- Warning: I will blog whatever I feel like. Think of this as my brain vomit page. (You will not see any political or judgmental posts, though. Not my style.)
CURTAINS
She loved those damned curtains. The wistful way she ran her hands down the pleated seams; a lover’s touch reminding me of a different time – a time when we were young and full of life. Now my hands shake, wizened shells of skin hanging in folds, and the only time I get excited is when I take a piss without missing the toilet bowl. Those curtains though – those damned curtains – got more action than I did in the years before she passed.
A steal. That’s what she called them. Loretta found them while digging through the shelves at one of those thrift stores. She pulled out the package, face aglow, and she squealed. Then she covered her mouth, cheeks flushed, eyes darting to the few people who’d stopped to stare. I burst out laughing. We bought those damned curtains and she held them to her chest as we drove home. A queen on a social security budget.
I never understood her obsession. Something about ‘thread count’ and ‘luxury’. I never told her how worthless those curtains made me feel. Never mentioned how I’d worked myself to the bone to give her what I thought was a comfortable living. I hated those curtains. I hated that they represented a desire for a life I couldn’t give her. I never told her though, and when she passed, I kept the curtains.
Most of them, at least.
Not by choice, mind you.
Loretta, long dead and buried, haunts those curtains. Haunts me. She watches me through them; her silhouette, palm held against the material, always watching. Behind those curtains hide accusing eyes.
‘Who are you to sit at our table, eating dinner, while I rot away?’ ‘I hated my life! Hated it!’ ‘You were never man enough, never will be!’ ‘Undesirable! Cheap! I.N.C.O.M.P.E.T.E.N.T!’
There is no escape from her nagging, no escape from her criticism. She’s ALWAYS in my head. There is one place, though. A place where I can dull her screams.
Our bedroom.
The only room which is missing curtains.
The same curtains I’d wrapped her dead body in to drag her to the backyard.
The curtains I buried her in.
I mean, she loved those damned curtains.
FUC&%ING STEVE
Welcome to my first blog! I know, I know – the title is a bit ‘explicit’ but I promise you, it’ll make sense as you read along. As I sit here, typing to you lovely or not so lovely folks (hey, no judgement here) my six year old is throwing a cardboard Mario figure at my face and my eleven year old is sitting in a dark room, watching YouTube videos. As for me, I’m trying to find the best position to sit in that won’t cause me pain while drinking a hot cup of tea to ease the swollen glands on my face.
Maybe you’re wondering what the purpose of this blog is. Why, would anybody title their first blog Fu#&ing Steve? Well, let’s roll back to the beginning of 2020 (and no, this is not a 2020 bash – it sucked for all of us). In January, exactly one year after being diagnosed with the autoimmune diseases Sjogrens and benign Waldenstroms, I ended up in the hospital with intestinal bleeding. One month later, at 40 years old with no previous heart problems, I was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. Because my disease was taking a toll on my life, I had to leave a job I loved to focus on my health. That was how 2020 began for me.
Before all this chaos, I was a successful marketing manager and an author on the side. I’d written several published pieces and signed with an agent. My writing had been taking a dip before the hospitalizations, but it certainly struggled after. Between the slews of medication, the vomiting, fainting, pain, and fear, I was barely able to focus on my family. Writing had to take a back burner. It seemed like everything was crashing down and we had no one to blame. That’s where Steve came in. In a random post I saw on Facebook, in a random comment, somebody wrote ‘Fu#&ing Steve’. Maybe it was the insanity of quarantine, or perhaps the painkillers, but for some reason, I couldn’t stop laughing. Luckily, my husband, who has the same dark sense of humor as me, also found this hilarious.
So, when I’m navigating through choppy waters with no idea what is ahead, I do the only thing I know to do. I close my eyes before I get swept away and focus on the things that ground me – my family, my faith, and my writing. Things will slip through. There may be more bad days than good. And when those come, well, that’s Fu#$ing Steve’s fault.
And so began our motto. Whenever something went wrong, or whenever things seemed impossible, we’d blame it on ‘Fu$&ing Steve’. Someone drops a cup of soda on the floor – Fu#$ing Steve. I take a tumble because my legs haven’t caught up to my brain – Fu#$ing Steve. Cradling the porcelain throne because my body has decided it’s not going to keep down food – ‘Fu#$ing Steve. Maybe it’s stupid (it really, really is) but it works. It’s the little things that keep us going.