metaphorical cake

This past week has been a series of ups and downs. Actually just varying degrees of down. Jonas got teeth, Brian got a speeding ticket, I had a full-on anxiety attack, and our bedroom door now has a hole in covered by a full length mirror that holds about as much validity as one you might find in a fun house. The world keeps spinning and I feel as though I'm being flung up against the wall by centripetal force and I'm searching desperately for something to grab onto. I'm looking for something solid to cling to so that I can stop spinning for a moment and relearn simple breathing. I have been distracted by pure things that I am quite unworthy of. My thoughts have been muddled with what if and if only and why why why.

Dani and I discussed weddings yesterday. We both find it to be incredibly rude and tacky when the bride and groom smear cake in each other's faces. As an ex-pastry chef who has baked hundreds of beautiful wedding cakes, Dani was somewhat familiar with this crude practice. Apparently, In the olden days when women had less of a choice in taking on life partners, this was a bride's subtle way of expressing her distaste with the groom she was reluctantly marrying. I can't say I blame her. If smashing cake in someone's face was the one way to express resentment during a time when a woman's words were to be sweet and limited, then I'm glad for those brides. I'm going to love you as it is now my duty, but I must first convey how much I hate the whole idea.

Today I realized that I have been smashing metaphorical wedding cake in Brain's face almost daily since the night the pink line appeared on the EPT. I cannot help resenting him. I remind him everyday how much I loathe his computer and his slurping and his whistling and his cat and the list goes on. I keep picking away at small things because I am denying the real problem. It all came to a head tonight when I was called out for this very problem. I am an asshole.

And there's Brian. On the couch watching Rambo. Escaping the confines of my ridicule. Eluding my nagging voice by seeking solace in machine guns and shouting. That makes me feel like a fucking doll, let me tell ya. He's wiping his face off again and I'm wondering when he will give up. Will there come a time when we can really just sit ourselves down with forks and plates and eat our cake like civilized people? Stay tuned...