Back in the Faraway Married Land

The other night I had a married land flash back, it occurred when I proactively set up my coffee for the next morning. I was draggin' ass like a poodle with worms and was fully aware of my next morning need for caffeine to make it to Bob. And it happened, I Hot Tub Time Machine transported back to another lifetime. Every night in my semi buzzed stupor I would load the coffee pot, set out 2 upside down cups balancing the little required sweeteners and spoon on the bottoms. Frying pan on the stove with spatula, spray olive oil, plate with folded paper towel beside. Plates and knives and forks at the bar stools. A cereal bowl with either instant oatmeal or grits based on the previous day's consumption. This was everyday. I didn't do it because I was required, I did it just to keep myself sane. Although seeing it in print doesn't seem so much so now. Pancake Saturdays and omelet Sundays.


I would come home from work and the gym and throw the ball for Roger. Drag my little hose across the yard to the flowers and pick weeds and dead blooms and water and throw and drink. And drink. Then I would light the grill and domesticate further. A phone call would eventually come requesting bath water for the off spring and I would put food on plates and plates on the bar. I trimmed twisty trees to be twisty. I made mosaic flower pots. I picked up sticks in the wheel barrow from the gazillion shedding fucking trees, then I'd mow. And drink.

I was very content. Content because I'm always content when I spend time alone. Honestly it was better than when they were around. But I was always waiting for Someday. Someday when I could move to the beach and not have to deal with baby moma drama and a mouthy 11 year old. When I didn't have to fold paper towels just so or turn cans in the pantry a certain way to feel in control of my life.

One day it just became too much, I quit running the bath water and I quit plating the food. I quit eating the omelets. I realized I had gotten completely and totally lost...nothing of my life was Me. I tried to remember who I was before I fell into this pseudo stepford existence. It was handled badly to say the least, it's hard when you jerk the proverbial domesticated rug out from under someone, I may as well have spun the world off its axis.

I cried when I picked Roger's toys up from the yard when we moved out. Instead of admitting it was a stepping stone we rode it so far into the ground that it's taken me 3 years to remember any of the good. Not a very adult way of going about things I'm sure.

All of this because I put coffee in the maker the night before.

p.s. I still will not touch omelets.