living a lie, southern style

In a little over a month, I will turn 36 years old. That particular number is quite ghastly to me. I remember being a wee yipper-snapper thinking 36 was old. Now, it is on my door step.

But while the entire upcoming birthday saga will surely be discussed at length (I am certain), today's topic is the simple fact that while I was in Peru, I learned that I have been living a lie for the past almost 36 years.

Yes. A. Lie.

While on holiday over dinner at a five-star restaurant, I learned that I have been living a lie; deceived since childhood by a woman I call "mother".

No, I am not adopted nor is my real daddy the mailman; I am a south paw!

Picture it: Lima - on a cool spring evening enjoying a truly South American culinary masterpiece dinner when the conversation somehow moves from the guinea pig entree description to my noticing how my father crosses his fingers.

Traveling back in time.... several years ago I went to a palm reader who had me cross my fingers. She asked my hand orientation, to which I replied I am right handed. She noted that my left thumb sat dominant atop my right thumb. I never thought about it but when she asked me to reverse my thumbs, it did feel awfully odd. This palm reader informed me I was left handed. Quite frankly, I never dwelled upon this fact until a few weeks ago seated at dinner when I noticed the positioning of my father's fingers.

Back to dinner in Lima: I ask my father if he is left or right handed. While I remember him as right handed, I asked because at that moment I noticed that his left thumb was placed atop is right. His response shocked me. He is left handed but his mother forced him to be right handed. Growing up, whenever he grabbed anything with his left hand, his dominant hand, his mother forced him to use his right hand.

Then he turned the questioning on to me, why had I asked? I explained that I too crossed my fingers like him and looking at my mother asked if she had done like my father's mother and forced me to be right handed. The woman looked like a trapped rat stating she remembered forcing me use my right hand but at the time it didn't dawn on her that I was left handed. Of course, that is the important caveat she would reiterate the entire night. Then she went on say that she did me a favor because the world is built for righties, not lefties.

I don't care about what she did; however, my mother ostensibly defended her decision to "make" me right handed for my own good. It certainly explains a lot about my ambidextrous tendencies. While I use my right hand, my immediate impulse always triggers left. The subtle undercurrent that my mother could not rid me of.

Funny, the little things one learns about herself in a brief moment in a strange land. Travelling reveals so much more than the differences that lie above the surface.

The Grinch

Life is getting weird. Montana Man is attempting a resurgence. I must resist, no matter how fucking tired I am of being alone.

All I want for Christmas is for this to be last Christmas I spend alone.

I am 33 years old ~ the last thing I should be doing is being alone or schlepping it up to my parents to wallow in my aloneness.

I am so tired of this broken record, every holiday alone.

At what point do I say enough is enough, give up and live a partial dream?

Just call me B.C.

It has been one hell of a week. Supposed to be holiday ~ as the world as I know it is termed 'use it or lose it' ~ however, been working this entire time. This situation directly results in me turning into one super, over the top, nasty-ass bitch. Let's simply say I am bitter, very bitter.

Moving on.

As I do not possess a fully stocked kitchen in SxSWland and I am at home for a decent clip, I decided to go all Betty Crocker. Are you sitting down? Because. I. made. cookies. As if to start with the ingredients in their natural state. And to every single solitary person who asked what I was doing and I replied "baking cookies", they all had the same answer, "Patsy? Are you sick?" Some went so far to say, "Are you fucking sick?" Yes, baking is something so non-Patsy. However, I did enjoy a few cocktails during the entire process. I mean what else is a girl supposed to do while rolling balls of cookie dough from the bowl of never ending cookie dough? 20 minutes is a long time to sit by the oven waiting patiently ~ drinks were a necessity.

I have to go upstairs and make myself pretty as I am meeting some friends for a late night happy hour. This winter stuff sucks. I find myself missing the Lone Star State's pseudo-winter.

Holiday, Smoliday

Whew! Last week. What a whirl wind. I took some holiday time, even though I did not go to any exotic locale. Since it was holiday time, I banished myself from the computer, so as to not be tempted in any, shape, or form to engage in work related activities. This past four days was all about complete and total disconnect from all things work. I was successful at that.

Of course, the main object of focus was to finish the bathroom. By finish, I mean specifically tile. Tile the shower and tile the floor. And over my mini-break, guess how much got accomplished? 33%. Yes, that does not read 100%. Because. You. See. I. Am. Missing. Three. Yes. Three. Boxes. Of. TILE!

I never under buy. Never. Especially if something is on clearance. Never. I measure and do my calculations several times. I distinctly remember having a loaded cart of tile at Home Depot many years ago. But yet, I am missing 88 tiles. How could so many tiles magically disappear? I have pondered that only coming to one clear conclusion. The Leech. As vindictive as he was moving out, the Leech took the tile. I know it. Now to pray the tile men find the identical tile that they were so sure of. My anger has ceased substantially since Friday. Damn you, Leech!

To top off the grand tiling adventure, my parents’ bionic pup on death’s door became seriously ill. Read: the poor dog was dying. He was 122 in dog years. Poor guy, it was time for him to go. Finally, my mother realized it was time for him to go too. So near the end of the business day, the three of us piled in the car with poor poochie and headed to the animal hospital. Dad and I went back with poochie. It was sad because we’d had him for so long. I clearly remember the day we got him. We got him primarily due to me, followed closely by my father. It was sad but yet relieving because as far as I was concerned poor thing suffered much longer than he needed to but my mom would not let him go. I was surprised by how my stoic father lost it once we were behind the closed doors – just me, him, and the pooch. He was a good little poochie who loved us dearly as we did him.

Boundaries or the Gobble Day Disaster

In an attempt to spend a pleasant Turkey Day as the boycott is in full effect, I went to a Friend's. One who I thought was a good friend and she knows the ups and downs of that which is referred to as the boycott. In fact, she often refers to us as best friends. Note key word: thought.

I pull up in the Benz and the other male guest run out the door to check out the fine German machinery before the key is out of the ignition. Dinner was uneventful - pleasant enough. After dinner, we all get up from the table. Friend and her husband are clearing the table. I, being a good guest, begin to pick up dishes so Friend does not have to leave the dishwasher she is loading. Nice, right? Wrong in Friend's world. I get my ass handed to me for placing two dishes on the counter top beside her. To quote "What are you doing putting those dirty dishes on my clean counter top!" Note: counter top was not clean. "Of all people, I would have never thought you'd do this to me." To which, she picked up the two dishes like a wild woman and brought them back to the kitchen table. Creating quite a scene all the while.

Let's summarize with one word - Ridiculous. No. Two words - Ridiculous and Rude.

I drank a glass of wine while contemplating how to handle this. Normally, I'd have stayed and glossed over it. But it got me damn mad because it was so unnecessary - two fucking dirty dishes. I knew she had control issues but F.U.C.K.

She'd been on shaky ground with me because of the Benz and the nasty jealous digs she'd make about it. Next nasty remark, she was going to hear that I couldn't be her pal if she kept her hard-on about the damn car. Also, she relished a little too much pleasure that things with MM and I were kaput. She was too upset and made sure she announced to everyone whenever we were together that I screw up her poker game when I play with them because I win instead of her. Poor loser.

So after contemplating, I grabbed my salad bowl, unused fondue pot, and my purse and walked right out the front door and kept on going until the engine was purring and I was on my way home.

Normally, I'd have been concerned about what the rest of the guests thought; but I said fuck it - I'll never see them again and quite frankly I really don't give a flying fuck. I won't tolerate that petty behaviour from my family, so why the fuck am I going to let a stranger get way with that unnecessary shit.

The boundary had been set with the Benz comment and it transferred to the unnecessary bullshit of two plates and being a decent human being. I had set the boundary and she crossed it. I won't talk to her anymore. I don't care because I don't need people like that in my life. I left quietly because she hates, no despises non-confrontation, which leaves me feeling warm and happy inside.

I am proud of myself because I set the boundary and enforced it. Woo hoo!! Growth, progress, and score one for the gyrl!

Gobble, Gobble

It is glorious to be able to sleep in on a fair Thursday morning.

Thanksgiving is not a holiday I get into. It never has been. Must be missing the Turkey Day gene. I don't care for turkey - stuffing with turkey innards - yuck - mashed potatoes with gravy - gravy with turkey innards - oh the humanity - basically every aspect of Thanksgiving that doesn't need to be tainted with turkey innards was; hence, this gyrl doesn't dig it.

Then there is the boycott, which is in its second year. Last year I decided not to participate in the unnecessary drama any longer. My requests for change were ignored; therefore, I do not show up. It shouldn't have to be that way but it is. Maybe one day, they will wake up - maybe they won't. I am only responsible for myself.

Prior to the Great Breakup Fiasco of 2006, I had so been looking forward to having Thanksgiving with MM and the gyrls. I was thrilled to be embarking on a new phase of life - starting my own family traditions. Shit, now I am a little teary eyed. Well, this is the training ground for Christmas - that was the one I was really looking forward to with MM and the gyrls.


When MM dropped the gyrls off on Monday, they were so happy to see me. Big hugs and happy loud voices were everywhere. We played with the dogs. We made cookies. It was grand. Those gyrls were very, very happy. They did not want to leave my house and their father saw that. We went to dinner afterwards. In the parking lot, the gyrls were holding my hands. Their father saw that. At dinner, the girls wanted me to sit in between them. Their father saw that. I taught them how to use chopsticks - the gyrls laughed and smiled and so did I - their father saw it. When they dropped me off, both gyrls wanted big hugs from me and he saw that too.

While I know MM will never find anyone else who loves those gyrls so much and vice versa, it still makes me sad. I know one day he will regret his decision. Those gyrls will not be instilled with a fierce sense of self and independence and confidence.

Tuesday, MM told me it was wonderful to see me.

Yesterday, MM was IM'ing me all day. He invited me to go with them for Turkey Day. I declined. He told me he can see how much better I am doing. oh well, we're just friends - I am sticking to friends for just awhile longer.