The Web That Is My Own

There was a bake sale at work the other day. We have them often; they raise money for the kick-ass Christmas parties we have every year.

I walked in and saw a boardroom table laden with goodies: brownies, cookies, pies. And in that second, inside my head, I saw myself eating ALL of it.

I backed away, but it was already too late; you can't really walk into a bake sale and walk out again unnoticed. I had to explain myself.

So I made some lame joke about not wanting to eat everything (which was true) and said that I have a problem with food (which was also true). I really should just shut up.

My co-worker, who is larger than I am, was not impressed.

I was not always this size, and it's easy for people to forget that I lost a third of my body weight a few years ago through ten months of hard work and dieting. I still struggle with the urge to overeat, and I KNOW that I could have eaten everything on that table without a second thought. I am not a skinny bitch, I swear. I am a skinny glutton.

I used to think that people who talked about being sober alcoholics were weirdos. If you're sober, you're not an alcoholic, right? I now know exactly what they mean. They're talking about the constant struggle to fight off the urge to do something they don't want to do and yet DESPERATELY want to do. I was insensitive to question their description of that struggle, even inside my head.

People at work have said that I have great willpower. This is usually in the context of bake sales or someone's birthday cake. They don't realize that I have absolutely no willpower at all. If I ate some of the cake, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from eating far too much of it. It's easier to walk away and pretend that I have some self-control.

That I hide my weed in my spice cabinet?
Oh well.

I just saw pictures online of a person that was quite horrible to me in my last community.

I see she has gained a lot of weight.

That made me smile.

But then I felt bad.

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I don't necessarily like that the only things I can think of to post are kind of petty little nigglies about an ex boyfriend.
But that's part of what makes the secret blog secret. His mom reads my REAL blog and I don't want to be a total bitch... or really admit that some things still bother me.

Annoyance #1.) the man and I broke up because of a couple different reasons, the main one being he really didn't want to commit to anything serious. A year and a bit later, he has a baby.

Annoyance #2.)  -- very closely tied to annoyance #1.) they moved in together shortly after we broke up and have bought a house together.

Annoyance #3.) I'm not that vain, but seriously, I am better looking than her.

Annoyance #4.) They produced an ugly child. Hopefully it will get better looking with age.

Okay, maybe that last one isn't so much of an annoyance. Maybe it's a little bit of an observation that makes me want to do a happy-dance.
I am fully aware that I'm not able to let this go because really, I can't get over MYSELF. I can't see what in the world makes this woman better than me, more worthy of commitment than me. I can't stand the thought that I could possibly be THAT intolerable.

Adding insult to injury is the fact that I really do know that when we were together, he was no catch. Now, he may have stopped drinking now (and only by court order, I might add), and I know that I needed to NOT be in that relationship anymore...

But I can't help but feel that little sting.

Because I really did love him.

I have an agreement with my husband: If he cleans the house, I will have sex with him.

Sure, this may sound excessively transactional after our many years together. Go ahead and judge me. It works.

I wouldn't call myself a neat freak. It would be more accurate to say that over time, the messiness that collects in my house slowly drives me crazy, and eventually I snap. I have been known to walk around with a garbage bag, throwing out-of-place items away.

I can't identify the precise moment at which I lose my mind. It isn't Piece of Mail #17 or Dirty Sock #5. Well, it might be either of those things. What I mean is that it is an art, not a science. It may be some indefinable combination of dirt on the kitchen floor and congealed leftover cereal. I think I am pretty laid-back about messiness most of the time, but I can't handle a total takeover of disorder. My stress level was rising all week. I made pointed comments and emptied the dishwasher while glaring at my family.

By Saturday night, I was furious. I did not have a garbage bag. Instead, I walked around staring pointedly in the direction of the biggest messes. After some heated words, I decided to go to bed early. No point in fighting.

I awoke to find that he had cleaned the house. He'd even Swiffered the floor. It was very sexy.

I decided that since he'd gone the extra mile, I should, too. I pulled out my Naughty Mrs. Claus outfit. (Naughty Mrs. Claus is always good for a party of two, but I do not recommend her for the office Christmas party: she's a bit of a ho-ho-ho.)

And when it was all finished, I rolled over to find him checking Facebook on his iPhone. Damn.

Ever leave a friendship without any remorse, just thankfulness that you managed to get their family secret recipe before you left?

I have.

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You know what really cheeses me off?
I'm awake at 2 am still working on a breaking news story for tomorrow.
I got the call at five, jumped in my car and drove my ass down here and started interviewing people.

My colleague, a national reporter, got on an airplane, and arrived five hours after I did.
We met up, he saved all the interviews I did to his computer.
Wrote a story using those interviews, clipping sound bites for his piece.
And then went to bed.

I, on the other hand, am still awake.

And annoyed.

This whole trend of "national" reporters swooping in and getting all the credit for my legwork and my stories really BLOWS.

And I would have written this on my own blog, because I'm THAT kind of annoyed...
But coworkers (past and present) could then read it.
And my mom would chew me out for publicly criticizing my employer.
And it's not worth the bother.