Guess what?

I’m on a cliff right now. Hanging by my fingernails. But it’s so exhilarating up here! The wind is very refreshing and you should see the view!

Goodness, how I inappropriately love my stupid metaphors.

OK really, here’s the thing. I’m so busy (I edited yesterday from 10AM to 11PM. Totally true story. Then, the packing. (What packing?) Good question.)

Also, shouldn’t someone call SDG&E and tell them to turn the power on in our new place?

And what about the kids? Surely they’re sick of the Beethoven movie franchise and half-heated Mac ‘n Cheese. They probably need to get outside too. Poor Booger sat in the Starbucks with me for half the morning yesterday while I worked. And she was even well-behaved too! Right up until her head fell off from a tantrum seizure.

So what I’m trying to say is:

1) Most likely I will fall off this cliff and expect you to pick up the pieces.

2) I don’t think I’m wired to overachieve.

3) I still don’t have a dress for the wedding. (Thank you for the wise suggestions and feedback.)

4) It’s been awhile since I’ve penned a thoughtful post.

5) I don’t want to die (or be maimed) (or incapacitated) in a plane crash. (Or a car or train crash.) (I just don’t want to die.) (But especially in a plane.) (And super especially on my way to New York in a few weeks.)

6) I will read your wonderful PROMPTuesdays today. I appreciate the participation and always love what you write.

7) I put peppermint extract instead of vanilla in my South Beach oatmeal pancake and what a minty bummer that was. It was like a hot Mentos.

8) I can’t stay away from you, which is why I continue to write these ridiculous updatey interludes.

9) I love you. And I’m not even drunk.

Just a little lightheaded from the altitude.

How you doing today?

What? When will I ever not have an issue or something to bitch about?

Why, that’s what keeps me alive! Would you rather I drink the blood of virgins?

Meanwhile, here is today’s PROMPTuesday that is quick melting into a PROMPTWednesday:

If you could live one year of your life over again in the identical way, which year would it be and why?

I have my submission all ready and it is going to make a certain rock I know quite happy.

What’s your answer? Tell us a story.

Please post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments.

And also — First time to PROMPTuesday? Welcome! Read a bit about this weekly writing exercise here.

(Want to see what’s been written in the past? Catch up on the PROMPTuesdays archive here.)

I’ll make it up to you.

The prompt will be up tonight.

Thanks in advance for your understanding and gentle, tolerant natures.

PROMPTuesday will be up this afternoon.

And guess what? The Rock repacked all the boxes I so diligently populated yesterday. Something about not good use of space and organization is not my talent and that’s OK honey, I love you anyway.

The nerve of that reasonable guy. My fingertippal area is so pissed.

What do you say? I think fluff could be fun and I’m real good at it.

So as you may know, I will be attending my brother’s wedding in Manhattan in early August. And as I am a soccer mom in complete and utter denial, I have these grand illusions that I can look hip and urban and un-lame while dressing for the festivities.

I know. Just humor me.

That means please look at the below and tell me what to wear to the reception. The party will be on some rooftop deck, Empire State-viewing blah blah blah and way cooler than I.

But first. A few things to take into consideration:

• I am 40, but use Retin-A and am hoping for the best.
• I am salon blonde and have a big nose.
• My boobs are down to here.
• My butt is out to there.
• My thighs are over yonder somewhere.

OK, for reals, because I truly need some honest consultation, here are my stats:

• I am 5′7. I weigh 137.5 today. But probably not tomorrow. Or when the wedding is.
• I am a C. Or a D, E, F, G, and Z, depending on the bra.
• I don’t know what my season is. Can someone tell me? Maybe it’s a summer? (Although on the inside I am assuredly an Autumn or late barren Winter.)

  Here’s my face:

   

  

 

Here’s my body:

 



 

(I purposely darkened/blurred the photo, askewed my accessories/bra strap/neckline, and banned all makeup so as not to obscure your good sense with my dazzling (and indie) beautifusness.) Also, I have no idea what is up with my right ear. At about 37, it decided to pull away from my skull and go all Pee Wee Herman.

Enough. Without further ado, here are the dresses. Please just tell me which one you prefer, and of course, which would complement my inner beauty.

Thanks.

And while I’m at it, I know this is a completely self-absorbed post, as is the rest of my blog, but if you want altruism, I guess go read Dooce or something.

Which brings me to this. I don’t want to write at this time. I need to process. Or not? Maybe not. I need to unthink more like. I want to hermitize. I want to burrow. And escape. And not have you guys judge me because I don’t pen anything insightful or borderline humorous. No, not judge. Just shake your heads sadly and say, “What’s happened to her? She used to be less clunky and awkward-phrasing.”

Also, pray for The Rock and his kindred. As should be evident by now, I don’t handle stress and bodily chemical explosions well, even resulting from something as wonderful as a move to cul-de-sac-atopia.}}

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I’m telling you this PMS is trouble.

Saturday night, I engaged in yet another argument with the Rock, where I broke down crying over some allusion to my mother and because he dragged his feet, I thought hallucinated, over whether to spend some one-on-one time with me Saturday night.

The thing with the Rock and I — we can argue. We’re both opinionated, stubborn, right-fighters, who get wrapped around the axle and don’t let go. We’re working on this, really, truly working on this. But when I’m emotionally unstable, all lessons learned go out the window and no way, no how can you tell me anything if I’ve determined I’ve been wronged.

I still wasn’t convinced it was the PMS. The Rock tried to tell me, but surely, my upsetedness came from another source. I mean, hadn’t I had the PMS now, for what? going on 2 weeks? I need to get checked out.
Anyway, we had the night to ourselves after having dropped both kids off at grandma’s house. And I was pissy because I mistook his suggestion to check out a music venue as hating me and wishing I’d just go away. So I retaliated with silence, because I know he loves it when I do that.

Inside, I’m roiling and thinking, “He just doesn’t get me. We’re not on the same page. Why am I so misunderstood? Is it too early for a steak dinner?”

And I’m DRENCHED in being wronged. And being sad. And missing my mom. And wanting a steak.

I knew it was going to be bad. Because when I get like this, I don’t let go. And I don’t even want to write this, because the Rock reads this and will now say “I told you so!” and then “It’s OK, honey.” Which will make me cry. Unless I’m not PMSing anymore. Which I am.

So we sat in the car and argued. Until he said something along the lines of I keep score and I did it with my mom and then I said, “Don’t throw my blog in my face!” And “You don’t know my mom!” and other stuff such as for example, “You don’t support me!” and then he drove us home.

At that point, the evening is ruined, so I sit in the car and cry, great rocking sobs of being persecuted and alienated.
I decide to sleep in the car and slump on the center console over which I lay my sticky purple yoga mat to cushion the points. Three minutes later, I walk into the house.

The Rock is splayed face down on the guest bed and I leave him there.

I walk upstairs and cry more in the bathroom, until I hear a feeble knock on the door. The Rock opens it and says, “How can I make you feel better?”

So then, of course, that’s the straw. And I heave more sobs and think, “I’d never do that. He’s the hero in this relationship. He always reaches out to me, and says sorry even when he shouldn’t have to, and I’m horrible and awful and no good, just no good. No wonder everyone hates me.”

After I say more crap because I can’t gracefully accept love when it’s offered, we snuggle on the couch while he falls asleep and I watch 48 Hours Mystery.

And the storm passed, for now. But that’s exactly how it is: a cyclone, a hurling frenzy of debris and wind and rain moving in to destroy a town. It whirls, it twirls, it’s unpredictable and dangerous. It’s Mother Nature. But that doesn’t make it OK.

****************

{{P.S. Did I post this once already? And stop sadly shaking your collective heads at me! I don’t need your pity!

Oh OK, hand it over.}}

So please, write a story using the line “Flying through the streets like a trail of fiery rage that quickly burns out of sight . . .” somewhere in your submission, and if you know where it comes from, please do let me know. (But wouldn’t it be great if I made it up and just forgot?)

Meanwhile, please post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments.

And also — First time to PROMPTuesday? Welcome! Read a bit about this weekly writing exercise here.

(Want to see what’s been written in the past? Catch up on the PROMPTuesdays archive here.)

p.s. Still pissy.