Living Pleasantville Hell

I'm in Hell. I think Hell may be nicer, for sure warmer.

I thought this as I drove home tonight, stomach clenched, nauseous, wondering if it was possible to have an out of body moment and have your soul drop through leaving your physical body out smiling, gurgling and pretending that things are just swell in Hellville previously acknowledged as Pleasantville.

I am bouncing off my bubble's walls, and the soap scum skin is starting to wear thin and shrink, making my trajectory tighter, more painful and infinitely less bearable. I've been living in clutter, the clutter of Christmas, the clutter of life, the clutter of ghosts of years past. I keep cleaning, arranging, moving, knowing full and well that no matter how hard I try, it's a mess, a hellacious mess that I just need to sweep into the dumpster and start over. The house is never going to be clean, it will be when my mind is clean, but my mind is soaked in a pail of soggy, brown, dish water blowing concentric bubbles that continue to encase me.

I went to dinner last night, perfunctory, felt like I should, a brief moment where I may have had fun. Outside looking in, it was Desperate Housewives mashed up with The Real Housewives mashed up with a show tune from Les Miserables, further mashed up with Leave it To Beaver.

Truth is, I really don't flipping care what you do, what you want, what you like and what woe is betiding you because if you thought to peer out of your little existence amidst the country clubs, the posh cars, the sniveling children, the square footage, and the best of the best of the best that you can possibly buy of shoes, bags, husbands and divorces to display, you will realize that you are nothing. That substance has molded, is rank and gone to reside somewhere in your 350cc left breast implant, tummy tuck or been sloughed off on your last chemical peel.

I am so tired of the charade, of pontificating on the woes of divorce and lack of men, rich men, to further pad your 5 million dollar home, how bored you are to play tennis everyday, how aghast you are at the incestuous sex lives of your neighbours that you secretly covet, off all the people in their Barbie world with their Barbie toys, the world that you whine incessantly about but would never dream of leaving, your ecosystem of waste and shame and privilege, wrapped up with the golden bow, sparkling smiles, shiny kids and purring hummers. I am just sick as a drive home, wondering how, why, where, and when did I go wrong, how did I end up here, filleted and gutted into a life I don't want, a baby that I would happily throw out with the bathwater.

Of course, it's my fault, I followed the yellow brick road, I veered to the path less trodden but I second-guessed myself and veered back when I should have stayed on the dirt path. I thought I needed Sleeping Beauty's castle, and I never saw the thorny bushes till they pierced right through. I made the mistake, let the rosy glow of materialism and perfectionism cloud me, let my guilt dangle the carrot in front of me, do the right thing, play with the shiny toys, have tea with Barbie. When I was little I used to dismember Barbie and pretend to sell her off as chicken pieces at my marketplace. I should have known better.

So now what? What do I do with the toys, with Ken, with Skipper, the Dream House, the accessories, with the glut of Mattel cluttering my life? They sure are pretty, all lovely, and hollow, aching, and everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Everywhere my head spins and I bounce off the walls and it's still there no matter where I turn, what I hide, where I clean. Or leave, but I can only leave so much, and all the everything just sits there waiting for me like that horrid plant from Little Shop of Horrors, ready to gobble me whole and then spit me out and eat me again and again and again as long as I keep coming back. It keeps me skinny…

Diversions

Can a dalliance strengthen a relationship? Can finding some fun spark a flame and open your eyes.

Boy is cute, fun and fluffy. Makes me smile, not necessarily my heart beat, but comfortable, entertaining and most of all, light. A nice guy, good to look at, not the best in bed, but workable.

I haven't slept with too many Americans, this has been the first time in 10-12 years, before which I slept with a few with underwhelming results. The first boy I ever slept with was American, and though I loved him, the orgasms and fireworks were non existent, leading me for years to think it was me. The next American down the line, sweet and loving, was a little like a horse with blinders.

Is it true? Do American men understand foreplay? Slow? Do we all need to go leaping for the clit? It's not an on switch, I am not a faucet, nor is it a stress massage ball.

You know, he's so nice, but unattentive in the sack, or maybe clueless, not sure. Maybe he's just not into me, or gay, but I think he may just be American. I checked the polls, American men are in the top 10 worst lovers, primarily for being too rough, which I can attest to. Harder, faster and stronger does not equate to awsome, amazing and awe inspiring.

But I think he can be taught, the first couple of naked moments culminated in a few groping moments, rough, scratchy. I hate to say the second time there was even less foreplay and a direct hit onto my clit like he was scrubbing a stain, which bordered on uncomfortable.

Saving grace, he has a good penis, not overly large or long, just right, good head which made up for the sprint to intercourse. It lasted a mere 5 minutes and the next time perhaps 10 which left a little to be desired damn it.

TBC

Mundane

I've realized, like my heart and soul, my blogs are random, they veer from the extremes of insanity to the mundane of life. I chitter about boys and then dream of technicolour death in the same day. I talk about roses and puppies and blood leaking from my skin. OK, I don't really talk about roses and puppies, usually just bad sex and random experiences that plague my soul.

It's the theatre of the macabre, Sex in the City amalgamated with the Rocky Horror Picture Show bundled up into an inocous package that is me. It's unfair that I look so inocous, like the librarian that by dark is the sexed up tart, I look ordinary, you would never know that I surf porn and dream of oral sex, that if could, I would kick every single pretentious school mum in the ass, that yes, I do want to run you over in my car, and have meaningless affairs with your husbands to occupy my mind. I hate smiling at you over de rigeur conversation over the weather and nodding pleasantly about your lauded volunteer work to turn our children into model citizens driving SUVs and coveting lake houses and second homes. I am sure your husband is having an affair but as long as you have your million dollar home, your daily trainer and Botox you should be fine. I think you're pathetic and myself pathetic for living in your world.

Truth is, I should have been a man. I have commitment issues, neediness makes my skin crawl. No, I don't feel the need to call you when I am away and I don't care what you're doing unless it's titillating. I like to be alone, and I'm selfish, I want you when I do, and when I do you better be on, and if I don't, be gone. I don't crave and covet, unless it's food or a great dress. I like fun and games, I don't want to pontificate on marriage. The big white dress and the Cinderella fairytale (unless he's a sugar daddy) nauseating. Give me a bikini, a beach, tequila, a party and an airplane to an unknown locale where I can find culture and life outside of marketed perfection.

I wonder as I walk down the street whether people can hear the ruminations of my mind, that i feel like a deer in headlights constantly in heat of some form. That I shop savagely for release, that I mingle amongst them for escape, that I'm scared to go home, that work is impossible, and life strangling.

I have a perfect Christmas tree, in my perfect house, on my perfect couch, with my perfect cat, and my perfect car outside. I also have the perfect tan, the perfect look and the perfect job. I am perfectly filled with shit.

I have to go to my perfect life now, so i bid you adieu till later.

Bitch

I'm on vacation, I haven't left the hotel room in 3 days, I traveled across the country to vacation in self angst, frolick in the surf of depression while sipping sugar rimmed margaritas. At least I wasn't cliche enough to cry into my drinks, instead I lay on the ground wondering how it could come to pass that, 3 days later, I was still in my pyjamas, laying on the ground when there was a bed, watching reality show re-runs on my laptop and serial cop shows on TV simultaneously and haphazardly attempting to do sit ups to somehow feel like I was worshipping my temple of a body in this time of need.

I am not sure how others handle angst but mine is a roiling hotpot of contradictions. I am not sure hotpots actually roil but being so amazingly muddled as I am it was probably the bargain basement model that got recalled for roiling.

What is there to say? That life feels so much better confined to 600 square feet at the Four Seasons with Mariska Hargitay as my constant companion in the quest for serial rapists while chewing on room service tuna tataki and drinking $5 Fiji water.

I was in a relationship with a wonderful man, who, against my will, is patiently waiting in the wings. It's been approximately 3 years together, 2 since he asked to move in and 1 since I have started to splinter. I have a fabulous job that would make you green with envy and I travel to exotic destinations that require bikinis and stilettos in the name of work. I also have 2 adorable, charming, well-mannered children who think I walk on water and I drive a Lexus and live in a 3000 sq ft home in the most coveted area of town. I also have a country club membership and I'm skinny with a great shoe and clothing wardrobe. Go ahead, say it, I hate you bitch.

To top it off, how many people vacation angst at the Four Seasons? Can I be the epitome of pathetic? How many people fly first class, take off for a week, say bye bye to life so they can wallow in 5 star self pity?

The one silver lining of all this is I lost 5 pounds and bought a pair of fuck me heels. That should fare me well now that I have no relationship, have sold my house, am quitting my job and am trolling kayak.com for escape hatches from my self inflicted suburbia of perfection.

Who the hell is this bitch, you may ask yourself, as I do numerous times a day.

The song that comes to mind is Bitch, apropos. Loosely and with much liberty it goes, I hate the world today, it's so good to me but I can't change. I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a child, I'm mother, I'm a sinner, I'm a saint. I'm bitch, I'm a tease, I'm a goddess on my knees... I'm your angel undercover. I'm your hell I'm your dream and I'm nothing in between.

I may be giving myself too much credit for the goddess on my knees but it made me feel better so suck it up, how's that for sexual entendre?

My insides hurt, not a physical pain but a pain of indecision and guilt, guilt that sits so heavy it presses the air out of my lungs and my cage wants to crack from the pressure.

I am depressed, my world is splintering, slowly the veneer peeling strip by slow strip exposing truth, the honest truth, the truth I want to hide, run from. The life is sucked out of me, the hamster wheel turning, the light gone, the cage well nested but a cage nonetheless.
I am trapped, again, in someone else's dream, someone else's Pleasantville that I tried so hard to create, mold, perfect, sealed myself into the pinata with the pretty candies and toys I never wanted.

Everything is so heavy, breath is heavy, movement laborious, walking within a dream, not touching or feeling, life circling me in slow motion. I want it all gone, I don't want the toys, the sweets, the life, I want my independence back, my right to choose, to do what I want, to run, to play, to hide with thought to no one but myself.

Shackled.

I tasted freedom, brief and sweet, and one tiny drop turned into a ripple, to a swell, to a wave, an insurmountable wave that will wash clean my path and drown anything in its way. I can't stop it, I don't know if I want to, I should, I cannot. The guilt eats me.

Dalliances

I kissed a man yesterday, a man that wasn't my partner. I met him on a plane 2 weeks ago, we never spoke on our flite, sitting side by side in first class, it was not till the last 5 minutes off the flite and no more than 30 minutes in the airport together that we looked and spoke to one another yet the attraction was palpable, just writing this I can feel myself flushing, remembering the feeling. It wasn't a crazy in love madness, it was a pull of two people that knew they would enjoy time together. And I did, I did resist, I wanted to walk away after we sat on the hard plastic chairs and laughed in the airport, trading barbs and the sensations of 2 people knowing. I could have watched him walk onto his plane, we could have kissed after those 30 minutes and never looked back, but I didn't, he didn't, we traded Facebook aliases.

As far as I know, he had no reason to walk away, I never gave him any doubt that I wasn't single, he never asked, I never asked, why did we? We were 2 strangers off a plane. He's tall, charming, handsome in that boyish way, slim, funny and caustic, eyes that twinkled, we could flirt all day, I'm 41, he's 40, we're not kids, and we're not stupid, we're both professionals. I've been married, I have children, I know insanity, but I also know feelings.

So it went from a casual encounter to trading a few sentences everyday, him convincing me to come visit and myself for him to come see my world. I kept telling myself I was inviting him to introduce him to a friend. I was on a work trip in Hawaii, he was on holidays, we were on 2 separate islands, separated by a 30 minutes on a plane. It was light, it was fun, it gave me smile to see my Inbox flash his messages.

He never came to see me and I didn't go see him, but for a week we jockeyed on-line, both knowing we were dueling attractions. He went home and I was slated to fly back home through his city, with an overnite. Right there danger sat, throbbing at me silently from my itinerary as each day drew near. We both played the game, ebbing and flowing like the tide, at times giving at times drawing back. We never spoke, we emailed, we texted, and I continued to lie to myself that I didn't truly enjoy the banter, just a nice guy I met on a plane. We settled on breakfast, or I convinced myself nothing could come of breakfast, that inocuous time of day where nothing happens. We would have breakfast, we would say good bye and I would leave, safely.

He was everything I remembered him to be, and I cursed myself inwardly. Breakfast was fun, it was comfortable, that invisible string was there, tugging, niggling. It was my bad, I didn't want it to end, I selfishly wanted more time, more laughs, more energy and when I should have said good bye, I didn't.

He took me around, we toured the city, took pictures, enjoyed the sites. I know for me, it wasn't the city, it was the company. Anything can be fun when your energies are high and mine was high. He is a really nice man and it seemed we had a lot that we similarly enjoyed and liked conversation never stilted and attraction only grew. I had kicked myself internally so many times my kidneys were bruised but I was there for the ride and no turning back.

The day had to end, my flite was leaving, we had lunch, a couple of drinks and all I wanted to do was touch him, hold his hand, feel the chemistry be tangible, but we walked with the invisible string pulled tight between us. We pulled up to departures and I knew the kiss was inevitable, I wanted it, would he kiss me? Could I avoid it though I wanted to feel the sensation, find out whether this was real. I pretended to gather my things, dragging my time getting out, knowing once I looked up and we had to say good bye I wouldn't be strong enough to look him in the eye and say no, lie to myself again.

The good bye never left my lips, what should have been a hug were lips meeting, softly, gently, questioningly and hesitant. His hands lay on my hips and the warmth of this still burns in my mind. I don't remember anything but the feel of lips and his hands. It was 5 seconds that was eternity, my body wanted to lay against his and kiss him again, my instinct told me I would never leave. I looked into his eyes, the closest we had ever been, the line crossed and I said good bye.