HEY BEERGUT!!

It seems all around me long-term relationships, marriages and families are, or have, or continue to blow up.  From posts in the blogging world to my friends and acquaintances and even in my own personal experience, there seems to be so much crap and residual crap floating around.  It has all definitely changed my traditional views on marriage, family and relationship longevity over the years.

For context, my parents are still together after 50+ years of marriage.  I have four siblings and out of the five of us, four have gotten married and three divorced.  I’m one of the divorced sets and have two kids.  Same with one of my sisters.

I’m sure I was in love with my husband as much as anyone can be sure of what love actually is.  I’m quite certain that he was in love with me, too.  At some point he stopped loving me…

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Lucy’s Football

I was a skinny kid. Photos of me from back then are all pigtails and smeary glasses and I’m usually covered in mud. And I’m sometimes brandishing things like frogs or buckets of mucky water, for whatever reason. I probably had a plan for those buckets. Maybe I was going to put the frog in them. I don’t know.

Then puberty hit. You can’t fight science, people. I come from hearty peasant stock on both sides of my family. Dad’s side are all, in his words, “built like tops – big on the top, skinny on the bottom.” (I attempted to explain to him that’s not exactly how tops work, and also we don’t spin very well, but he was all “WE ARE LIKE TOPS!” so who am I to argue with him?) and my mom’s side are all built like the Goddess of Willendorf. Curvy doesn’t even begin to…

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reliablyuncomfortable

little womenThough it may surprise many who assume they know me well, I am a romantic at heart; whether I was already that way before reading Little Women, or whether Ms. Alcott’s tome guided me to this trajectory I do not know.

What I do know is, I still remember the exact day I read Little Women for the first time. I was in seventh grade, just turned twelve.  I read the book sprawled on my orange and yellow and brown patchwork bedspread, or tilted back to a dangerous degree in the nubby yellow corduroy rocking chair, feet braced on the wobbly end table with reading lamp.

I read in Dad’s Lazy-Boy Recliner, after he had gone to bed, and sometimes on the top step of the basement steps, or the back porch if the concrete was warmed from the sun.  Often I read at night in bed, sometimes with a…

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