it’s a dog’s life?

note: comments of previous post returned … also, comments on lullabies … returned and another choice added to the book cover post there. so, go to the other blog and help me decide which cover i should submit.

EDIT: choice made ~ see below …

ok … I’ve decided on what to submit for that project …

book cover ~ yeah the third one I made turned out the best … soooo … I’m going with it! (I love the colours).

here’s a first ‘draft’ of the fake web site ‘prototype’ that’s part of the project ~ you see the way the words Books by Design look embossed? Well, the final effect of the website will be that sort of embossed effect to each of the menu items on the left when the mouse rolls over the text. I like the simplicity of the page.

OK … NOW YOU CAN expand the post to read about why I had to file a missing persons report early Wednesday. Just so you know … everything’s okay, but the experience of it all I wanted to share.

I hung up the phone. And stared at the 8 digit number. I had just filed a missing person’s report. On my husband. I wanted to cry … as in gutteral weeping. I wanted to cry out to the universe gimme a fucking break, already! I felt the temptation so strongly, to fall into that smelly pity pit. I resisted the urge. I resisted the urge to use any external device to dilute that sick feeling I had in the pit of my gut. I called the hospitals. No one there by that name. I called his employer and left a message for him there. And then … I did nothing. Just felt incredible fatigue.

My ego raged. It clamoured for some sort of outlet, something foolish to engage its infernal rage. I must admit, I indulged it. In a small, stupid way. By finding all the cigarettes he had left, stashed around the house, and cutting them up. Not just in half, but, in small pieces that he could not easily patch. And I left the mangled tobacco sticks on his side of the bed. As I studied my handiwork, I giggled, imagining seeing him sitting on the sofa, smoking a patched-up cigarette. I wondered if he would patch these. Or just disembowel the remains and re-roll the tobacco. I told myself that he might not ever return. I decided that, regardless of whether or not he came home, I would refrain from sleeping in the bed. I contemplated all the things that I’d have to do, if indeed this meant he would not return to me. And I mulled over the four reasons he could have for his tardiness: (1) some harm came to him; (2) fucking some other girl; (3) careless and air-headed – just lost track of time; (4) not coming back because he didn’t fucking feel like it.

The last time I went downtown to look for him, every dingy pub looked closed for the night. Well past 1 am … not a time I typically like to lurk about the infamous corner of Hasting and Main. I saw three cop cars in the alley near Carnegie Centre. A scattering of way strung out high junkies floating about the sidewalk, and at times, in the middle of Hastings. I saw no one that resembled my guy. I saw rats, stealing across the sidewalk, and into one of the many board-up businesses that lined Hastings, near Cambie Street. I wondered why other wives don’t have these sorts of experiences. I wondered how wives of police officers and soldiers struggle with the possibility that their man may not return home to them. How does one live with that real possibility? No one who has lost a loved one ever expected it, did they?

I tried to tap into my intuitive sense. It kept telling me he would return to me. Each time I returned from looking for him, my heart sank to find his absence from our home. The raging inferno in my ego’s core diminished the quiet wisdom of my neutral intuition. I doubted myself. I wanted to feel prepared … for the worse possibility. When I heard the key turn in the lock, just before 3 am, a deluge of emotion beckoned me. I resisted. I expressed my disappointment. Asked where he went. He apologized, then answered the question ~ sitting in the park smoking crack, I think, not sure if it was that or meth. Do I believe him? What difference does that make? Its the what I have to work with. Do I lecture him on the dangers of that smoking that white shit? How pedantic ~ he knows all that. What difference would it make? None. Besides, details … mean nothing. They’re like that part of the onion we discard, when preparing dinner. Its what drives the details that matters to me. Everything means something.

I fell asleep by around 4 am, I think. I awoke, on the red velvet couch 1 hour and 45 minutes later to wake the truant up to go to work. As he left, about a half-hour later, I told him, come back to me. He smiled, slightly, then left. I spent the morning weighing in my mind the intention behind that gesture of obscene tardiness. Never, had he done that before. It must mean something. I wanted to run ~ escape. I fantasized about going to Winnipeg to see my parents. Just like that ~ going without saying anything. Pointless. Solves nothing. Seems like an example of the behaviour I decided I found unacceptable. I fantasized about changing the locks. Or issuing some dramatic ultimatum. Counter-productive. Bitchy and childish. Solves nothing. I asked myself what would I do, if I possessed the financial capacity to leave. Would I? The temptation would urge me, for sure. But, what of the consequences of indulging spite in a moment of acquiescing to one’s raging ego? And … what of honouring the vow i made, years ago? What of following through with a choice I made?

I thought of something Susan wrote about, in her blog a while back: life is not about my happiness … and I understood what she felt, in that moment. I can only effect change by managing my response to those things I wish to change. Exerting pressure … name calling and be-littling … manipulating … throwing raging histrionics ~ these all work at counter-purpose. I wondered, is this it? What’s the deal breaker for me? Indeed, would my threshold of tolerance decrease if I had the financial means to leave? (I admit I fantasized about indulging myself by getting a fancy hotel room downtown at least for the night … so as to remain absent upon his return home … how childish, I know!). Does financial dependence exist for me, to teach me the lesson of humility and tolerance? How do I tolerate the unacceptable? That’s what love means, doesn’t it? Tolerating the unacceptable? The disagreeble? Perhaps financial independence would afford me distance ~ the sort of distance chickory has with her cabin. Of course, I would opt against a cabin in the mountains, preferring a studio apartment, perhaps. Perhaps distance would bind us? Perhaps ….

Perhaps I just chalk it up to c’est la vie, stick that feather in my cap, and move forward. Awareness means that unceasing tug of war with my ego … and it prevents me from turning into that pillar of salt … the one borne from the inertia of holding grudges, desiring revenge, harbouring resentment. We all make mistakes. That we learn from them seems to me, the best means of accepting responsibility for one’s behaviour. Escaping never solved anything. In fact, it seems like the quickest way to become a slave to that very thing from which we run.

It’s a dog’s life … and I love it! I feel so fortunate to have it. Besides …


~ by frizzyscissorhands on September 27, 2007.

11 Responses to “it’s a dog’s life?”

  1. you know, that was an amazing piece of writing. i cant recall ever reading a better description of the inner dialogue with what to do and how to react in times of stress and confusion

    i would say if white is being smoked you are in financial peril. its good that you are getting the education you are as it is highly marketable and you would be able to take care of yourself and another if you chose. thats a good kind of wealth..the best kindL knowledge.

    as far as escaping not solving anything, i would disagree and say without the space of two years i would not be married this day. however that is everything having to do with me and very little having to do with the actions and behaviors of my husband. the two years assured me i could make it by myself…and then once i returned, i could choose everyday to stay…not because i had to, but because i wanted to. much better for all of us.

  2. Sigh…I’m sorry.
    I came over to get your correct address to post a thank you and freaked out when I saw the header-

    I’m in a hurry- so that might be why I didn’t understand-
    I’ll be back as soon as I can~

  3. mayden ~ the header … not sure where the image went. i fixed it … re-uploaded it to imageshack.

    she ~ gotcha. that’s sort of what i meant … but, also, with the escape thing i meant … just indulging the urge to run without warning … its always best to tell oneself to serve revenge cold … y’know? and really ask yourself “why am i doing this?” taking some space because i need to/want to is different that taking some space because i want to exact revenge for a foolish judgement call he makes.

    i think that incident was an isolated incident. i’m not sure why he did it … really. just something different … it sounds lame, but he’s like that ~ willing to try anything once.

  4. I’m in agreement with the She pup, here. You’ve been through a lot lately. At some time, you might be able to do with a bit of woodshedding…not to punish him, but to heal yourself. And as she says, there’s a difference between staying because one feels trapped and staying knowing that one can always leave.

    I’m still hoping for the best for both of you.

  5. yeah ~ about the woodshedding. that’s what i meant by distance being the binding thing. but just … like you both say, having another refuge to go to … just to ensure that when we’re together, its coz we wanna be … not coz we got no choice. absolutely. i sometimes have fantasized about a quiet space … a place with no tv … a clutter-free place … to have escape to. where i can write uninterrupted, when the muse strikes me … that sort of thing. she told me once that she thought i was the type that would need a space of my own in order to stay married. it takes one to know one, i suppose.


    i’m not prepared to end the marriage … nope. no trade-ins taking place here. just … rearranging the intimacy. y’know?

  6. i’ll email you soon, x-dell.

  7. i just think creative space is critical to well being…for creative types like yourself. the fact that you wrote about the clutter..theres physical clutter and people-drama clutter…both dispiriting. all people in a relationship need a personal space that they can retreat to. it could be in the same house but everyone needs a room of ones own.

    yea! right choice for the book cover.

    have a good weekend. nice job you did on maydens header

  8. I’ll look out for it.

  9. she ~ *whew* completed the project, complete with animated gif and all … hee hee. i must be dumb or something, i had no idea animation was so friggin easy and way toooo much fun! spent all day with my new beau ~ photoshop grrrrrherherherhaha.

    about space and clutter ~ that usually what its about for me ~ clutter-free space of my own … clutter-free in every sense. the ideal would be to have the separate spaces under one roof … but who knows.

    hi x …

  10. hmmmm, i give my husband a lot of space to move out and about. always have. now he’s a bit surprised when i feel the need have my own space and move about.

    i hope your husband is okay and that you find the space you need. i’ve often times dreamed of having my own suite in this house of mine.

  11. we don’t do the curfew thing … but staying out that late without calling … grrrrr. he is more vigilant about telling me when he’ll be late, he doesn’t want me calling the police again! hee hee.

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