Carrie on

 I want to tell you about the worst night of my life.   I want to tell you that I never got past it. That the pain still lingers.   That I’ve had therapy.   That I’m despondent and have abandonment issues.   I want to focus on me and the torture I endured and if you feel pity, I’ll rub my story against you like a cat and weave endless tales of woe.   Incessant.   The rain fell strait and sharp and incessantly.   It meant nothing that practice the previous day took us across the field now glistening and swelling.   Streams wiggled and jutted across running field paint and through pockmarks left by football cleats.   It meant nothing that my tan and black suit was new and lovely, that my shoes now soggy were to be worn the following night as well, that my hair and makeup had taken hours to perfect.   I stood, wilted, and alone.

Remember John Coffey? No, you didn't hear that name on the nightly news. He didn't score a touchdown, and he didn't win the lottery. He is sentenced to death in the electric chair, and he is killed by electric shock....well, his character is anyway. John Coffey is a fictitious character in Stephen King's The Green Mile . Most of you have seen the movie and while I haven't read it, I'm sure that the book is even better--it always is after all....

Ugh. I'm exhausted. You too? Yeah, I haven't slept for the last two nights. Blech. There's a fog inside my head extending to my eyes and the nerves inside my shoulders are pinching themselves. And no, I don't know what the hell we are having for DINNER! I don't do well with little sleep. Let me rephrase. I require sleep--a LOT of sleep.  Like teenager marathon sleep. Yes, I am a generally good-natured, well-mannered, happy-go-freakin'-lucky person, but if I don't sleep: Hell hath no fury....Few people see it, the transformation, the evil that erupts...stay away from me. I will bite. All day my son punched my shoulder from the back seat. "Punch bug white, can't punch back." Really? Can't I? Ugh. No, I wouldn't, usually, but yes I thought about it. "NO! NO! NO! NO punchbug! NO PUNCHING! That's NOT NICE! I am TIRED and if you punch me again...." At which point I either grit my teeth and make a sound comparable to a j...

I hate the card aisle. I stand in indecision among other people who either won't move or will move but apologize incessantly for being in the way...I'm one of those people too. Choosing a card stresses me out (period). Father's Day is the worst. I shop early--with the holiday shift--you know, when last week's burned out worn and faded dated and out of style holiday goes from 50% off to a full fledged smileyfaced ROLLBACK of 75%--and the springyfresh bedazzled NEW holiday glides in. I know, these are just cards. But there are also words, and words, words are everything. Everything.

Yes, I should be in bed right now. I'm scared of the dark and quiet, so this is unusual for me. It is 1:24 am, and while Relay for Life is in full swing, I'm up alone in my living room. There's something that I want to say before I go to bed tonight. I've actually thought to write this a hundred times before, but I just never have...tonight, I'm getting it over with. I guess that going to the Relay for Life event for the first time brought finality, but the confidence I've gained from writing again--without excuse and with support--cannot be denied. I quit. That's it. I quit something I started years and years ago...close to twenty probably. I won't say who I was with or in whose basement we ventured, but I couldn't have been more than twelve....my son will be twelve in five more years. Do I need a better reason?

Oh, if you were in front of me right now I'd give you a good squeeze. I've tried to explain this to my husband, and while I think he wants to be happy for me, I'm not sure he understands what we have going here. His initial reaction to the idea of a blog was flat. He does like my title though. He likes whatever makes me happy...writing, my dear, makes me happy! I suppose one day we will have the conversation about why I ever gave up writing...there are reasons I suppose, beyond the superficial albeit true, "life got in the way" excuse. But right now I'd like to propose a toast--I have some limeade by my side--to us. Regardless of what insecurities I continue to allude to but never discuss--another of my bad habits--I feel ever so humbled by your gentle kindness and acceptance of me and my writing.

I should be well over 300 pounds. Only God's good will, or more likely his good sense of humor, keeps me thin. That's not completely true. What's that?  Oh, yeah. I do that a lot. Interrupt one thought with another.  You'll learn that about me. No, I don't think it is ADD. Anyway....It isn't completely true, because I rarely sit still. You'll learn that about me too. Yes, I agree, HD (hyperactivity disorder) is likely...have you met my children? Look, can we talk about the fact that I'm squirmy some other time?  I want to tell you why I should be fat. First, let me say...yeah, that's another habit...I tend to preface everything. I'll explain that compulsion later too. I warned you: I'm complicated--I just happen to know myself quite well. Let me say that I love big people: big bones, big personalities, big hugs, large frame, fat and happy, XL, XXL, XXXL, and all. I love people who embrace who they are at any and all sizes. During many ages ...

I know this is only our second date. We barely know each other. No, I won't continue that metaphor forever, but for now I think I'll keep it. We are just getting acquainted after all. Last night I attended one of the most beautiful (a word used too often for things unworthy of its true meaning in my opinion) weddings of my life. Oh, mine was something, for sure. A wedding party of six bridesmaids, six groomsmen, a ring bearer, a singer, a pianist, an organist, a preacher, and a bagpiper. There was much ado about us, and it was glorious. The bagpiper greeted guests along Main Street and led the procession. Scottish myrtle, heather, white roses, and cathedral candles adorned the pews with ivory tulle. I wore a custom made gown I designed myself, and yes, I felt like a princess. I suppose it did appear much like a fairy tale, but in truth, the atmosphere and yards of ivory velvet and satin did little to set the mood. The certainty, the absolute comfo...

Hi. Awkward, I know. Imagine how I feel. (Remembering to space only once after each period. Knowing that I will ultimately space twice at some point.  Oops.) I knew that this would be difficult...the whole putting myself out there thing...what if we don't make it past this first meeting--you, me, us, here, now.... I know that I can write whatever I want; that's the beauty of blogging, right? But this is kind of like dating...I mean, sure I can say whatever I want, but if I want to keep you around, I need to convince you that I'm worth taking on a second date. I have to create mystery and intrigue...establish a rapport, remind you of someone you admire, make you think of something I said (or will say) at a later time. I don't want to appear desperate--only a quick spritz of perfume and a bit of rouge, not too much cleavage (nothing to worry about there)...chapstick, not lipstick.