love, marriage, music, musings

Writing about my scars for the past nineteen years…

It’s time for another goofy selfie. Today’s featured photo was taken in Innsbruck, Austria, in August 2020. We’re both a bit broader and greyer.

Good morning, everybody. It’s November 16th, which means it’s my wedding anniversary. Nineteen years ago, Bill and I tied the knot under somewhat scary circumstances. He was a 38 year old man who had been through divorce, bankruptcy, foreclosure, domestic violence, and 9/11 at the Pentagon. I was 30 years old and recently graduated from a double master’s degree program that had put me in a lot of debt.

We met in a chat room in 1999. He was newly separated from Ex and had recently rejoined the Army as a full time officer. I had just started grad school and didn’t know anyone. We fell into a friendship in November of that year, finally meeting in person in 2001. When 9/11 struck and no one knew we were dating, we decided to go public… and not long after that, we got engaged.

I know I used this photo last year, but it’s really a good representation of us… and how we are. And we don’t have any recent photos of us. Maybe we’ll take one this weekend.

Now, here I sit, pretty much debt free, but never having used those degrees I spent three long years working to earn. Bill is retired. The last nineteen years have been full of adventure and, for the most part, a lot of fun. I talked to Bill and my mom last night. Bill is in Poland on business. Mom is in Virginia, watching ships pass from the windows of her apartment, which offer great views of the Chesapeake Bay. I didn’t have much to say to Bill, since I last saw him at 4:00am Monday morning, before he flew to Warsaw.

To my mom, I said I was surprised by how well marriage has worked out for Bill and me. Especially considering how and where we met. Lots of people had doubts about the feasibility of our relationship. My mom, especially, was creeped out that we met on the Internet. She thought it was WEIRD. Years later, she admitted she was wrong to doubt us.

My career didn’t work out the way I had hoped it might. Now I think that’s probably a blessing, even if it’s hard on my ego. I had always wanted to be a writer. Sure enough, that’s what I am. Almost every day, I write something, even if lately, I’ve been putting up a lot of reposts. I don’t mind the reposts, since a lot of them eventually do get read, especially the book reviews. The reposts are, for the most part, from days when I had good thoughts to put down, and I see nothing wrong with recycling stuff. I live in a country where recycling is the law. Aside from that, sometimes I just can’t think of anything I want to write about that badly. That’s not a bad thing. Taking the odd day off is good for the soul and helps me recharge, and sometimes old posts are still entertaining or educational.

This morning, I was reading some old posts I’d written. I was trying to think of what I wanted to write about today. I found a post I wrote called “My Special Brand of Shitty Sunshine“. I had forgotten what it was about, but was intrigued by the title. One might think that post would be full of vitriol. Actually, it’s a fairly thoughtful post inspired by Caleb Wilde, the guy who runs the Facebook page for Confessions of a Funeral Director. I wrote it on May 19, 2019, after having read an insightful post Caleb had written. I was struck by his thoughts on why he writes, and I related to it so much so that I quoted him:

Speak and write about your scars, not your open wounds. That’s the axiom you’re supposed to follow as a writer.

Anyone who regularly reads my writing knows that I often write about my scars. However, like Caleb, I also write about my gaping wounds. Sometimes people don’t know how to take some of my more “honest” thoughts, especially about certain subjects. I have occasionally been on the receiving end of unsolicited advice about some of my content or opinions. Some have warned me that sometimes I come off like an ass. Of course, that only stands to reason, because just like almost everyone else out there, sometimes I actually AM an ass. I’m just being authentic. 🙂

On the other hand, people have also told me that many times, the posts about my open wounds are useful. They relate to them, or are entertained by them. Or, sometimes they SHOW me the posts are useful to them, by stabbing me in the back and talking trash about me to a certain mutual former landlady, or to likeminded people who don’t like me and want to stir up shit among themselves. While I’d rather people didn’t use my writings to cause trouble, there’s not much I can do to stop people from doing what they’re going to do. That’s the price I pay for writing down my thoughts and sharing them. Besides, since we left Stuttgart, most of that juvenile crap has stopped, since I have made a point of not engaging with most of the military community in Wiesbaden.

I know a lot of people make lifelong friends through ties to the military. My parents had some dear, wonderful friends from my dad’s 22 years in the Air Force. Bill and I have made a few friends, too. But, by and large, I’ve found that trying to make friends with most people is kind of a fruitless exercise. It’s kind of like dating. You date someone for awhile and break up… and sometimes you can be friends afterwards, but a lot of times, there’s too much pain and the relationship falls apart. I haven’t dated much in my lifetime, but I have found that I’ve had a lot of “friends” who turned out to be temporary. On the other hand, I’ve had other friends who have been around for decades, even if very few of them are “close friends”.

Maybe finding real friends is more like panning for gold, which in some ways, is harder in the age of the Internet. It’s easier to find “friends”, but harder to find quality friends. A lot of people think I’m weird, anyway, and don’t take the time to get to know me well. But, in fairness, I don’t invest a lot of time in them, either, because I sense that they don’t quite accept me the way I am. At my age, changing for the sake of a friendship that will probably be temporary isn’t worth the effort. So, those who take me as I am, like Bill… and even my mom, these days, are people I make an effort to keep in my life. There are a few true friends, too… including a couple of people I’ve never met in person and know little about.

But, in all seriousness, having been associated with the military lifestyle for the past 19 years, I gotta say that as much as I loved living in Stuttgart– especially since a total of six of our years as a couple were spent there– it really is the most toxic place we’ve ever lived. It’s even more toxic and dramatic than living on Fort Belvoir was. We spent four years living there, and we saw a LOT of drama. And that was before Facebook or Twitter! Stuttgart the second time was even worse, even though we didn’t live in a stairwell apartment but, in fairness, that probably was because of social media.

Caleb continues with this: “Burnout, secondary trauma, PTSD, depression, fear, disassociation, social anxiety . . . these are all a part of my concoction of diagnosed open wounds (more on the diagnosed part of things when I’m feeling up to talking about it). And these wounds rarely have time to heal when their source is your job. For some of us, like me, writing from our scars isn’t entirely possible because some wounds just remain . . . open.

Well… he’s a funeral director, so he’s bound to see and hear a lot of sad stories. He’s not unlike a bartender or a mental health counselor of any stripe. I wrote the post that fathered this one in May 2019, before COVID-19 was a thing. Caleb’s business is bound to be even more difficult today than it was two and a half years ago. In fact, it occurs to me that I haven’t seen any recent posts by him. I just checked his Facebook page, and it looks like the last fresh post from him dates November 13, 2020. I can only assume that he’s very busy with his work. I hope nothing worse has happened.

But this is what he posted, almost a year ago… and I guess it offers some explanation:

There’s a sliver of time in a person’s life when society actually encourages us to care for ourselves. That sliver of time we’re afforded for self-care happens when we experience a loss. After we lose someone or something, it’s like all of a sudden everyone around us becomes caring and encouraging with phrases like:

“You can get through this!”

“It’s okay to express your feelings.”

And . . . “You need to take some time for yourself.”

And for a minute we believe them. We allow ourselves to let our space get a little dirty. Or maybe we stop shaving. Maybe we order out and watch more Netflix. During a loss, we let ourselves take care of ourselves.

But in the back of our minds we have an imaginary clock that’s counting down the days til self-care takes a back seat to “responsibility.”

Right now all of us are experiencing a loss. A loss of normality, of the rhythms were used to dancing to. Just like with the loss of a loved one, we’re suddenly having to learn an entirely new dance with no promise that the old dance will ever play again.

We’re friends, right? You’re here because you’ve read something I’ve written and you connected to it. So, as your friend, let me tell you:

“You can get through this.” There’s no promise the end of this will be the same as the beginning. It won’t be. But we can get to the other side.

“It’s okay to express your feelings.”

A lot of us don’t like the COVID versions of ourselves and that’s okay. It’s okay to be less patient, less stable. Take all the time you need to accept yourself as you are right now.

“You need to take some time for yourself.”

You can stay safe and not be a martyr. Nobody is asking us to sacrifice ourselves. Do something you like (the pic is me doing something I like). Stay away from things you hate. Train your mind to think on things you enjoy, not things that make you angry and fearful. You have total permission to care for yourself. I’ve been telling myself that it’s okay to be a little more patient and gracious to myself right now. I give that same grace and patience to the families I serve at the funeral home. I don’t have to starve myself of what I give.

I don’t know what Caleb Wilde is up to right now. I hope he’s alright, and the realities of life in 2021 haven’t buried him, either figuratively or literally. It occurs to me, though, that his writings about his scars and gaping wounds have inspired me, and taught me new things. Likewise, I hope some of the things I write are inspirational, educational, entertaining, or even just offer some reaction of some sort. Even if that reaction is disgust or anger… or something else negative.

I’m sitting here writing this post today, on our 19th anniversary, mainly because 19 years ago, we said “I do.” I didn’t go off and work for a public health agency or take a job as a social worker. I didn’t become a grant writer or lobbyist. I didn’t do what I had been planning to do when Bill and I had that chance meeting in a javascript chat room, back in 1999. We later progressed to mIRC, and then Yahoo! Messenger, which is where I got the news that he’d survived 9/11. I remember the first time I heard his voice was over VoIP, rather than on the phone or in person. I never thought that would lead us to marriage. In fact, I never thought we’d meet in person, let alone become husband and wife. I have to admit our partnership has really worked flawlessly on all levels, in spite of everything, including COVID… 😉 And yes, it’s worked out “in spite of ourselves”, too…

Wish COVID-19 hadn’t taken John Prine… because this song could be our theme song.

And… just as I’m about to close today’s musings, James Taylor’s song, “Daddy’s All Gone” just came on. As I sit here, wishing Bill was home on our anniversary, and I’m reminded that his career has taken him away so many times… though so far, not permanently… I realize how prescient that song could have been for him. He wasn’t a James Taylor fan before he met me, but he’s come to appreciate his music. I’m sure I’ve played “Daddy’s All Gone” for Bill. It might have made him choke up, especially given that he missed out on raising his daughters.

This song has meaning for Bill…
And this song has meaning for me… especially this particular version.

We were supposed to see James play in Frankfurt on February 11. We have second row seats. Unfortunately, COVID-19 has fucked that up, and James had to postpone his European tour. I hope he gets here eventually. I really could use another show by him. I’m not surprised the tour was postponed, though. A year ago, we were supposed to see Keb’ Mo’ play in Mainz. He has postponed that show three times. At this writing, we’re due to use our tickets for last year’s concert on May 11, 2022. I had to look it up, because I can’t keep all of the updates straight anymore.

Well, I guess I’ve prattled on long enough. Those songs remind me I really need to practice guitar. Thanks to COVID-19, I may have more time for practicing, because I fear there may be another lockdown soon. Anyway… we’ll probably do something celebratory over the weekend. And maybe I’ll put up the fucking Christmas decorations while he’s gone. Wow… this year has flown by. Before we know it, I’ll be thinking about what to write on our 20th wedding anniversary.

Edited to add… Bill and I walked down the aisle to “Highland Cathedral”. I just happened to stumble across this rendition, and now I’m a blubbering mess. Seriously… it is GORGEOUS.

I could listen to this all day.

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musings

What if “Dick” had found me attractive?

“I ain’t done bad” either, but I ain’t no Fancy Rae Baker…

Remember Reba McEntire’s 1990 hit song, “Fancy”? It was about woman who was raised “poor white trash” whose mama bought her a dancing dress and sent her out on the streets to find herself a man. That song, oddly enough, is in my head this morning as I consider the reactions I got to yesterday’s post about “Dick”, the guy who insinuated that the only the reason Bill loves me is because I can sing. I was thinking about the triumphant ending of the song, where Fancy describes all she’s had and all she’s done, despite her impoverished upbringing. She said, “I ain’t done bad.”

I remember when “Fancy” was a hit. I was a freshman at Longwood College. My friends and I used to laugh at this song. One of my male friends said, “Hit the streets, Fancy! We ain’t got any money!” My parents didn’t tell me to hit the streets, but when I turned 18, they were definitely ready for me to GTFO on my own. I was their last kid and they welcomed having an empty nest. So off I went, and I didn’t date much until I was in my late 20s. When I met Bill, I was in graduate school, convinced that I would never marry. I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend and he, having just separated from his ex wife, wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. But I guess it was just meant to be.

There were a few guys who expressed an interest in dating me, but a lot of them were simply friends. They liked my sense of humor, but I didn’t “ring their chimes.” Consequently, I didn’t date a lot of guys. It’s true, I had a fairly boring young adulthood. I wasn’t dating much, like my pretty older sisters did. But I also didn’t wind up with memories of bad break ups, like they did. I found a guy I liked, who also liked me, and married him. Honestly, I think I’m lucky it turned out that way. Who wants to be saddled with memories of dating selfish jackasses like “Dick”? Besides, I really don’t think I’m ugly. Are you surprised? I never understood why dating a lot of people was so important anyway.

Bill didn’t marry me just because I can sing. Bill didn’t even hear me sing until I’d already “hooked” him with my writing skills and creative use of profanity. He was attracted to me because of my mind, not my body. 😀 I used to write kinky stories, and Bill was a fan of them. We happen to like the same kind of stuff, so we’re sexually compatible. But we also chatted online before he ever read my stories. He liked me even then– before he’d even seen my face, heard me sing, or listened to my cackle. You know why? Because he’s not a shallow fuck, and he values people for qualities beyond what he sees on the outside. I am extremely blessed to have him for that reason alone.

My husband treats me with dignity and respect, and he loves me for many things beyond just my physical appearance. That means that as we both inevitably get older and uglier, we’ll probably stay together and maybe even live longer. Sure, he also loves my boobs and my big blue eyes. He loves my smile, too. The point is, he thinks my whole package is beautiful, and that’s enough– for him and for me. So, what guys like “Dick” think doesn’t matter, although like anyone else, I don’t enjoy being insulted. What he said was an insult to my pride, but the truth is, I wouldn’t have been interested in “Dick”, anyway. I’m not attracted to abusive assholes, and thank GOD for that.

Boy, do I relate to this… although people don’t hit on Bill in front of me. My resting bitch face probably helps discourage them. I do think some might wonder why Bill finds me attractive, though.

Yesterday’s post got a lot of comments, many of which came from people who very kindly offered me consolation. I suppose it’s natural that people would console me for being subjected to “Dick’s” tone deaf comment that implied the only thing attractive about me is my singing voice. I do appreciate the kind comments, but the truth is, I got over “Dick’s” shitty comment years ago. I mean, who cares what he thinks? I guess if I have any regrets about that incident, it’s that I wasn’t quick enough to offer a devastatingly witty retort.

The incident I wrote about yesterday happened in 2011. It’s now 2020, and look at my life. I live in a safe, beautiful country with a man who loves and supports me. I have traveled to interesting places and made a lot of friends. I’ve paid off my student loans and have minimal debts. I’m basically healthy (as far as I know), and I don’t have any lingering reminders of past lovers, like herpes or HIV. I do whatever I want every day, and no one cares if I wear makeup, a bra, or can give them a good blow job. I have a comfortable, privileged lifestyle… and the fact that we were even on a SeaDream ship, or ANY ship, is proof positive that we’re doing alright. As I commented to jono51 yesterday, “I live pretty well for a ‘fat and ugly woman’, no?”

Imagine, though, what my life would be like with a guy like “Dick” finding me attractive. I’ve often thought that really beautiful women must have to deal with a lot of stupid shit from horny guys who can’t help hitting on beautiful women. When you’re very physically attractive, you will attract a lot of people. A few of those people might be high quality folks, but a lot of them will probably be guys like “Dick”, who are simply interested in what they see on the outside. Guys like “Dick” are thoughtless and self-centered, and as their conquests inevitably age, they almost always lose interest. Then the pretty lady, if she’s not herself like “Dick”, will often be cast aside for a younger, sexier model. That sucks, doesn’t it?

If I had married or even dated a guy like “Dick”, I would probably be on the receiving end of daily insults. I imagine that he would express disappointment whenever I ate something he didn’t approve of, especially if I also gained weight. “Dick” would probably want me to dress up and wear makeup for him, and he’d be interested in showing me off to like-minded shallow people, trying to impress them. He’d likely expect me to pleasure him sexually whenever he felt like it, and he probably wouldn’t be a very generous lover to me. He’d eventually get tired and resentful of my needs, since beauty and health inevitably fades. Seriously… this guy was calling his dead wife a “cow” for getting breast cancer and dying! Imagine what kinds of things he said to her when she was living! I didn’t mention it yesterday, but “Dick” also made disparaging comments about other people, not just on the cruise, but whole groups of people who didn’t fit his narrow world view. So why would what he says matter?

I’ve written this story before, but because it’s pertinent today, I’m going to briefly share it again. Back in the late 1990s, I was probably at my physically most attractive in my lifetime, outside of babyhood. I’d lost a significant amount of weight and was dressing well, wearing makeup, and even getting my hair cut professionally (which I pretty much never do). I had started going out at night, often by myself. One evening I went to a bar in Williamsburg, Virginia. A bunch of my co-workers were there, including my friend Arielle, who was slim and pretty. I hadn’t come to the bar with my work pals, but as we were all there at the same time and basically friendly, we were hanging out at the same table.

Take note. I’m not a cock or vagina blocking friend… If you want to talk to a woman, go ahead and talk to her. Don’t talk to me.

Christina Aguilera’s song, “Genie in a Bottle” was playing, and Arielle started dancing. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there was this strange guy standing there. He said he’d noticed me talking to Arielle was curious to find out if she had come to the bar with me. He wanted to know if she was “alone”. I suspect he thought I was Arielle’s “fat friend”.

I might be big and fat, but I’m not the “big fat friend”. And I really don’t care if you get laid. Knock yourself out, if you can convince her to go home with you, and please spare me the “non-discriminating friend” who will fuck anything.

I probably gave him a weird look because I’m not Arielle’s keeper. I mean, Arielle was and still is a friend, but I’m not a cock or vagina blocker. We weren’t there together, but even if we were, he was interested in her, not me. The guy had seen Arielle, thought she was pretty, and decided that he wanted to approach her. But he didn’t want to be shot down, so he approached me instead. The unspoken message to me was, “I don’t think you’re cute, but I like your friend. So please help me meet her so I can get laid… or whatever…” And why should I help you? We don’t even know each other, and frankly, you aren’t that cute, either. Asking a stranger about the dating status of another stranger you think is “cute” is creepy and weird. Fortunately, that guy didn’t get anywhere with Arielle. She has also found a guy she likes, married him, and has a beautiful son. I suspect her appearance isn’t the only thing her husband admires about her, either.

Yep… Bill and I are in love, in spite of ourselves. And in spite of my beer gut and witch’s laugh.

Anyway, just like Fancy, I feel like “I ain’t done bad,” even if the “Dicks” of the world don’t think I’m pretty enough to lay, let alone marry. You know what? I’m glad “Dick” and his ilk think I’m a fat troll. My husband finds me lovable, and that’s enough for me. I don’t need to impress guys like “Dick” or anyone else. I’m not even interested in anyone else, even if I don’t enjoy being insulted, pitied, or getting backhanded compliments. I don’t so much as get crushes anymore, even if I notice a guy is cute. And I don’t think I’d like to be “Dick’s” wife or girlfriend. But, like I said, despite being “fat and ugly”, I ain’t done bad. So deal with that, Rambo.

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Ex, narcissists

“All good”…

A little mood music for this post…

Ever hear that expression, “It’s all good“? People often say it when when they’re trying to put your mind at ease. Sometimes, they’re sincere. Sometimes, they’re really not, and they say “all good” with a hint of sarcasm. The first time I remember someone saying “all good” was about ten years ago, when Bill’s ex stepson was secretly planning to change his last name while he was taking child support from Bill.

Bill had never formally adopted his former stepson; his ex wife had simply gotten the boy’s name changed when he was a toddler. I’m not exactly sure if she actually did the name change legally. The story went that he had to reclaim his original surname because he was getting a passport so he could visit China as part of his college program. Apparently, it wasn’t totally clear which surname was the legal one… although I think Ex just wanted to punish Bill for not putting up with her latest bullshit. She was probably pissed because Bill wasn’t devastated when she suddenly got her son back in touch with his “crazy, abusive” bio father.

Bill, who had basically been the lad’s de facto dad, since Ex had pushed his real dad out of the picture, was paying him child support directly, even though he had never formally adopted him and legally, it wasn’t his responsibility. The “kid”, who was then 21 years old, was using Bill’s last name and taking his money, stockpiling it so he could go to China. Meanwhile, he was also racking up debt and smoking marijuana. I don’t actually have anything against marijuana, but I don’t think it’s something one should be buying when one has a lot of debt. Unless, of course, there’s a medical reason.

Anyway, in January 2009, I discovered what Bill’s ex stepson was doing quite by accident. At the time, I was hanging out on a messageboard for second wives and stepmothers and someone had shared a now defunct Web site called Criminalsearches.com. I was bored and curious, so I looked up Ex and her family. Sure enough, Ex, her husband, and Ex’s son from her first marriage all came up in the search, which also included the original source of the information. It was all publicly posted on an official Web site in Arizona. It was there that I discovered ex stepson had taken legal action to change his surname, but he had not had the decency to mention it to Bill.

So I told Bill, who confronted his former stepson. They had an emotional discussion about it. Bill told the lad that his decision to change his name was an adult choice and, as such, he should be financially independent. Bill gave him until Easter to prepare to handle his own financial affairs, but he told the boy that he wanted to know when the name change was final. Easter that year was in April, so the young man wrote back “It’s all good, Dad.” He had made it sound like he was “okay” with Bill’s decision to hold him accountable, but it was clear that he wasn’t.

Well… the name change was final in February 2009. The information was all on the official Web site where I had discovered his misdeeds in the first place. But ex stepson had not uttered a word about it to Bill. So Bill cut off his “child support”, which he had the ability to do, since Ex never filed with child support enforcement. She had some kind of issue with letting courts get involved in her divorces.

In retrospect, we probably should have exploited that fear more, since she was getting grossly overpaid and was never accountable for how she used the money. Seriously… Bill paid her $2550 a month for over ten years– $850 a month per child, one of which wasn’t even legally his! And yet, now that younger daughter is speaking to Bill, we hear stories of how she once had to give her mother her birthday money to buy diapers for Ex’s youngest daughter. We looked up how much child support the court would have awarded Ex and it turned out she was entitled to much less than what Bill was paying her. But I’m glad she did it the way she did, since it made things much simpler for Bill when he decided he’d been her financial flunky long enough.

Ex stepson was panicked at the loss of income. He sent Bill an angry email, demanding “timely payments” of his child support. Then, when Bill explained to him that he’d best not bite the hand that was feeding him, ex stepson became pathetic and begged for one last $500 payment because he’d wrecked the car Bill had given him free and clear. He wrote in his email that if Bill would just give him $500, he would never “bother” him again. I remember how disappointed and sad Bill was that his “son” was treating him like all that mattered was the money.

It wasn’t about the money at all. It was about respect, and the total lack of it the young man had for Bill, who had been his “Dad” for so long in the absence of his biological father. And, this is not really a slam on his bio dad, because Bill says ex stepson’s bio father had tried to stay involved and faithfully paid support at first. But just as she had with Bill, Ex made it impossible for her first husband to be a real father to his son. It wasn’t until she decided to punish Bill for standing up to her that Ex finally let her son, by then an adult, contact his father and resume their relationship.

I have no idea if ex stepson talks to his bio dad now. He was still speaking to Bill when they had their first meeting. Ex stepson had described it as a Darth Vader moment. It was eerie for him to finally meet his father again after so many years. I think Bill’s younger daughter had a similar experience a couple of years ago when she Skyped with Bill the first time. But ex stepson has not spoken to Bill since 2009, after it was clear the gravy train had met its end. It was hard for Bill at first, because he had loved the young man like a son. But then he realized that he was never the lad’s father and that ex stepson never should have been denied access to his kin. And we have heard that ex stepson has matured and isn’t such a selfish jerk anymore. Who knows? Maybe someday they will speak again and it really will be “all good”.

I need to see Lyle Lovett again. He’s my spirit animal.

I remember that ex stepson blamed me for this. He wrote Bill an email that vaguely accused me of “cutting off his money”. I never cut off the boy’s money. I didn’t have the power to do that. Instead, I was Bill’s advocate. I agreed with him that it was time to force that leech to fend for himself. I think it was ultimately the best parenting decision he could have made. Parents do their children a disservice when they don’t equip their children for taking care of themselves. I’d say it’s borderline abusive to constantly bail out adult children who get into trouble. How will they ever learn to be independent if someone is constantly fixing their mistakes for them?

There is a fine line between giving children too much responsibility and giving them too little. When I was growing up, I had to take care of a lot of my own needs– not so much financially, but in most other arenas. I was left to fend for myself a lot. I’m sure that ex stepson also had to fend for himself a lot. But his mother taught him that Bill was a resource to be abused and that he would take it, because he took her bullying and abuse for so many years. He now no longer takes as much crap as he used to. And maybe that’s my “fault”, since it’s partly my influence that led him to stand up to abusive bullies. Maybe that’s why some people dislike me.

I don’t need to be liked. I know I’m a good person, even if some people don’t see or appreciate it. It’s usually abusive creeps who have a problem with me. And if they don’t like me, it’s “all good”. Mess with me or my man and you’ll get the horns… 😉

🙂 I think if we ever redo our vows, we’ll use this song in the ceremony…
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songs

In spite of ourselves…

I think we may have found a new theme song…

John Prine rocks!

Yesterday was kind of a musical day. A few days ago, I was bored and asked some friends to recommend songs for me to sing. One of my friends recommended John Prine. I had heard of him and am very fond of singing his hit, “Angel From Montgomery”, although I usually do Bonnie Raitt’s version. I don’t know why, but I never really explored him more than that.

My friend wanted me to sing “Summer’s End”, but I couldn’t find appropriate accompaniment for it. She then recommended “Souvenirs”. I listened to it, loved it, and found it very easy to learn. Here’s my version. John Prine is a wonderful songwriter. I should have discovered him a long time ago.

Anyway… yesterday, I discovered Prine’s duet with Iris Dement. It’s funny, because I became an Iris Dement fan several years ago, but I would say John Prine is more famous than she is. I don’t think he could have chosen a better partner for this song. She has wonderfully quirky vocals that match his funny lyrics. I thought they were so funny that I had to learn it myself. Again, it was easy to do…

Here are the words:

She don’t like her eggs all runny
She thinks crossin’ her legs is funny
She looks down her nose at money
She gets it on like the Easter Bunny
She’s my baby, I’m her honey
I’m never gonna let her go

He ain’t got laid in a month of Sundays
Caught him once and he was sniffin’ my undies
He ain’t too sharp but he gets things done
Drinks his beer like it’s oxygen
He’s my baby, I’m his honey
I’m never gonna let him go

In spite of ourselves we’ll end up a-sittin’ on a rainbow
Against all odds, honey we’re the big door-prize
We’re gonna spite our noses right off of our faces
There won’t be nothin’ but big ol’ hearts dancin’ in our eyes

She thinks all my jokes are corny
Convict movies make her horny
She likes ketchup on her scrambled eggs
Swears like a sailor when she shaves her legs
She takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’
I’m never gonna let her go

In spite of ourselves we’ll end up a-sittin’ on a rainbow
Against all odds, honey we’re the big door-prize
We’re gonna spite our noses right off of our faces
There won’t be nothin’ but big ol’ hearts dancin’ in our eyes

When Bill and I got married, I was kind of hooked on an old Lyle Lovett song. I would have loved to have played it at our reception. You probably know which one, if you know Lyle Lovett…

It’s me…

But now, after sixteen years of marriage, I think the John Prine duet is more our style. I haven’t caught Bill sniffin’ my undies yet, though. If I ever do, I might have to write a song about that myself.

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