August 18th, 2003


(no subject)

A Hard Day Seeing My Ex, Shopping To Get Over It, Needing Muses, Prescription Meds, and Escaping From Feelings, Whatever it Takes.

This one is for Scott


You are the melting men
You are the situation
There is no time to breathe
And yet one single breath
Leads to an insatiable desire
Of sex

So many blazing orchids
Burning in your throat
Making you choke
Making you sigh
Sigh in tiny deaths

So Melt!
My lover, melt!
She said melt!
My lover, melt!

You are the melting men
And as you melt
You are beheaded
Handcuffed (in lace and blood and sperm)
Swimming in poison
Gasping in the fragrance
Sweat carves a screenplay
of discipline...and devotion

Can you see?
See into the back of a long, black car
Pulling away from the funeral of flowers
With my hand between your legs

- Siouxsie And The Banshees

So today was kind of hard and I feel like it shouldn't have been. Beau had plans to get together with his father to go inline skating in Venice only someone stole his skates off our front porch or they were lost in his room. Whatever the case he was on the verge of tears and freaking out. Super Mom came to the rescue, I thought, "Hey, I've got to go to Sport Mart to get the little blow up pools for the backyard so the kids can splash about while we sludge through the miserable process of dragging rat chewed (BTW we saw two of them last night and they were so cute, such lovely soft furry beings with big dark eyes, I could never hurt them), box after box out of the garage, so while I'm doing that, I'll just charge up another pair of skates for him." But Robby was expected to arrive in ten minutes and would be churlish and put off by this delay in plans and Beau was worried so he called him, put me on the phone, and I explained that he could meet us at Sport Mart, never thinking about what this would entail -- the emotional cost of having to see him so soon after having spent so much time with him at the funeral.

And it was hard, I felt panicked and obliged to put my best face on, makeup in the car, and just when I was done and thought I looked pretty good, I wrecked everything by poking myself in the eye with the mascara and smudging a big black blob of mascara goo on my eye. And it's such a cruel waste of my energy -- the whole, I've gotta look good for him so he knows what he's missing, bullshit drama, because he really couldn't care less. I could look like Brigitte Bardot before the sun destroyed her face, or Venus rising out of the waters naked and standing on a pearly shell, but he wouldn't notice unless I was a seventeen-year-old, dark-haired, punk princess, with a whole lot of sexy piercings, a cigarette hanging out of my mouth, or a syringe sticking out of my arm, and probably a serious bitch attitude to match. Plus I don't want to get back together with him anyway, he already tried to worm his way back in years ago and I pushed him away. It's all just leftover heartache and ego.

I felt so alone, walking through the store, checking myself in the mirror, trying to fix the smeared mascara, alone picking out the pools for the kids, alone lifting the heavy Johnny Up tarp thing into the cart, alone helping Beau pick out his skates, alone, alone, alone, without a man, without the man I had been with for God knows how many years, so many years I can't even count them anymore. And I wouldn't be writing any of this if I hadn't already cleared it with Scott. I love him, he knows I love him, you know I love him, but something about the weird psychological mix of being abandoned at birth and raised by parents who did their best but were cold and shy and shut down, and who basically left me alone a lot with a sexually abusive governess and maids who didn't speak English, did not make for the warm cuddly environment it might take to raise a healthy Jacqui in, in fact it set me up for the exact kind of scenario I am obviously addicted to, a cold, dark, remote, shut down guy, just like my Dad was.

Abandonment feels like love to me, my birth mother and father abandoned me, my very first childhood boyfriend abandoned me without an explanation, my first college boyfriend abandoned me because as he said, "You're a wonderful girl and these feelings I am having for you are starting to get really serious but my parents think it's just not a good idea because you're not Jewish so where can this lead? It's better if we end it now before it gets any more painful, I hope you'll understand and hey, thanks for sucking my cock", (well, I made up the last part, but it would actually have been kind of nice had he said it, it being my first time and all), my best friend abandoned me, over and over again, and then my husband abandoned me. Abandonment must just feel like love to me, and there's no reasoning my way out of it.

So there he was when I came back from Water Toy Land, my once handsome husband, (so handsome he was a model for a while), hiding his bald head with one of his many Cool Guy caps. There was the usual awkward hurtingness, we hugged and kissed on the cheek, and Beau just had to comment on how it felt weird to him that we don't kiss on the mouth anymore.

The Carrillos always kiss on the mouth, girl to girl, boy to boy, everyone, on the mouth, but not Robby and me, not anymore. Then we stood in line and made small talk and I mentioned that he looked tired and wondered if he'd been up all night at a party, (stupid, stupid, stupid), so of course he just had to fill me in on the wild "Pajama Party" he went to last night where everyone came in their lingerie or P.J.'s. Oh what fun, isn't that nice, envisioning the man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with, the guy I had abortions and a child with, getting drunk and fucking underaged girls, or getting drunk or high and trying to? Who knows, whatever it was, it hurt to hear about, and the last time I felt like doing stuff like that was in college. It just made me feel old and so separate from him.

Then we went down to the car and I had to ask him to help Beau put the things in my car. I can't lift heavy stuff with my stomach being still delicate yet. And then there was more kissing all around and he left. Then I walked around the car, got in, put my head down on the steering wheel and wept. It all just hurt too much -- seeing him so much in such a short span of time, after never seeing him more than at most once a year for the last five years, and nary a compliment. No, "Hey, how are ay doing with that whole weight loss thing? No, "Gosh you're sure looking good." From him? Yeah right. But I go on loving the guy, like he's my long lost big brother, the one I'll never stop adoring no matter how mean or selfish or self absorbed he becomes.

I don't want him anymore, I'm only marginally attracted to him out of the old and very deep love I have felt for him since I was eighteen years old, but Lord how it still hurts. How much longer does this have to go on hurting? Our divorce just came through a couple of weeks ago, after five years. I thought I would be better by now. Is it the medications I take, do they mute the grief so that it comes out in slow bursts of hurt over a much longer period of time? Or is that old girl's adage about it taking half the length of a relationship to get over the relationship true, in which case I am seriously fucked?

I think what hurts more than anything else is his relative indifference to me. If his sadness somehow mirrored mine just a bit more then I think we could share this and somehow heal together and end up friends, but he has been so incredibly indifferent, irresponsible, and cold, from the moment he ran off with Crystal Meth girl (Notice how I am carefully avoiding all mention of her being a stripper in deference to my many friends on LJ who are exotic dancers?), to this afternoon when he refused to take his son to see the movie "Grind" because he didn't feel like seeing it. Fuck if it were me and my growing-away-from-me-by-the-second son asked me to see Asswipe the Anal Asbestos Repairman, I'd hightail it to the cinema. It's supposed to be about the kid, not about you, can't you see that? Argh!

So then I had a choice, I could go home and sludge through the boxes while the biting flies nipped at my ankles in the hot sun. I could get on the computer and actually read my e-mail. I could clip that little annoying ten thousand step plastic pedometer to my hip and walk. Or I could get my act in gear and list a few more things on eBay, I have tons to list. Or... I could take myself shopping. Do I really need to ask you to guess which unhealthy choice I made?

So, on my way to the Westside Pavilion with thoughts of expensive makeup, handbags, perfume, and clothes on my mind, and hungry as all get out, I passed a Japanese restaurant, and I mention this only because it was so odd, called Hana Fuku. I'm serious. With one minor change of a consonant we'd have a whole different kind of business going on, but this was just a teriyaki restaurant. You'd think that with all that ancient mystical Asian experience right their at their fingertips, their honorable Feng Shue Master might have warned them that the word Fuku sounds an awful lot like Fuck You and might not be interpreted as exactly welcoming to western customers. I don't know, but it made for a few minutes of interesting thought while weaving my way through LA traffic.

Then there was the experience of trying on clothes. I don't even want to go into that because it was all so confusing. I had grown out of Lane Bryant, was wearing the largest sizes they had at The Avenue and now here I was wearing 18s and 20s. It felt like a miracle, a party of some kind, and I wanted to let everyone in on it, show everyone my scars and proselytize. I bought skirts and tops, wannabe Juicy Jeans chenille track suits and two sexy floral see-through teddies for Scott, and push up bras and thong underwear. Everything fit, in fact everything was too big, accustomed as I was to grabbing the largest sizes and I had to go back out and keep downsizing. It felt good, and it also felt weird and confusing, like some kind of out of body experience.

Then I went to lunch and I tried to order the healthiest thing on offer. I looked at the cheesy Mexican food and the pizza but I spied this sign that said tofu salad, so I went to the crappiest fast food Japanese restaurant I've ever been to, and ordered the healthiest thing I could find. My back was hurting and I had to lean on the counter while the big woman in front of me took her time getting, "Ummmm can I have the potato noodles, and the salad, yeah the salad, and, ummmm, some of that tempura stuff there, and a big piece of teriyaki chicken..." and Scott said that at that point he would have been tempted to say, "Oh hell Lady just tell the guy you'll take one of everything and move on." But sensitive, shrinking fat girl that I am, I understood her need to fix it all with food and waited patiently for my turn.

Then finally when she had finished overloading this lightweight plastic plate, the checked out Japanese lady behind the counter, looked at the woman in line behind me, who had just walked up and said, "You, yes, what you want?" and this woman just started rattling off her order. Well, the formerly, sometimes-meek, people pleasing Jacqui, who hadn't eaten anything all day, and was teetering dangerously on the low blood sugar edge of serious bitch territory politely interrupted with an "Umm, pardon me but I was next." And the nasty, intense rebuking I got from this monster woman made me back right down, and then wallow around in the injustice of this for about ten minutes. I so wanted someone to validate my experience but no one around there cared, the Latin guy behind the counter just wanted to serve me my terrible food, and the Japanese lady at the cash register didn't understand anything I said.

After my terrific, (not), lunch consisting of exactly two bites of tofu, two bites of lettuce, three bites of zucchini and a bite of some kind of weird potato noodles. I got up and took my watered down Snapple to Nordstroms to do some more credit card damage. On the way I passed a sunglasses store and bought some purple Bulgari sunglasses. I don't need any more sunglasses but they were so cool and were three shades of purple and really pretty so I chatted with the sales guy who incidentally was from Maui, sigh, and bought them. Then feeling sicker by the minute I passed a cute little children's store, went in and bought two pink furry poodle purses and coin purses for Irma and me, and then finally headed to Nordstroms.

By the time I got to Nordstroms I figured out that I was "dumping" but in the "Women's" section I saw the coolest Asian print skirt so I grabbed it, handed it to the sales woman, and said, "Help, I'm having a stomach attack. I have to run, will you hold this for me?" Then I ran for the rest room and sat there for forty minutes throwing up bit by bit into wadded up toilet paper, being as quiet as possible so no one would hear me and think I was having an episode of bulimic evacuation.

After being sick I slowly worked up the energy to head back to the women's section where I tried on a ton of clothes and bought most of them. I bonded with some nice Persian ladies, showed them my scars, and chatted about weight loss surgery and men. Then I went downstairs and bought a purse on sale, perfume for myself and Irma and makeup for myself and Irma. Estee Lauder has repackaged their product line and it is soooo cute, who would have thought. I just had to have some of their iridescent, glittery little plastic cubes of lip glass and eye shadows.

I spent so much money and bought so much stuff I could easily live without that my cards started alerting and shutting down. I'd reached my max on two of them and a third froze until customer service opens tomorrow. And the sad thing about all of this is that when I was trying to shop away my pain, it wasn't really working because I was so filled with guilt and fear. You'd think a compulsive shopping gal like me could at least get a little happiness high from the shopping, you know, for just a day or two, before the intensely frightening buyers remorse sets in. But no, us Catolicas, we get schooled in guilt from K-12 and get used to mixing our pleasure with pain.

It goes something like this, "Oh God I want that beautiful beaded Isabella Fiore bag. That would fill me up and make me happy for oh... about ten minutes, but if I could afford that I really should go get Scott a new Jean shirt his old one is starting to look really yellowy and ratty, and there's Irma with her car payment, and you can't afford this, and oh hell I'll get it." Then, tick, tick, tick, will the card go through, oh no, they want the saleslady to call in, not good, etc., etc., etc.

I'm not entirely sure why but I feel like I want to cry and cry and cry but the pills are muting all of that. I can feel it welling up inside me wanting to burst forth like some long dammed up river, but that little round black and white blobby cartoon character that you see on the Zoloft ads is just pushing it back down because he's been sad for so long and he just wants to hang out in the sunshine with that bluebird friend of his, while my heart wants to let it out and weep and weep for hours, a real let it loose, tears pouring down your face and neck, snotty hiccup fest.

I feel so fucked up and shallow, mired in the past, maudlin, a big compulsive spending baby who craves attention and takes pills to try to make it all better. I'm sitting here right now eating the only meal that I can have more than four bites of without barfing, (Wheat Thins, WisPride -- processed cheese, and watered down juice), and I'm looking at this vast array of prescription pills and wondering what combination will allay this terrible pain I feel deep down inside my heart. Will Valium, Xanax, and my antidepressant Effexor do it? Let's see...okay I'll try all three. Hey Ana's the one who made me feel like it was okay to go to a shrink and get prescriptions, (but I don't really blame her at all), she was passing out Xanax like they were candy and now after much withdrawal suffering she's off all of this stuff, while I'm still stuck and not too sure if I even want to get off the med train. When I'm at my lowest, self-esteem-wise, I imagine people reading this loooong entry and thinking, Maudlin, self pitying, pill popping, talent wasting, oversensitive, spoiled brat with credit cards, her own house, occasional access to money, who doesn't have to work a nine to five, and gets laid on a fairly regular basis at well over two hundred pounds, fucking bitch let's get her.

I'd never tried Xanax before and so many of my journal friends were talking about it like it was the answer to our feelingful big artist's hearts prayers. Hell even George Bush's niece was forging scripts for the stuff so I thought I should try it too. I'm like a little Internet cam-pup-junkie, whatever ana did I would want to do too. Except for the crocheting, I thought, Aha, thank God, finally there's one thing that she's doing, that I won't get obsessed over and have to start doing myself. Nope, sorry, now I'm dreaming about thick and thin slubby fibers, and ordering hand spun and hand dyed yarn on e-Bay.

What is it with me? I always have to have someone to copy, a muse, someone to follow. I've been like this my whole life. I have a whole passle of them, I used to adore Glenda Jackson and then Angie Dickenson, then what's her name from Space 1999, but she turned out to be a bitch, Vanessa Redgrave, Madonna, Meryl Streep, Glen Close, Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt, because you can't really have one without the other, Jodie Foster, Kate Bush, Siouxsie of Siouxsie and the Banshees, Sharon Osbourne, Roseanne in some ways, any female comedienne, Kate Winslet, Cate Blanchet, Nicole Kidman, Drew Barymore Cameron Diaz, the list goes on and on, my fake surrogate TV and Movie family. I want to be like them, get my hair cut and colored at the same salons they do, go to the same dermatologists and gynecologist, the same psychologist and psychiatrists, meet their stylists and wear the same clothes, take yoga and Pilates beside them and hang out with them at The Ivy and whatever other restaurant is the latest hot restaurant to have lunch. Then of course there are the many men I wouldn't mind being friends with George Clooney, David Duchovny, Colin Ferrell, Tom Hanks, Tom Cruise, Robert Redford, Robert Duvall, Al Pacino, and of course Robert Deniro.

Oh man what a day. Plus one of Ping's kittens, the black one, is refusing to nurse so I am going to have to get up every three or four hours throughout the night to feed him kitten replacement formula with a tiny syringe.

After all this time I can still find comfort in a repeat of an X-Files episode. It's like spending time with old friends. Tonight's repeat was the alien baseball episode where Scully and Mulder end up holding each other while they hit balls together at the end. So Sweet and cheering.

And this is for Tracy from Christina

The Killing Jar

Down where this ugly man
Seeks his sustenance
Down in the blue, midnight flare
A glass hand cuts through the water
Scything into his twisted roots Then from his eyes
Spring fireflies
Breathing life
Into a roaring disguise Needles and sins, sins and needles
He's gasping for air
In the wishing well
Dust to rust, ashes to gashes
Hand around the killing jar A soft hoodwink of shadow
The size of make-believe
Punches through his spike of rage
A glass hand cuts through the water
Snuffing out the magic fury Then from inside
Bolt lightning cries
Swiftly crushed
The final, muffled sighs Needles and sins, sins and needles
He's gasping for air
In the wishing well
Dust to rust, ashes to gashes
Hand around the killing jar

- Siouxsie And The Banshees