L'esprit de l'escalier

It's all about the timing.

Location: Memphis, Tennessee, United States

I'd rather be somewhere else most of the time and I'm a huge practitioner of staircase wit.


Stress All Over the Place

We had a difficult couple of nights. When I came home the next night after the fight, he still was not speaking to me. We roamed around the apartment, carefully avoiding each other - not an easy task in a 1 bedroom apartment - until finally he said, "Hey. Why aren't you talking to me?" A way of letting me know he didn't want to go on like this, but he wasn't ready to make up. I wanted him to hug me, he wasn't ready. It was fake and pointless. Then he went to a friend's house. Good, I needed my own space, too.

The next night we stayed up all night talking things through. He's an artist. He quit his job and he needs supplies to make his next piece. We don't have enough money to buy his supplies and the patch so he can quit smoking and pay all our bills. So, he buys some roll-you-owns and orders from Digikey for delivery on Wednesday. We discuss how he needs to make some money. He needs a part-time job or he needs to sell on Ebay or he needs to find another way. I can't do this on my own. He knows. He understands, but he doesn't know how. Our discussion became philosophical. We come from two different points of view. Artist vs. non-artist is what it boils down to. I don't understand. I appreciate, but I require equal contributions into the household and he can't deliver. I used to tell him I didn't mind making the money, I can do that. He can stay home and take care of the kid and the dinner. But there is no kid yet, and I don't make enough money yet. He wants to start the deal before I'm ready. I'm not ready! He thinks this means I don't appreciate what he does, I don't respect his art, I don't care about his needs. I don't think that's what I mean. I'm just too scared to not worry about money and bills, and if he didn't have me, he'd be homeless or letting some other girl take care of him. Is that a short-coming, though? This is what I don't know. In the big picture, is he right or me? I seriously don't know the answer.

Then he says I've changed. I'm not the girl he was attracted to from the start. He thought I wanted to be a writer, he thought I'd understand his need to be an artist. I did. I do. But I don't ever write anymore. Why, he asks? Because, I'M TOO SCARED TO NOT WORRY ABOUT THE BILLS. That's what I tell him because I have to. I tell him I can't let that go. If he isn't going to pay them, someone has to. The responsibility falls on me. I was raised with that old protestant work ethic. It's in my blood. I can't help it. I don't have time to be a writer when I work 8 hours a day at my soul-sucking job. But I'm writing right now. This blog he can't know about. This blog, my secret place that he hasn't been told about. And he won't. Even though he's telling me, "you don't ever write anymore, you're not the same girl you used to be, you've gotten so lazy," I can't tell him he's wrong. I do still write, I just don't tell you about it. Because you want me to be what you think is good, not what I think is good. So, you have to be left out. I have to let him think I've lost my desire to be something. So I can be something. I'd rather sacrifice his view of me than lose mine.

We're in transition. I'm trying to get a job in Memphis, so he quit his job, but I haven't gotten one yet. So, we're here and we don't know how long it will last. He regrets quitting so soon, I regret the letter I got on Friday saying I didn't get the job. I still have another application out, and that's the one I want, but I rarely don't get a job I apply for. But I've never applied for anything above just some hourly position. I'm trying for a real job, now. A professional job that requires skill and a degree. What if I'm not good enough? I really don't know who I'm being compared with. I'm scared. A lot is hinging on me. My husbands sanity. Maybe mine.


Something about making a mountain out of a molehill

I'm too stupid to be married. I drive people insane who try to live with me. My first husband's in prison for robbing banks and my current one isn't speaking to me. Last night we were talking, just normal talking. We'd been having a fine time, joking around, getting along famously and then, silly him, he tried to strike up a conversation about something. I was becoming a little tipsy and didn't really carry my half at all. In his words, I kept throwing a wrench in and he couldn't make the point he was trying to make. I told him he shouldn't be such a controlling conversationalist and just let it flow, but he said I wasn't adding anything, I was destroying it. He's had this complaint before with me. We started arguing and it just snowballed until I went to bed without saying anything more. Then he came to bed without saying anything. Then he got up because he couldn't sleep, then I got up because I couldn't sleep and I was sick of us not saying anything. Groggy and annoyed, I stopped him from whatever he was working on and insisted we talk this out. We talked for another hour without accomplishing anything and feeling worse than when we started.

I just wanted to go back to getting along famously.

I wasn't thinking about letting it go. I should've been. I finally started to go back to bed again, as it was 3am, and leave him with his monologue vaguely disguised as a conversation. But since I'd only served to make things worse, this incited rage in him. He started calling me names and saying the most hurtful things he could think of. And for some reason, that made me feel less bad. Like obviously I felt guilty for starting the arguement, but when he started loosing it, I felt like we were even. I didn't realize this until I was laying in bed listening to him insult me from the other room, and I realized I no longer felt so angry I couldn't sleep. I was tired and relaxed.

This is so unhealthy.

I don't want to make him miserable. It wasn't my intention but I was being totally selfish and emotional. I should've just let it go, gotten over myself, left well enough alone. But I didn't. Because I'm emotional and immature and won't be happy unless someone is miserable and that someone is not me. He slept on the couch. We were supposed to go to the gym together this morning. A plan we made long before the falling out, but when I asked him this morning as he was moving from the couch to the bed, he didn't say a word and went back to sleep.

I don't know how to make it better. But I tried last night and made it worse so I'll just wait, I guess. Is this a normal type of fight between married people? I have to know, otherwise I'll keep on blaming myself. Or maybe I should blame myself. But I don't know how to fix it. Shut up next time?



I know why I was talking about what I was talking about last night. I found out an acquaintance by association killed himself recently. He shot himself in the bathroom of some late-night blues club on Beale Street. My husband dated a girl before me who was sort of a drama queen. She was tragic, she had a tragic life and apparently, has designed it that way. She married this guy who was addicted to heroin. That was the rumor, anyway, but I believe it was true. They were very dark together, but no one ever thought they weren't happily suited for each others problems. They got married in a club downtown on Halloween. It was a big party.

Then, a couple months ago we heard they were getting a divorce. A friend saw her on the street and she said, "Thank god". Which we thought was weird and more than a little cold, but we didn't know what was going on in their relationship, so whatever. And then last night we found out her husband shot himself in the bathroom at the Black Diamond in Memphis, shortly after they seperated. Shortly after she said "thank god". We don't know if he was drunk or high or both but probably. He also owned many guns.

What an awful story.

My ex-husband is in prison right now for robbing banks. A friend of mine was in love with an alcoholic who hanged himself in jail. He was in jail for breaking into a local bar to steal beer. He knew the owner and he'd done it before. In fact, I think he worked at that bar for a time. They got tired of him stealing from them because they were friends. My husband's uncle hanged himself in his basement and one of his children found him. This happened right after David and I met. I wasn't as supportive as I wish I would've been. My sister's first husband shot himself in his car outside our house while we were all inside eating homemade spaghetti and meatballs.

This is the tragedy that keeps me from laughing as much as I used to. How do you seperate other people's realities from your own? They eventually become blurred and you can't remember if it happened to you or someone you know. It doesn't matter, either. It really doesn't matter, because it happened at all.

Grass before sex makes Diane Keaton happy

Sure, I like to read blogs that are funny. I like to laugh and joke and generally cut-up. But something always makes me a little sad about laughing at other people's lives, who I do not know, who do not know me, whose lives do not resemble my own. Am I trying to live vicariously through someone else's blogworld, someone who's not as sad as I am? Perhaps, but for the most part, I don't consider myself really all that sad, just more honest about life.

There's a scene in "Annie Hall" where Woody Allen was making an excuse for himself not being the kind of guy who's all easy-going and laid back. He said something to the effect that he can't be happy, knowing there is always someone else, somewhere else, who's suffering. He doesn't have to know those people, or know why they're sad, just knowing they exist makes him a little less happy. That's how I feel. When I feel. For the most part, I'm dead inside and pretend to be happy as a clam. A lark? Whichever is more awkwardly smiley.

Why is that? I wish I knew.

I also wish I knew what my point was when I started this fucking post? I HATE when this happens.

FREE hit counter and Internet traffic statistics from freestats.com