Tag Archives: relationships

Blood on the tracks

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I finally have the iPhone weblogging through WordPress thing working. That should have a link, but I don’t see that happening in my phone tests.

Last night, a big old Tuesday night, M. and I rarer than rare each had something to do. Something that didn’t involve the other one. Separate but equal.

While I had wine and cheese and salsa and chips and whatnot at a friend’s brand new shiney condo in which she was soliciting decorating ideas and sorting photos, M. was mad strategizing in corporate land. Planning and plotting through his increasingly elevated status in the workforce.

Consequently, we didn’t talk much after I got home, since it was getting late into snoozing time. He did tell me about a highway calamity he had steered himself through, but in his half asleep state it wasn’t a dramatic tale.

Now, in a cheesy 1970s mystery TV show moment, a Time-Life book series on extrasensory perception, I had a thought while driving last night. In the late dark, with only a tiny double dot of light in the distance ahead of me and blackness in my rearview mirror, I considered the empty fields and canyons and hills and wild spaces adjacent to the road on which I was driving too fast. I imagined any number or type of wild thing leaping out fromu the shadows.

This highway, 280, is smooth and fast and beautiful. It ranks highly as scenic. Driving it just feels like California looks like it should feel. Imagining a silhouette blocked in your headlights, stag horns and hooves isn’t a leap from reality.

Today I got the story from M. He drove the same 280, although I had been south heading north and he north to south.

During his drive, he watched a small deer clash and lose against an SUV. It was sent skyward and landed in the path if his car. With cars on either side and no where to swerve, he had to drive through.

M. said he could feel it under his tires and hear the crack of bone. His front bumper is stained with streaks of sticky-looking red with bits of dirt, hair and grass.

Still and all, I’m happy, we’re happy he, M. made it safely with his car still fine.

Man that he is, the man who chooses to live with me, he’s curious about eradicating the traces of blood and DNA, an important lesson. For my part, I want to know if the dudes at the carwash are required to ask you the nature of the blood and hair before they detail your vehicle.

I just hope we haven’t just entered the final chapter that guarantees my place as a victimized woman feature in a made for TV movie. Isn’t this how it all unravels?

I've said it before…

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Women is losers.

Because of the crazy chick at work who’s been asking for my help, I picked up a couple of books from Amazon.com. She asked me to buy this one, which hasn’t arrived yet:


“Hiding Your Money : Everything You Need to Know About Keeping Your Money and Valuables Safe from Predators and Greedy Creditors” (Jerome Schneider, Allison Weiner, Allison Hope Weiner)

On Amazon you can pick up used for short money. Because I’m me, and I like buying books in general (with which I then taunt myself by not actually getting around to reading), I figured I’d pick her up another one that looked a bit more to the point.


“How to Hide Money from Your Hu…And Other Time-Honored Ways to Build A Nest Egg: The Best Kept Secret of Marriage” (Heidi Evans)

When it came yesterday to work (‘cuz we always have stuff delivered to work given we are seldom home during delivery times), I was a bit weirded out. I didn’t want to open the box and have one of my co-workers ask me about it. (Not to mention the folks with whom I’m friendly would probably ask, because they’ve all met M. and would be like “What the…?”) So I held the box until the very end of the day until maybe one person was left in my area.

And, then I thumbed through. Holy shit, you know the slogan “We’ve come a long way, baby?” Turns out, not so much. I mean, sure, maybe it’s a smaller subsection than say in 1952, but that book was published this century.

For me, the thing is, Pat left me with one life’s lesson, if she left me anything. Always, fucking always, have your own dough. Man, woman, child, whatever, your life your reigns to grab. It’s so deep in my psyche, I’m sure I’m an asshole to date, being as I’m all vagina-possessing and thereby weaker sexed. Can’t imagine not having some cash and holdings that are my very own. But, on the other hand, if I were a dude, I’d be like “Hell ya, woman, you got yours, I got mine, now let’s see what we can do together.”

I left it for her in a plain brown envelope in her work mailbox. I didn’t sign the note I left. I mean, if her husband is of a criminal bent, as has been implied, I ain’t have him searching out my name.