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BettyDoesLife
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Name: Betty
Country: United States
State: New York
Metro: Rochester
Birthday: 5/7/1976
Gender: Female
Interests: geology, anarchism, history, literature, astrology, punk rawk, laughter
Expertise: making something from nothing.
Occupation: Single Mama/Retail Loser
Message: message meEmail: email me
Member Since:
8/30/2002
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| ErraticsWe have been driving for a half an hour when Mark turns to me and says, "Are you wondering where the hell we are going?"
"No. You said we were going to see some bluffs. You said they're on the Lake. It's a big lake."
"Yeah. Well, they're on the north side," he says.
I roll my eyes and chuckle. The north side of the lake is Canada. "Well since I didn't bring a passport I guess there'll be a lot of cock sucking at the border."
"Yeah, that was part of the international agreement. Passport or blow job." Obviously, none of the kids are in the car with us.
We park just a few yards from the pebble beach and almost immediately I see why we are here.
"I'm really surprised you've never been here before, what with you being a huge fan of erosion and all."
I smirk at him. I am a huge fan of erosion. I've written love poems to erosion. I shake my head and snort. He's not making fun and I'm not making fun, it's just funny.
The bluffs are like knives into the sky, carving space like it is a thing. Rocks hanging from the sheer cliffs, knowing that a good rain will make them tumble down. Mark takes me to these moments at least twice a month, my jaw hanging down and my eyes full of tears because I know my, our, humans' place. We are so impatient, we hardly belong on this planet.
We walk along the beach. I point out different rocks, "That's metamorphic. You can tell by the striations. They are what we call erratics. They don't belong here. They were brought by glaciers from Canada. we don't have metamorphic rocks here."
As we walk, he plucks shiny rocks from the shore line and brings them to me for approval and instruction. When he's twisting me around in bed, throwing my legs here or pushing against there, he resembles an animal--not at all like this man-child. I stare at him. He's beautiful and complex but ultimately pure in a way that I understand. He is never anything other than what he is at that moment. Maybe that is meaningless to you, but it means everything to me.
We climb into the palms of the bluffs. I make all the oohing and aaahing sounds that mean sincere awe. I think about dieing here, just laying back and sinking into the mud until I am just more erratica to be washed onto the beach, into the lake.
Once we are past the bluffs, Mark starts balancing rocks in impossible positions. I've seen him do this a handful of times. Usually I watch so I can catch that ah-ha moment when gravity is defeated, but today I start gathering the white rocks. Limestone, marble, sandstone. I place them along the highest ridge of the beach, outlining it just to make sure that everyone notices this simple wonder of the world.
We spend at least an hour, if not two, orbiting one another. Checking in just for a moment then returning to our work. Sometimes when I let myself think silly things this is what I imagine for us in five or ten years. Him drawing or sculpting in the garden while I write shoeless on the porch, old soul music on the stereo and the slow emptying of beer and wine bottles. What I imagine is years of this hour or two.
We climb to the top of a bluff and walk around the wooded ledges. We peer over the bluffs. I think about a friend who went surfing down the side of a valcano in Peru. These bluffs are nothing compared to a volcano. The magnitude of our universe is stunning.
In the car, driving back to the city, Mark asks, "Are you hungry?"
"Yeah," I say.
"What do you want?"
"Something fattening and bad for me, actually."
He smiles in his way that makes me feel like I am made of something other than solid matter. I don't think he has ever been so pleased by anything that has come out of my mouth and I know that he will make sure I get exactly what I want.
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| sneaking out of happy hour"Well, there's someone I met and hung out with over the summer," Mark said, his head buried in his kitchen counter. "And she might stop by tonight because I told her I couldn't go see a movie, I had plans. And she said, 'like a date?'"
Mark looked up at me, sort of uneasy. "I told her, 'Well I don't know if we need to call it that.' She said, 'Well, that's OK, you've been honest' but then she said, 'What would you do if I stopped by there at two in the morning?' So, she might stop by and I don't want you to be surprised."
Mark and I weren't exclusive, we weren't in a relationship. I'd just left one and was concluding, yet again, that those things only led to hurt and disappointment. What Mark and I were doing was drinking and fucking. It was fun, but right around midnight his doorbell rang. He let her in. She introduced herself. I said, "You're a couple hours early."
She sized me up--competition--then made the sort of small talk that is supposed to establish positioning. It got increasingly uncomfortable. All she wanted was for me to leave. All I wanted was for her to leave so I could leave. I think this went on for three days before I said, "Ok, well, I want to have sex with him so..." I shrugged my shoulders and turned my palms to the skylight.
"You're cute," she said.
I was shocked, "Thanks."
"But not cute enough."
It wasn't going anywhere good.
"Where'd you meet her?" she whispered. He whispered something back.
We sat there, suspended in our icey moment, until Mark told her, "It's time for you to go."
He walked her to the door, out on to the steps and I heard a howl. I finished my beer. Mark came back in. "She bit me."
"She what?"
He repeated it for my disbelief and then we had sex.
So, I think you can understand why, when I saw her at happy hour today I tried to sneak out of the building without her noticing I was there.
She was there with a local music critic. He's married and they've been having an affair for years. At one point his wife found out and made him end things with the neck-biter. They pretended to end it but they still see each other.
What's funny is that Mark is the asshole and I'm the slut.
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| ducks or rocksMama has ten ducklings in tow. Their tiny heads dip below the surface and then they shake, forcing minnows down their own throats. Dad is slightly up stream, I assume it's dad.
Mark is stacking rocks by their tiniest points, taunting gravity in an homage to Andy Goldsworthy.
"This is going to sound stupid or naive." Years of relationships with smart, pointed men have taught me to hedge my bets. "If I came across some of your rocks on a hike, it would not even occur to me that they were man made. I am just so in awe of nature I would assume they are some freak occurrence."
"Well, they could have weathered that way. The water and..." He tries for me.
"No! No they could not have! Not like that. Not in a million years." I am roaring with laughter at my blindness.
He shakes his head and pushes his tongue past his crooked teeth and out the side of his mouth. His smile is like lava. I thought I could outrun it, but instead we are sitting on a fallen tree in a creek, holding each other and feeling apprehensively free.
I start crying sometimes, like this time with rocks and ducks, because my life is so much better than I ever believed possible. I start crying because his wiry arm is wrapped around me and I recognize how close I came to compromising. To settling. To being realistic.
The ducklings will grow older then old, then they will die. The rocks will fall but they will always be rocks, just in a different formation. I don't know if Mark and I are ducks or rocks, but I know we are changing.
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| hello corner, i am turning youthe most amazing thing that has happened in a while in my life happened today. It's huge. Are you ready to hear it?
I got a 9-5, every weekend off position. It's no more money but HOLY FUCKING SHIT! every weekend off. I leave work at 5 pm, EVERY SINGLE DAY.
When I heard this today I started crying. Really. All you cube drones probably think, so what, big deal, but it means I can make plans. Not tentative "Well, if I don't have to work that night..." plans but real, real plans. AND it means I can go to derby practice. WITHOUT WEED! so guess who's triumphant return is on Sunday. MINE!
Today, I won just a little bit. YEY!
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| try enragedSo my league has been hunting for homes and this rink, who wanted nothing to do with us for a damn long time, has decided to let us skate there which is really fucking great because we need some place to practice, but they won't let us bring kids to practice
If I go to practice it is because I am not working and can take Weed with me. Not being able to take kids effectively kicks me off the league. I can not express in words how fucking pissed off I am. Worse than that I am sad, sad, sad. Not being able to skate is truly devastating. Really.
Not being able to skate means I am cranky and depressed and drinking way more than I should be. Not only that, it means I am cut off from my community because roller girls become your best friends and your family. I feel completely fucking isolated and totally fucking enraged.
Luckily I don't have any ice cream in the house and I do have a bottle of good red wine.
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