Some Lucky Guy

"Someday, some lucky guy is gonna find you," said one.
"You're going to make someone a fine wife," said another.
"I envy the man..."
"Some lucky buckaroo..."
"Oh, don't you worry, someone out there is looking for someone just like you."

And in chorus they all said silently, as if I couldn't hear: "Just not me."


"That's impossible!" his voice rose with surprise. "YOU don't have a BOYfriend? What's wrong with those guys?"

I knew he couldn't hear me so I shouted in his ear "What's wrong with YOU?" and rolled my eyes.

Can I puke now?

I want to puke. I just do. I want to get rid of the food and also the loneliness, the having not studied, the having not practiced, the having not exercised, the having not fallen in love. Just puke it all out. Blaech.

Episodes in my Mind: Fog

The fog lately has been endless and seems to have permeated my being. Apart from the occasional sunbreak my spirit is fogged in; all flights are grounded. I point my car down the freeway every day and every night curl up in the same place again, advances but mirage and setbacks like bricks dropped from some invisible freeway overpass; bricks all too real deliver blows to the head.

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Like lead my head would crush the pillow but the feathers push back, stronger than sleep. The feathers shove unrest into my soul and all night long we battle: My soul and I against the feathery ghouls, my spirit trod upon by goblins, scavengers who pick away at hope and thrive in heavy, feathery fog.

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Alone and So Crowded

I've waited days for my chance to sit and write. The urge is still here, but no words are forthcoming. No thoughts willing to bare themselves on paper -- on screen, rather.

Maybe that's my reluctance to say anything at all if I can't say something nice. I do feel that I've nothing nice to say. I'm full of heartsickness, impatience, discouragement and loneliness. I feel doomed to aloneness, and simultaneously crowded beyond my limits.

I'm alone for lack of a soul mate, and I'm crowded simply for lack of space, and by the extremely present presence of my family. Particularly my father. He hovers over me. He crunches even the softest food. He's always breathing hard. He sings tenor. He is not a tenor. He must have the TV on. He must watch what HE wants to watch. He smacks when he eats. He eats and eats and eats. He is constantly stymied by whatever he's not motivated to do. He just can't think of a way to fix it, whatever it is, because really, he doesn't want to fix it. He is less able to use a PC than my 4 year old nephew, and he's convinced that the computer is out to get him. I have taught him at least 10 times how to scan a document and email it as an attachment, and he still can't do it. I feel like I'm going to explode, really explode. Bits of me searing on the woodstove, bloody chunks all over dad's precious carpet. That'll be quite the clean-up job.

I put a space heater in my room, so at last I have a little place to go. I turn it on even when I'm not too cold, because is blocks out the sounds from the rest of the house, so I can feel alone. The right kind of alone. The kind of alone where I can wallow in my aloneness. The other kind-- the lacking-a-soul-mate kind.

Really the space heater is there so that I can be warm enough to study in my room, where I can concentrate and not have my dad reading the Costco ad out loud to me. Yesterday I was sitting in front of the woodstove studying and my dad started reading the Costco ad. Out Loud. He read all about the printer you could buy that does all the things our printer does. 30 pages per minute black, 24 pages per minute color. I asked him why he was reading it to me. He said, "Because it's only $79.99 and you don't even need a computer to print your digital pictures." I said "Is that relevant to us?" and he said "No." So..... why? Why does he do that stuff? Sometimes from the moment he enters the house he doesn't stop just making NOISE. Talking, eating, banging things around, eating, talking. Turning on the freaking TV. He doesn't seem to notice that I'm surrounded by books and papers and that I'm really not particularly responsive to things like his reading of the cartoon pages. I don't get it. I really don't. I'm studying! What is hard to understand about that? Don't talk to me about the Costco ad and the funny papers while I am studying! My GOSH!

I know it is not reasonable to move out but I SO BADLY want to move out right now. Just to have a small quiet space where I can watch Emma and not have my dad barge in for the most romantic 2 minutes of the movie and make obnoxious, obvious remarks about it.

Kicking and Screaming Toward Spinsterhood

I don't want to be the spinster auntie. I want my own love, my own babies, my own. I've been nauseated lately and I've imagined someone suggesting an explanation for that: "maybe you're pregnant?" In the daydream my retort is stabbing -- I only WISH that were the reason for this gnawing at my being. If THAT were the reason, well, for one thing that would mean I'd had some sex, and sex would be good. Not only would sex be a good thing, but if I were pregnant, that would mean that at least some of the time my ovaries work properly! And that's a big question. For as long as anyone knows my ovaries have been hobbling along causing more pain than profit; for years they've been kept in line only by a severe regimen of foreign hormones, and WHO KNOWS what will happen if they're ever asked to perform their intended duties? Probably nothing at all but a lot of waiting and wishing. So being pregnant would indicate some level of ovarian functioning, which would be good. And not only would that be good, but that would mean that never would I be the spinster auntie, without my own love, my own babies, my own. And that is what I do not want to be. I'm not meant to be Auntie Em. I'm Somebody's Love, and Somebody's Mommy. But I sure as hell am not pregnant.