blogging my way through 

The Green-Eyed Monster and Other Such Horrible Traits

Before I met my man I have to say that I was, for the most part, NOT a jealous person. Someone help! Can you hear me?! Really. I'm not quite sure who I am any more. I am so hyped about this guy that everytime I'm out in public, I find myself checking out the girls--rating how much they would turn my man's head. Okay. I know it's a foul disease. But I can't make it stop! I've gotten very angry with him--very. Mostly he's just a looker. Except of course in the case of one girl who works at some pub with whom he maintains he has nothing more than a casual acquaintance. I smelled something fishy though. Or did I? Maybe not on his part, but certainly on hers. I sometimes think that when my man talks about how awkward and unattractive he is, he almost buys into in it--and then other times...he's Mr. I'm-so-hot. I must love him, because he drives me insane.

Well, now I guess the tables have been turned, so to speak. Not too long ago I wondered out loud if he actually has the capacity to be a jealous person. My first lover moved back into town a long time ago, but I maintain a friendship with his sister. She called me crying the other day taht her brother lost all this shit on the computer and wondered if my brother could help. I asked him, but told my g-friend to have her brother call me--didn't want to just give out my bro's telephone number (he has serious issues with privacy). So when her bro called, I stated that I was sorry about his mess and handed the phone over to my bro.

I came home and told my man the 411 and he got mucho jealous--still brings it up, even--though now I think it's more of a joke. But my man's jealousy was over what this other person might or might not be thinking about me. He believed that this person would take advantage of a working relationship with my bro as a way to get back with me...and he was right! Last night I was at my bro's when he called and I could hear the conversation eventually turn to me! Yikes! This guy still thinks of me as I was when I was 18 years old. I am so much more than that now. And I can say straight up that I would NEVER be with him. First, I am in love and want nothing more than to live out the rest of my days with my man. I love him. And second, my first lover is still virtually the same person he was all those years ago. Evolution is necessary for survival in this world--and he is going nowhere fast.

Now, having said all this I must say that it sounds extraordinary--a guy who holds a torch for a girl all these years later (I mean I was with him in 1988). I mean, sure, maybe a really attractive girl goes through this kind of thing--probably too often, actually. See, beauty really is a curse! But I am an average girl, you know? Anyway, I hope he doesn't call. I want my man to feel safe and loved and completely unthreatened--as I feel with him...unless he's checking out some other girl! Ah, what a vicious cycle!

Dream Interpretation

So I usually go to my brother's house every Saturday. My boyfriend said he'd never seen a sibling relationship so close--and once, when we started dating (before he got a good look at it), he thought a photo of my brother and myself was a photo of my bro and his girlfriend--this was before he'd met either of them.

Anyway, the reason I make sure I see my brother once a week is because when I was married before my husband sort of made me ostracize myself from my family. He didn't mind if I'd visit them now and again, but he certainly didn't want them over at our place. When my mom and her husband would come over and he was home, he'd sit quietly upstairs and make me lie and say he was at work or something. Shady.
So when I got a divorce (2 years ago, now) I made a promise to myself that I would let nothing (not even laziness) come between my relationship with my bro.

Okay. This Saturday we were talking about our father, who passed away in '91 of colon cancer. He said that he'd had a dream (not necessarily recently) with Dad in it. I confessed that I hadn't had any dreams of or with Dad in them. When my Dad was in the funeral home, my mother swore we should touch Dad's lifeless body, explaining that if we did so, we wouldn't have dreams about him. Now I'm not sure if she said bad dreams, or if she just said dreams. That's the bad thing about memory--it's so hard to rely on, really. I need to be able to download all of memories--all of them--and then be able to access them at will. Imagine! Anyway, so I touched Dad's body--bad move. I mean,I knew he was gone, but touching that mannequinned representation of my father was not good. But, until last night I guess it worked: no dreams of Dad.

Now I hate when dreams are disjointed. Most of my dreams are fairly coherent and have a logical plot line. This dream of my father was strange. This first part was so disconnected I don't even know how to describe it, but the second half was about my dad and his best friend in Germany, skiing down the roads of military housing. I was there, too, laughing the whole time, enjoying myself while dad and his friend talked about random shit. Wierd. He was healthy in this part of the dream. In the first part he was sick and trying to play it off. That portion of the dream's setting was also Germany, but in the house of my Oma and Opa. I enjoy dreams. They fascinate me, really. Someone once told me that dreams keep us sane--that they are necessary--however little they may actually mean. My ex would hate for me talk of dreams. Hell, I think he just hated for me to talk! But I suppose that's another topic for another day.

First-time blunders

My brother turned me on to this whole blog idea. He said that when he'd first heard of it he thought of me. Probably because I still suspect that my feebled attempts at keeping my journal safe from his eyes--replete with virtually nonworking lock (in the younger years)--were oft thwarted. Now, of course, there will no longer be a need for anyone to be tempted to look into the forbidden black journal...I will simply satisfy all by writing in a new format--and for all to 'witness,' if you will. I will, however, always be smitten with the act of writing on paper with the perfect pen. I have a romantic notion about writing--specifically it's potential to carry me off into the world when I am no longer here.

I have been journaling since the third grade, when my girlfriend and I would sit on the balcony while at the babysitters--writing in tandem. I wonder now what she might have been writing then. Was she writing about with whom she was in love? Was she questioning her place in the world? Was she trying to understand relationships, bitching about people who were cruel, or saving bits of notes from boys: "Do you like me? Circle yes or no"? These were my own very early writing topics.I wonder if she writes still. I had for many years kept the journals together, rummaging through my past when the mood hit me. I can see, even now in my mind, the style of my handwriting, the pasted notes from Morgan, my very first love, written in purple marker. However, when I met and married the wrong man (much more on that later), his jealousy prompted me to throw them all away. What a travesty--as though throwing away the written evidence would give me some kind of tabula rasa for him to mold and manipulate into what/who he wanted me to be. Silly girl. I could kick myself for that. Really.