Yappy Kathy has been spayed.
At least, that's how it feels.
She'd been charmed into the car with the promise of long, romantic walks on the beach, and instead, has had her most important bits unceremoniously ripped out - the bits that make you like boys. And now, boys can't seem to understand why she can't muster up a little enthusiasm when they dangle the lead in her face, wanting to play.
Dangle away, you big fake. You won't fool me again.
Perhaps you shouldn't even call her Yappy Kathy anymore. Now she's Sedate Susan, occupying a seat at the table, passing the gravy, smiling on cue, barely tuning in to the buzz of inane conversation around her.
Thanksgiving used to be her favourite time of year, but once you've been spayed, just about everything loses its sparkle. Lumpy gravy. Lump in throat. It's excruciating.
Harder still, sitting next to the one who'd had her spayed. He's in his element, chuckling away at the inside jokes he shares with his people. They're with His People this Thanksgiving - another nail in the coffin for this holiday.
She's dressed in the traditional colours. No-one else has made the effort, and it makes her feel even more out of place - some sort of Thanksgiving joke. They're all thinking it, but nobody's saying anything. Talking but saying nothing.
She should never have come. What was she thinking?
She could have been with Her People, doing the things they do. Instead, she's doing everything backwards. It's all wrong. The time they serve their big dinner. The things they're putting on the table. The traditions are off. They're off.
She takes another bite of Lonely Pie with a side of mashed dreams.
Yes, she thinks. This really is the worst Thanksgiving dish I've ever had.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Thursday, November 20, 2014
It could happen in a second.
But, everyone knows that… Predictable.
It’s the falling out of love that happens just as fast.
The single epiphanic moment when you know it’s broken, forever. The Ol’ Mare has had a few in her time time – moments that stand proud in my often foggy memory. After forty years of flexing the Dreamer muscles in my brain, I sometimes can’t tell what was real, and what I’d imagined. Did I really go there? Do that? Was that really me, or something I dreamt up?
But those moments, like lighthouses in the storm, will forever remind me when and why those tempestuous loves ended. So, that was why. Ah, I remember now. Don’t let nostalgia cloud your judgement, girl. Stay on course. Head steadily toward the lighthouse.
There was the one who sobbed into his pillow, little girl noises from The Tough Guy, begging me not to end it. Another, that night at the club when his best friend, pupils pulsing, slurred out the name of The Other Girl. And another still, his broke ass standing on my veranda, smoking my cigarettes, drinking my scotch telling me how “marriage is a big word” – the same word he’d used to win me back just days before.
Guess he didn’t know there’d be no more “winning back” after the second I finally clicked. None of them did. The Second broke it.
Love. Trust. Loyalty… all gone in just one little second.