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Waiting

Waiting for your…
Call I’m sick, call I’m angry
Call I’m desperate for your voice…

The car stereo sings softly as I wait in the emptying parking lot of the Best Buy where I work. The glow of the dashboard illuminate my face as I sit patiently, watching my friends and co-workers filter out in their blue, yellow and white shirts. They smile and wave to me as they pass by, sometimes stopping by the window to invite me to join a small group of them for drinks and burgers at someone’s house.

Nah, it’s late and I’m going home soon, I was just enjoying some last minute peace.

They don’t argue. They smile and say “maybe next time.”

Maybe indeed, but probably not. Social settings give me anxiety and sweaty palms, so I wave goodbye to them and promise to consider it next time.

The parking lot empties until there is only a scattering of cars. Two or three in the vast space, I’m beginning to look increasingly oddly placed. Finally, the last two employees walk out as I begin to grow weary of waiting any longer and debate leaving.

He spots me and walks up to my car before I can change gears to get away. Immediately, I regret waiting so long.

There is nothing spectacular about him. He’s 30 to my 19, shorter than me by an inch and kind of mean to me. To this day, I don’t know why I waited. But I did.

“Wanna go get coffee?” he asks. He tries twice to get me to enjoy it, but I don’t. I never drink coffee again. He takes me to see movies I’ve mentioned I wanted to see, we go to Border’s on our days off and sit in the cafe reading. In the afternoons, we head out to eat something before saying goodbye. He 30 to my 19. He’s also married.

This passes without incident for two months. I get tired of hearing his complaints about his wife. I get tired of feeling like a little child when we’re together. He gets fired for sexual harassment, but we continue these meetings for another 2 months.

Chris starts working while my life is consumed by men I can’t stand. A boy I just broke up with won’t leave me alone; my ex who I gave a second chance after he joined the Marines, which turned out to be another mistake; and him. After he is fired, Chris and I begin to talk more. More flirting. More laughing. Just more.

I turn 20 and he insists on seeing me. I go, knowing I’m wasting my time, it’ll be the same thing it always is. I get frustrated. I leave. A week later he calls me, expecting me to want to see him. I have plans, I tell him, and it’s true. I don’t talk to him again. He calls and texts me for days afterwords, proclaiming love and desire to be with me. They go unanswered.

December of 2008, a year and a half later, I’m noticeably pregnant while Christmas shopping with my husband when I see him, walking behind us into a store. Our eyes connect for a brief moment before his dart down to my expanding stomach. He walks away without a word.

Stripped and polished
I am new, I am fresh
I am feeling so ambitious
You and me, flesh to flesh

Two more years pass, the car stereo sings softly as I sit in a crowded parking lot waiting. Two babes too impatient to wait any longer scream in the back seat as the Spring sun begins it’s descent into the horizon. I watch as people filter out of the store and make their way to their cars. I debate gathering up the kids and taking them inside to stop the crying, but he sees me before I can turn off the ignition. He loads the bags into the back before joining me in the front. We start to discuss meal plans for the week as he puts the car in drive and we head home.

He is nothing spectacular. He’s 4 months younger than me, several inches taller, and can sometimes have a mean streak. But he is mine and I’ll always wait for him.

Prompt: A sound or smell that takes us back
Mine is the song “Your call” by Secondhand Serenade

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10 things I love about me

Saturday morning I stood in the bathroom fixing my hair and makeup for the day. Kinley played on the floor while Caitlin popped in and out, jabbering away about something I couldn’t comprehend. I swiped powder across my cheeks as she stopped at the doorway staring up at me.

“Peeas? Peeas?” she pointed to the blue compact in my hand.

I bent down without thinking and pretended to rub the puff on her nose and forehead. She batted her eyes, telling me she wanted mascara. I brushed my finger through as she smiled, delighting in this ritual.

She bounded into the bedroom towards Chris, smiling and batting her eyes.

“She wants you to tell her how pretty she looks,” I told him as he stared at her.

“Oh, you’re so pretty. But you’re really pretty without makeup!” He said to her with faux enthusiasm.

And he’s right, she is beautiful. Both of my children are, and I know it’s not just me who thinks this. Everywhere we go, we’re stopped by strangers commenting on their looks. It makes my heart swell looking at them, because they are a part of me.

I want them to grow up realizing how beautiful they are. I don’t want them to struggle with what they see in the mirror. I want them to see what others see, two beautiful people with beautiful souls. That is my biggest wish.

I don’t want them to struggle like I do. I don’t want them to have that hurt. I don’t want either one of them to grow up watching me struggle. I have to teach myself how to be what I want them to be.

Everyday we’re surrounded by what we’re supposed to be. How we’re supposed to look, supposed to act, supposed to anything. We’re supposed to look amazing in everything we wear, but also act demure and modest and never admit when our ass looks amazing in yoga pants, otherwise be labeled as conceited and a bitch. We’re supposed to look to others for compliments from others, while keeping self-satisfaction mum. That’s what creates a vicious cycle. When we tell ourselves everyday that something can be better, something still isn’t perfect.

Fuck that.

For ten weeks, I’m going to be conceited. I’m going to be self-complimentary. I’m going to find something about myself that I love. And I’m going to share it with you, whether you want me to or not. For ten weeks, I would love if you guys joined me too in this.

I want my friends to look at themselves and find something THEY love about themselves. Not something their significant other loves, or their kids, but something that makes them look in the mirror and blow kisses to that foxy person staring back. I want pictures, drawings, descriptions of those things. I want to know what YOU love about YOU.

Every Monday, I’m going to post one thing I love about myself, along with a picture if possible. I’m going to pick 10 things that make me beautiful, fierce and amazing.

I want my children to love themselves, but how can I teach them to love themselves, when I barely can? That’s changing.

Join me? Come back every Monday for 10 weeks (if you want) and share your self love.

Blowing bubbles

She dances around in a small circle; he sits clapping on the floor staring up at her with enthusiasm as the bubbles circle and fall delicately around them both. The sunlight from the window catches creating a halo of color that surrounds the two off the giggling bodies.

Laughs so deep and happy they catch in their throats before exploding into sound, echoing through the small living room.

She spins around and around, the newest thing she discovered her feet can do. He watches and takes in her movements, learning through visuals.

So many giggles fill the afternoon. So much laughter and happiness. So much perfection.

I stand, lift him up and grab her hand. Together we spin in a circle, laughing and giggling, singing nursery rhymes, and teaching them toddler games.

We fall to the ground, our bodies in a tangled heap, laughing. The cold, gray afternoon suddenly seems much brighter.

Time interrupts our joy as I realize it’s almost time to eat dinner, which hasn’t even been started. They look up at me from their bed on the floor with smiles on their faces and reach up to be covered with hugs and kisses.

In this moment, their eyes tell me everything I have ever needed to know.

I’ve done something right.

The home that built me

Set against a backdrop of the Potomac River, three houses in a triangle pattern. Woods on the right, a building on the left; close enough to be visible, but far enough that the people going in and out never bothered us. Across the street was the base library, a large, looming building where I would go to sit and enjoy some privacy. The house was backwards, a chain-link fence surrounding the front area, which was technically the backyard, of the house while the driveway created a loop around the house. The front yard (which was actually the back of the house) faced hills of yard and the ever changing river. I would walk down the sloping grass to fish or just sit by the water from time to time. As the years passed, the other two houses would be emptied of residents and torn down. A fate we came to understand ours would face once we were moved out as well.

Yet, we never took many pictures.

The inside was large and we never wanted for space. Three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a beautiful living room, dining room, sun room and a maid’s quarters in the kitchen, which was converted into a bedroom and then a playroom and finally an office.

There was always room switching. Someone would leave, another would come back in. The rotating door my parents kept was the only consistent thing. I can’t recall how many times I switched rooms, but I lived in them all (minus the master’s). I started in the maid’s quarter’s and ended in the second biggest after a hurricane took out the roof of mine one year. I refused to give it up after that.

This was my home. From sixth grade until we moved when I turned 18. This is a rarity in military families, a blemish on the average military life. But it was my life, my home.

It created many aspects of who I am today. I discovered much about life within those walls. My nieces and nephews came home to that place. It was a refuge for my family when times were hard. It built me, it built all of us.

Today’s prompt: The home that built me

Me-ow

Chris and I are sitting on the couch watching Cathouse this week. It feeds into our inherent for trashy, naked women and disgusting visuals.

We drink it in like a glass of cold water.

Some serious bondage bonding time happens while watching these type of shows, it’s really the only type of show that both of us eagerly agree upon.

The women? Are horrendous. I mean, a lot of them are porn stars, but they are just…really indescribable. Watching them is not conducive to getting laid, mind you, but my god do they make money. If I was to be a hooker, I’d totally want to be a brothel hooker.

Anyway, Chris and I are watching Cathouse. The women live in the house during while they work there, coming and going as they please. They make good money, they have everything they may want or need provided to them (of course they pay for some of it out of their “earnings”), sex lessons (yes, they do) and I assume they have a pretty decent security detail making sure none of the clients get rough. I may be completely wrong on that last one, but if I was running a whore house, I would definitely hire some bouncers for my ladies.

All these perks makes me question however, do they have normal work place advantages? Like, is there a health insurance plan they can sign up for? Or what about worker’s comp? Those heels are pretty effing high, and a lot of times too small for their feet. There is also a pole so I can only assume they is an injury or two happening in the house. Or what about the girls’ monthly visitor? Are they still expected to have customers? Do they still have to fill out W-4s or just I-9s? There are too many unanswered questions.

Unfortunately, when you google “Does the Moonlite Bunny Ranch provide health insurance?” you don’t come up with any answers.

I need a hooker I can interview. Do they even like being called hookers??

Raw

I had to take a couple of days off here.

In-between recovering from Caitlin turning two, everyone being sick and Kinley saying abso-fucking-lutely not to sleeping on his own, I’m emotionally spent.

And I keep falling down a rabbit hole of emotions, tripping on my own feet with feeling overwhelmed and under-helped.

Plus, yesterday before their doctor’s appointments, Caitlin went all Hannibal Lector on Kinley’s back, leaving angry, red oval marks.

Today, I call the county to have her evaluated for speech therapy at the (sort of) suggestion of her doctor. I’m unprepared on how to handle any such thing, but I figure I have a few days before the actual evaluation to set myself up.

Who knows? Maybe she’s just satisfied communicating the way she is, but I want to her hear talk. I want more than the ten words. But then, there is that “maybe” that it’s even more than I’m  expecting. I have to cross these bridges when we come to them.

I feel like an open wound, walking around, raw and prone to infection. Every slight brush sending shivers on pain through my spine. Everything on the inside of me visible to the people around me. I feel like I need a few hours to just sprawl out on my bed, legs and arms extended. I need an hour to just be angry or sad. I need a body wash strong enough to scrub it away in the shower.

I’m just too tired to continue sometimes. Too tired to do the same thing everyday. Too used to feeling this way.

Defeat me

It’s been raining a lot here lately. Big, clumps of wetness falling from the sky at all hours of the day and night, wiping away any reminders of the past winter.

I feel like it’s washed away all the color me in too.

In between the birthday, sickness and apparent growth spurts, I’m worn down.

I’ve been sitting in the living room with our porch door open in attempts the fresh air will breath some life back into me, but what I really need is the warmth of the sun on my face.

Last year wore me down til I was barely anything; the winter hasn’t quite let go of it’s grip on me, yet.

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