I love you Wade Wilson.
I love you so much.
If you’ve never seen Deadpool then I’m sorry but we can’t be friends. We just can’t. He’s too delicious and filthy and wonderful and I need him in my life and so do you.
Ok. Watch that? That’s a start. We’re having a conversation about being friends now.
It’s going to take some time.
We’ll get there.
I went to see DP2 last night.
As a hardcore Deadpool devotee, I was understandably excited but nervous. When an original film version of a favorite character is done well, I tend to fear decompensation of quality in sequels.
It’s not always pretty.
Sometimes it gets pretty grotesque.
No es bueno.
But I’ve been longing to get to this movie for quite some time and, as often happens after having kids, I found myself recently unable to recall a non-animated, non-g rated movie I’d seen outside my home.
I’m not one to wallow in narcissistic gratification of personal whims and desires. But I have recognized recently the good that intentional self care does for me.
Yesterday, I took advantage of the girls’ absence to put together their pool filter and trampoline.
Coolest yard in the neighborhood status has officially been locked in for yet another year. So. That’s handled.
Last year we undertook the stock tank pool project that had been making its rounds on Pinterest. Something has to be very compelling to get me on a Pinterest bandwagon of any sort.
But I like the permanency of the stock tank pool and the fact that, when the girls are too big for it, it will be no small thing to throw a heater into the filtration system and turn it into a mom tub.
That’s a hot tub, but with a mini fridge filled with wine and peanut butter cups next to it, if you were wondering.
Shut up, you know you were wondering.
We’ve had some leaks this year – just one persistent one actually – but it doesn’t appear to be too bad. I also upgraded to a sand filter (thank you Grandpa) so that it would remain functional throughout the summer.
Last year it wound up a bit swampy.
But yesterday was a long day, between the filter and the trampoline. I love projects that say they’re “two to three adults needed” projects.
Bitch, please. Parenting claims to be a two player game too, but guess what? I’m owning this shit. Mostly. It’s not easy or fun, but it does not have to be a two player game.
When an instruction booklet comes with something I have to put together, and it comes out the box throwing that kind of challenge around like a monkey flinging its own shits, I have no choice but to enter “hold my beer” mode.
I finished the filter and was about a third of the way through the trampoline when my ex-sister-in-law / favorite local friend stopped.
Then, the neighbor came over to school me on pool maintenance 101, and then some pizza got involved, couple of cans of beer, a little leftover Chinese.
It was delightful, and everything got done. And, with the girls staying over at the Grandma’s house, I decided it was a rather auspicious night to make my Deadpool dreams come true.
A reward for my hard work and commitment to giving my children the tools to do as I say when I say “go entertain yourself” this summer.
I planned to go to the movie alone but Vanina said she wanted to come too. So we met, we Deadpooled, it was awesome.
The second movie was actually better than the first, for anyone else out there wondering whether it’s worth the trip to the theater.
I know that it’s sort of a cliché; a situation about which people have very strong opinions. But I do not understand taboo of going to a movie or to dinner alone. It could be because I have two six-year-olds, so maybe it’s just that literally any time I get to myself, even if it’s just spent on the toilet, is some of my favorite favorite time ever. But I just don’t understand the need to have someone present for me to enjoy something. I know a lot of people have it, I just don’t understand it.
I had to explain to someone just the night before last that I keep rum and wine in the house because I would avoid a crowded bar like the plague. I think it was surprising to hear a “no” to an invite to a crowded drinking establishment.
I think it’s also surprising when someone walks into a movie or restaurant by themselves, willingly, without offering that awkward apologetic shrug/smile combo as they do to the eyes that stare them down as they walk the gauntlet to either their table or their seat.
It would appear that I’m just generally a surprising person I guess.
Which is not surprising, actually. I’m quite used to being the oddball.
I really don’t understand the compulsion to be paired up. I stuck with Mike as long as I did because I made a commitment, and I had decided a long time ago that when I got married that was it. I was not getting divorced I was not having second marriages. I was not taking the easy way out when I got frustrated. I expected to get frustrated. I expected it to be hard. But I committed to the process of working through it and growing by it.
I just didn’t pick someone who was as committed as me, it turned out.
I was invested as all hell.
I shouldn’t have been.
That’s probably a lot of the reason I’m not all that eager to jump back in the saddle again, too.
But I’ve never been a person who feels the need to fill a void after break-up with just anybody I can wrestle into a date. Sure it feels shitty to be alone again when a relationship ends. Of course it does. But it’s not unbearable, and it even gets kind of comforting, the solitude, after a while.
My aunt Marlene…oh god. Where to start with my aunt Marlene? My Aunt Marlene is 82 years old and lives in Englewood, Florida, alone. Well. Not entirely alone. With two cats. She has been single since her husband died about 18 years ago. Maybe a little longer, I don’t know the timeline off the top of my head. I do know that she has been in Florida for about 18 years. And she’s never dated. She’s never really socialized. Her doctor tried to convince her to take a bus trip to Miami for three days and she about clocked him right in the kisser.
This is my aunt Marlene.
Oh my god I can’t. Isn’t she the most adorable thing ever?
I fucking love her.
She tells me all the time that when Luddy died, her husband Luddy, the women her age used to tell her that she needed to “get out there.” Find a man, they counseled.
“What in the hell do I want a damn man for,” Marlene says was her consistent response. “The only thing a man is good for is fixing stuff around the house but goddamn, Stace,” she says to me, “I can hire that done.”
My aunt Marlene hates Elizabeth Hasselbeck and Donald Trump. She has as big a crush on Barack Obama as I do. She loves the Dollar Tree, and thunderstorms, and a good fish fry.
Oh my god, you guys, she loves The Walking Dead.
And she hassles me about my “love life” just as much as the women her age did her after Lud died.
I don’t know their story, but I get the sense that marriage wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows for my aunt Marlene either.
And she always tells me afterward that she’s just messing with me, and how she wanted to “sock those broads” who used to hassle her about being single right in their mouths, but my aunt Marlene quietly mourns my love life for me because I refuse to. “Jesus, Stace,” she’ll tell me when her question “what about your love life” is returned with a consistent “mythological.”
“You’re too young for that,” she tells me.
“I have a cognitive/emotional age of 82,” I tell her.
“You’re only 35,” she insists.
I know, aunt Marlene. I know.
But I know she’s got some respect for the fact that, like her, the overwhelming compulsion to be with someone, for me, is a comical proposition.
It’s not that I wouldn’t love someone to have gone to a movie with last night. I would have.
But I’m not interested in someone to go out with if he’s not willing to consider the possibility, to work toward the common goal, of being someone I can come home to as well.
Because, in the end, all I want is someone to come home to.
And I’m sure as shit not wasting another minute of my life on someone who only wants casual fuckery.
Mindfuckery or otherwise.
Besides, at this point, a game of mindfuckery with anyone else would probably feel like playing Candy Land with a five-year-old.
Way, way too easy.
I’ve learned way too much from someone who’s way too good at it.
I should probably just put everything on the curb with a sign that says “free shit” and go live with Marlene.
Golden Girls style.
I feel like she and I could tear some shit up.
As long as it’s before 5 p.m.
Because that’s when our programs start.