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I don’t know if anyone else out there is a fan of Marilyn French. There is a character in one of French’s book who details the reason why she doesn’t stay in a long term relationship with a man. Something to the effect that in the throes of love everything your beloved says is witty and amazing. And then, one day, your beloved opens their mouth and says something stupid. The scales fall away from your eyes and this primate sits before you grunting and beating his chest. This past weekend my beloved said something really stupid. But let me put this into context first.

I haven’t been able to sustain a relationship with a man for longer than 10 years. Many of my relationships were 3 to 5 years. The reasons for leaving were varied. Including me finding someone else more compelling, or them finding someone else more compelling. Finally I reached a point where I felt more worried about having to be in a relationship, than I did being solo. A nice change.

When I was least looking for it, I fell in love. Someone, who in the throes of love seemed to be a good match. I don’t want to get married and neither does he. We’ve been together for several years now and the communication is phenomenal, along with the, well um…. you know. I was quite the content older lady.

Let me say that my beloved works alot. He works really hard. He’s great at what he does. He’s one of those people you read about who are so connected that when they disconnect they feel set adrift. His present situation has left him with a work relationship that borders on the Freudian. The fact that they treat him so poorly has left him a little mad. So this weekend the combination of anxiety and what ever demons live in that little of belfry of his finally drove him right to the edge.

Aside from the fact that he told my oldest daughter to F herself, he also detailed how I don’t appreciate him at all and my peri-menopausal ways were intolerable for him. This is a man who has told me how well I’ve handled my PMS and professes to love my children.

This guy really knows how to hit where I live apparently. I’m not sure what the future will bring. I hope we are stronger than this. But frankly I’m not sure when he’s going to do this again, and the next time he does it….I may not stick around. The recriminations are awful. Part of me whats to kick him to the curb faster than you can say Kevin Federline. But honestly I feel like I’d be giving up on the best relationship I’ve had. Time will tell. More to come.

The parakeet has recovered. Aside from the tail feathers, which now look like they belong to a swallow. I’ve managed to find things she will eat but I have to hold her tail to keep her around the food long enough to ingest it. This is a far cry from the first attempts where she squawked and flapped and the food had to be held to her beak. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to continue feeding her the stuff she needs if it was always going to be a fight to the death. The bird honestly does not have that many feathers. At the rate she was losing them, I thought she was going to be bald.

I had my month check up for the Mohs surgery. I can look in the mirror and not cry every time I look at the scar. I had an opportunity to talk to the Doctor face to face. His original plan never included a vertical suture tucked into the naso-labial fold as my sweetie and I thought we had understood. It was going to be a check mark shape. I ended up with a horizontal suture which shocked the heck out of me when I saw it for the first time. 12 stitches, which when swollen looked a lot bigger than it does now. It’s tough for me. I’m not a beautiful woman. but my skin had always been one of my assets. I think a large part of the trouble was magical thinking on my part. I had pretty much convinced myself that I wouldn’t have a scar or stitches. All research to the contrary. A lesson in reality. SO, I guess this is the equivalent of my tail feathers. I look good if you ignore them.

The last few weeks have been an exciting time for our parakeet. She, or he, (how can you tell?) had been ill. She sat in her cage in the corner, not eating. Her little tail was bobbing up and down. In parakeet health tail bobbing is not a good thing. Sometimes tail bobbing can be followed by finding the parakeet on the floor of the cage with the feet up. An expired parakeet.

I spent several hundred dollars on Avian Veterinarian visits over the past few weeks. First the bird had a bacterial infection brought on by the fact that she doesn’t have a balanced diet. I am not making this up. The bird won’t eat anything but millet. Parakeets who eat only seed can have thyroid insufficiencies. Who knew parakeets had thyroids? Her other problem was a Vitamin A deficiency. Again from her diet.

I’ve spent the last week trying to find out what fresh foods would float Andi’s boat. I’ve gotten two toddlers through to adolescence eating fresh fruits and vegetables. Picky toddlers have NOTHING on the parakeet

So each morning and night the family has a new ritual of force feeding a parakeet. Before PETA comes to get me because I’m running a covert parakeet pate’ ring hear me out. The force feeding consists of me holding the bird firmly, not tightly, and placing a large sprig of salted broccoli in front of it’s beak. The bird responds by ripping the broccoli to shreds. This hopefully results in the bird actually ingesting some of the broccoli.

More to come…..

If I was going to have a band, that’s what we’d be called Bitch Vision and the Botox Rays. Bitch vision was a super power I wanted. Since all of the female super heros of my day had such lame powers. (Hello, Wonder Woman? An invisible car, Puhleeze, magic bracelets? how…..pathetic) Bitch vision would stop the offending person in their tracks with a look. A skill I had already honed on my children. The Botox ray would freeze the perp and keep them there. Just like Botox – no movement.

But I’m not going to have a band. I never learned how to play a musical instrument. I rectified that oversite with the next generation. Both of my kids are musicians. As lame as Josie and the Pussycats was circa 1970, they pretty much rocked for their time.

I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time. I’m almost hoping that it will never be read by anyone else but me. I’m weeks away from my 50th birthday with two teenage kids. I have a job I really hate. Can this get any more depressing? I just had Mohs microsurgery on my face for a small skin cancer which left an unexpected and much hated scar.

I’m not having a midlife crisis of the traditional sort. I’m not going to buy a fast, red sports car. I have a relationship with a man I appreciate and admire, so no affairs with younger men. It’s more of a crisis of loss, then actively attempting to acquire something to make myself feel better. I’m wondering if anyone else out there can relate.

My sense of purpose has been wrapped up in my kids, but now one is preparing to drive and sooner rather than later they will both fly away. So what do I want to do with the rest of my life? I’m pretty sure it’s not sitting in an office and retiring with a gold watch. I don’t know anyone who does that anymore.

I also don’t want to become one of the grey, fuzzy haired invisibles. She of the elastic waisted pants and comfy shoes. I see them at the grocery store and in the mall. Completely dismissable. How do I maintain feeling good inside when the outsides don’t feel all that good anymore? I have 20 more years of working and making a living. Will anyone hire me? I don’t want to be sucked, tucked, botoxed and tanned within an inch of my life either. There has to be some middle path for us genetically ungifted folks without personal trainers or loads of bucks to spend on youth potions. Or, am I missing the point while looking for it? Maybe there isn’t anywhere I have to go, because I’m already there.

So that’s where I begin….. Off to find my sense of purpose – post kids.