Jacqui (jacqui) wrote,

A Bowl Full of Cat, More About the Pain of the Funeral and My Ex, Sex and Scott, and Hair Loss

This is Triple B, our tiniest kitten, well, actually no she isn't the tiniest one anymore, now that we've just had new ones. We had three very sick kittens whose mom's figured they weren't worth the effort and abandoned them, so we took them on and bottle fed them ourselves round the clock. Only two of them made it. Baby died and broke our hearts, but Baby Baby, and Baby Baby Baby, or Triple B, as Beau likes to call her, is still here fighting. She has died and come back to life several times. We've given her mouth to mouth and pushed on her chest, forced liquids down her, given her IV Fluids and antibiotics, incredibly expensive eye drops, Irma even took her to her church so people would pray for her, and at one point the vet said he thought we'd have to remove her eyes. But as you can see she's doing just fine, this super soft tiny little monkey girl, and we're all pretty proud of this and completely dote on her. I took this picture tonight when she jumped into Beau's bowl of plastic bee bees. Triple B in the Bee Bee's, get it.

I'm having a super late dinner. Yum, salad with Girards original Italian dressing, my fave, a few olives, a couple bites if beans and cheese. Maybe this is why I'm not losing weight anymore. It goes up one day and then down the next then up again the next, soooooo frustrating when all of my other WLS pals are losing half of a pound to one pound and sometimes even two per day, sob, sob. It sure feels good to be able to eat lettuce again though, I just have to chew it really well.

Then there was the fact that, (and I know this is narcissistic of me), no one even noticed that I had lost eighty-six pounds when I saw all of my old Robby-family at the funeral. I told myself, "Jacqui, you horribly selfish person, this is a funeral for God's sake, people are devastated here, they wouldn't really notice or care if you had a turnip growing out of the middle of your forehead." But I had hoped that Robby and Matthew would notice. They had seen me at my top weight.

It really hurts that Rob couldn't care less about my weight loss. He never asks after my health when we speak, never asks how much more weight I've lost. Just further confirmation of how little I mean to him, how little I always must have meant to him. But then again it could be because he's super self centered, as if I need to wonder about this, he's his Mother's son. I don't know how he turned into this shiny bald headed Mr. Clean, the new version, with the multi piercings guy. It was so painful being with him for so much time, sitting next to him as if we were a couple again, and then saying good-bye and going our separate ways to our cars. I cried.

His wild Aunt Fina, Lucy's sister who got us all high when we were so young, said, "Oh you still love him. Don't cry honey, he's not worth it. You know I've never known what that feels like, to be in love. I married three men and they were all bastards. The first one beat me for hours one night, and my brothers went after him in a truck. You better believe it! The second one I've forgotten about, and I caught the last one fucking our maid so I threw him out on his skinny ass and was glad about it."

She's such a kick this wild older lady. She said that when one of her daughters married a man who abused her she went over to his house and , "Beat the shit out of him with a two by four. Oh you know I did girl, I fucked him up but good. Would have killed him too if someone hadn't stopped me."

Then there was poor dear Tracy, my old friend, who had needle scars all over her feet. Kicked up all of my codependent rescue fantasy stuff. I went around asking people if we couldn't have some kind of secret family fund raiser to help her out. You know, do an intervention, find the most affordable rehab we can. But only two of her sisters seemed interested. The one's Tracy was drunkenly calling, "Fucking two faced bitches. I don't need their judgment. If they loved me they wouldn't judge me." To which Fina raised her glass and said, "Oh you know that's true girl. Those fucking snobby cunts, they think their shit don't stink." A rollicking wild ride of a family experience, let me tell you, and so sad, no one's judging her, they can just see what's happening to her, she's wasting away, her face is covered with sores and bruises, her face is so drawn and wrinkled, she looks so much older than her age. She needs some love and help but she doesn't want it. And everyone in my life, family, friends, and therapists, have been telling me that I need to work on my own issues, keep the focus right here at home, for some time now.

It was good to see Robby's cousin Marty married and with a little baby girl. I was so sorry for him when his first marriage fell apart. He had had a big wedding and married a famous professional volleyball player, who we all thought was a lesbian, but no one told him. When she left him for a woman he was so angry that no one had said anything to him before the wedding, but we all thought we must be wrong. That gaydar thing, it's so complicated, and how can you butt in on something like that, now that would be judging.

My family by comparison was so sedate and discreet, they were all about polite dinner conversation while they chewed up their meat and spit it out. Cocktail parties where people made racist jokes under their breaths and the greatest scandal was when wealthy Dwight Whater-His-Name-Was married a young gold digger named Cookie and she sat on his lap in my parents dining room. Oh wait, there was Reese Milner who went to jail for something and whose wife bit of the top of two of his fingers when they were screwing one night.

I worry sometimes that Robby reads my journal, it wouldn't be hard to find, there are so many links to it hanging out all over the place. I was looking up something completely unrelated and one of my journal entries popped up at the top of the pile, very strange. I had this sad fantasy that maybe he wasn't saying anything kind about my appearance or weight loss because he has read my entry where I had written about wanting to look so good he'd be sorry he left. But I'm thinking that was just some kind of ego-saving fantasy on my part.

I know it drives Scott crazy that it's taken me a decade to process this loss, but he's so good about it, on the whole. I wish I could wave my sparkly, hard won, Barbie wand and fix it so he would never be burdened with any of these feelings of mine, but it doesn't seem likely. In the early days of his breakup with his wife Nancy I used to listen to him talk about his hurt and the pain and loss he felt, but he got over that so quickly it worried me about him. I wondered if he was incapable of going deep enough into a relationship to get as torn up as I do when things get ripped asunder. Although he says they were much closer to breaking up than we were, which just makes me feel guilty and sad for my part in it.

Oh well. I'm going to sign off here, I have so much more I'd like to share with you but I am sooooo weary and tired. I have got to have sex soon before I have any more of these weird transsexual Asian Restaurant sex tent dildo dreams. (Oh that had better not be a mosquito bopping around my feet or he will be one squashed bug. Look at what I've been driven to, I am fast becoming a murderer when it comes to mosquitos, sad, sad, sad, and not like me at all, but these bites are setting my skin on fire. I feel like I have these tight round knots of fiery itching mosquito poison buried just under the surface of my skin just waiting to explode). I have been having the wildest sexual dreams and I am actually getting pretty pissed off at them and sick of it. There is only ever one cure for this. Scott, are you out there Mister? I don't care about eBay and the cats, interruptions and Beau, just get over it and fuck me, okay?

Yeah right, like that will get him to come running over here in the middle of the night, swollen and ready for love. This would never work with him, he's much more feminine about this than I am. He needs more wooing and romance and frankly is a bit of a delicate environmental fuss pot. (Oh he's gonna kill me for this) Although who wouldn't be with the amount of cats and umm, cat mess, that we have around here? Still, it pisses me off that he can't just throw me on the bed and do me sometimes.

I'm more of a sudden masculine, "Do me! Do me right now!" kind of gal. Well, to be fair, due to my many hormonal fluctuations I fly wildly between the two opposite axes of Who cares if we ever have sex again, to If you don't fuck me right this second I swear I am going to fucking die! Sex is so complicated at times don't cha think?

Love you guys,

PS: My hair is coming out in handfuls. I knew this would happen but it's sadly disconcerting nevertheless, sigh.

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