion and fireworks thing...just not us. The sex... it always goes to seed anyway; we just got that part over with early. I should send him a card for being so understanding and sweet. Moving's not agreeing with me for some reason. Maybe I'm one of those 'resistant to change' people.

Open Letter to my Ex. (AKA Mr. Big)

B:

What's worse: knowing you should have married someone else, or knowing and not doing anything about it?

You always knew me for the coward I was. You probably even now despise me for it. Pity me and the life we should have had together, but now is bland and boring because it's not with you. If I told you just how bad the sex was, you'd probably chuckle in that harsh-but-not-really-mean way and try to goad me into phone sex, just to see if you could.

And let me tell you right now: you could.

One of the letters I couldn't stop myself from reading had a phrase in it about people envying us in a few decades, wanting what we have. Seeing us together and knowing how good we are for each other.

I had to stop reading because it really made me miserable, knowing what I fucked up. I can't even bring myself to throw away the mix tapes you made for me, but they're coming alont to the new house.

My husband would never think to make a mix tape for me. To call me up just to tell me something he heard on the radio. To tell me, in explicit and tantalizing detail, just how he plans to kiss me until I beg him for sex. And mean it. To listen to me while I tell him about my day. To read my writing and not only critique it, but add a little something to it that hadn't occured to me.

We were friends, you and I. And even in our awful shortcomings (both of us greedy, both of us mean when we didn't have to be, both of us sometimes shallow), we WERE good together. God, we were good. You knew me. You understood me.

I'll never have that again. Of all the things I miss about you, the things I mostly can't remember now until it's dark and I'm alone and feeling just how old I am and how little time has passed although it seems like ages, your understanding and knowledge of me -- that fit -- is what I'll miss most.

I can't ever send you this; you already think I'm pathetic. You and your current girlfriend (who is probably slender and brunette, and doesn't have any of the stupid hangups I did) probably laugh at me at every stupid attempt of mine to reconnect with you. I don't blame you -- it is stupid. I just can't help it. I know i've left something invaluable behind.

I'm sorry. I'll always be sorry. I'll always regret letting you go. You probably already know this. You're smart enough and know me well enough to know my 'hi' emails are just lameass excuses to correspond with you because I'm so sick with myself for letting it happen.

But happen it did. I'm so sorry.

I hope this finds you well. I hope you're happy and content. I hope the woman you're with deserves you more than I did, and treats you far better.

Best,

Regenia

What where you shop says about you.

I just saw Anthropologie mentioned on two weight-loss/weight-themed blogs.

Why is that?

Personally, I think it's because they, like so many other stores, represent the sort of clothes women would like to wear, -- eclectic,'wish I had that sort of life' pieces that you can work into your wardrobr, and their sizes, like practically every other store, focuses only on the small and medium. So in a way, it IS sort of a holy grail. If you can shop there (or at Shopbop, or Girlshop, or Neiman Marcus....), then you're okay. You're still one of the Acceptable, fashion-wise. You can say, "Oh, this? I got this at Anthropologie."

Not mumble about it being on sale at Lane Bryant. Because only Fat Girls shop at Lane Bryant, no matter how interesting their ads look or how non-fat girl (this only happens one time out of a million) an article of clothing may be. Same goes for Ashley Stewart, who sort of tries to market it as Sexy/sassy fat girl, but fat anyway.

And nobody, as any man would tell you, likes fat chicks.*


*and I can say this, as I am one. Honestly, I think my husband is just doing the best he can.

Breakfast at Tiffany's, not so much.

A revealing e-mail exchange with a fraquaintance*


From: J.
Sent: Wednesday, May 03, 2006 3:44 PM
To: R.
Subject: RE: Hey
Well in a few weeks you will have decorating to take up all your free time.
Have you thought of taking a class or starting a new program? I still think you would do great at the one I'm in. We're finally in the communications section. I have to write a critical analysis of "I Have a Dream".
____________________________


>>> "R. 5/3/2006 4:49:39 PM >>>
I think I might have to, for sanity's sake. Nobody tells you how BORING marriage is. Geez. It's like watching grass grow. And occasionally you'll see a flower or butterfly in the yard, or a bug you have to kill.
Otherwise...it's just yard.
__________________________________

From: J.
Sent: Wednesday, May 03, 2006 3:53 PM
To: r.
Subject: RE: Hey

What did you expect vs. what you actually have?

________________________________________

From: R.
to: J.
RE: Hey


I dunno.
More lovey dovey conversations and stuff. Massages. We're more like a well-run business. We function very well together. But we sort of (and this has a lot to do with our schedules and just how we are in general) pass each other a lot on the way to doing stuff --taking care of business.

________________________________________

From: J.
Sent: Wednesday, May 03, 2006 9:44 PM
To: r.
Subject: RE: Hey

So you envisioned Breakfast at Tiffanys but got Breakfast at IHOP. At least its not Breakfast at the Waffle House. LOL!!!!! Is it better on his days off? I'm sure a lot of it is schedule. Plus this is new for both of you. You still have to figure this whole marriage thing out.
________________________

There's a part of me that really wishes I'd just let the illusion that marriage is all hunky dory and we have fabulous sex all the time and do everything together and have this beautiful relationship ride. She's the type that will a)go out and spread any hint of gossip she finds to anyone who will listen -- ESPECIALLY if it's bad. this is the same woman who told the most unflattering stories of me AT MY BRIDAL SHOWER. b) she's always been something of an 'inyourface-r' when it comes to bringing stuff up and slapping you around with it -- preferrably to her advantage. She'll act all sympathetic and caring, only to slam you later with something you trusted her with.

So having the picture of the happy marriage was something, at least to make me look good -b ut i've managed to spin it so that it seems more like I'm being independent instead of having to do things on my own.

I wish we at least merited "Breakfast at the Original Pancake House". At least that's a nicer place. Any breakfasting at Tiffany's will be done on my own.

Open Letter to my Libido:

Dear Libido:

It was nice seeing you the other day. You seemed well-rested, content -- and was I mistaken, or did you get a little sun? And the timing couldn't have been better -- husband uninterested (as usual), and just us to while away another afternoon reading and catching up.

And yesterday -- when you stopped by during my chat with A. -- coincidence? We both know you enjoy his company. Understandable. He's quite the worldly chap, isn't he? And a world-class flirt. I miss flirting; I know you do too. Nice to do it with someone who knows how -- and with whom you know nothing else is wanted or possible.

I know you're probably on your way out, and I completely understand, but could I ask you a favor? Is there any way you could possibly stick around for my husband to meet you? I know I tried to introduce you before, and it went badly, and you don't really care much for him, but could you try? I tried before to get you to come when Tanya reccomended the Damiana, but I noticed you didn't return my phone calls. Maybe you were busy.

The thing is, I have a really long time with my husband, and I'm just miserable without you. I mean, when he scratches, the least I can do is have an itch, right? Sorry. That was crude. I'm trying to eat better and lose weight and not blame him for things beyond his control (lack of imagination, lack of interest in me as a complex woman and sexual being, not just Slot B into which Tab A is inserted, ambivalence towards anything resembling creativity).

What I'm saying is, if only for me...could you just come around a little more often? We could just talk, really. Write some stories. Play some music. Paint some stationery. Shop, if you'd like. I found a copy of the Little Brown Dress we tossed after that horrible debacle with Crazy George. Maybe you could come by and we can test drive it. Oh! and A. mentioned the hitachi's in stock; he reccomended it when I explained what happened with the other purchase we made from his shop. I'll let you know when I order it.

I won't keep you -- I know you're getting ready to go. Take care of yourself, and call, okay?

I'll miss you.

Love,

R.