10.28.2004
Everything will change...
I need a partner in crime...any volunteers?
I can promise three things:
1. Lots of laughs
2. Lots of boozetastic adventures
3. Lots of good, good music
Let me know.
So I found a blog by this funny girl named Andrea Siegel. She is a published author, and I'd hate to lose my fan club to someone with that kind of impressive shite on her resume, but I'd be remiss not to pass you along. At least to a page that I have commented on. Enjoy. http://andreaseigel.typepad.com/afternoon/2004/10/black_is_the_ne.html
Back to me, me me: There's this Galaxie 500 song called "Don't Let Our Youth Go to Waste." Now, given, there's some irony in that it's a seven-minute song, but still there's a part of me that's completely in agreement. I think this is what scares the Estranged Hubby so much about me. My friend S summed it up one time, and it was hard to swallow, but enlightening nonetheless.
These are her thoughts: "i think it takes one hell of a person to handle you, alisa. i'm not saying he isn't that person. but, somehow in all this marriage stuff, the relationship put you in a strange place that is so not alisa. ... it's like it stifled the very independent, free-bird nature i know so well in you."
Tough love, right?
But that's what the Hubby keeps telling me, too; if we get back together he'll always wonder/worry that I'm still holding out for something else. Yikes. As much as I love my Estranged Spouse, I love me, too. And maybe the part of me that's independent is too big to keep in the cookie jar. So to speak. There is no doubt that I am too large - any part of me - to fit in any cookie jar.
Oh - you know what - it's all rainy again. Damn! I am so not moving to Portland! I was positioned to head that way come January, but between the fab new job and the fact that rain makes me melancholy, I can't see that particular relocation as anything but a royal disaster. (And I'd rather have a Royal Explosion. Of course, that's so obscure, but maybe that's part of my angst.)
And let's face it: I'm so much more adorable when things are light and fluffy. And right now I am so in the mood for a dirty vodka martini (up, three olives, perhaps very dirty) and a cigarette and a plush barstool where I can cross my legs and show off a fabulous pair of pumps.)
I can promise three things:
1. Lots of laughs
2. Lots of boozetastic adventures
3. Lots of good, good music
Let me know.
So I found a blog by this funny girl named Andrea Siegel. She is a published author, and I'd hate to lose my fan club to someone with that kind of impressive shite on her resume, but I'd be remiss not to pass you along. At least to a page that I have commented on. Enjoy. http://andreaseigel.typepad.com/afternoon/2004/10/black_is_the_ne.html
Back to me, me me: There's this Galaxie 500 song called "Don't Let Our Youth Go to Waste." Now, given, there's some irony in that it's a seven-minute song, but still there's a part of me that's completely in agreement. I think this is what scares the Estranged Hubby so much about me. My friend S summed it up one time, and it was hard to swallow, but enlightening nonetheless.
These are her thoughts: "i think it takes one hell of a person to handle you, alisa. i'm not saying he isn't that person. but, somehow in all this marriage stuff, the relationship put you in a strange place that is so not alisa. ... it's like it stifled the very independent, free-bird nature i know so well in you."
Tough love, right?
But that's what the Hubby keeps telling me, too; if we get back together he'll always wonder/worry that I'm still holding out for something else. Yikes. As much as I love my Estranged Spouse, I love me, too. And maybe the part of me that's independent is too big to keep in the cookie jar. So to speak. There is no doubt that I am too large - any part of me - to fit in any cookie jar.
Oh - you know what - it's all rainy again. Damn! I am so not moving to Portland! I was positioned to head that way come January, but between the fab new job and the fact that rain makes me melancholy, I can't see that particular relocation as anything but a royal disaster. (And I'd rather have a Royal Explosion. Of course, that's so obscure, but maybe that's part of my angst.)
And let's face it: I'm so much more adorable when things are light and fluffy. And right now I am so in the mood for a dirty vodka martini (up, three olives, perhaps very dirty) and a cigarette and a plush barstool where I can cross my legs and show off a fabulous pair of pumps.)
