The Witching Hours

February 7, 2010

I hate Sunday nights.  Not all Sunday nights.  But more often than not, when I find myself having an evening that really sucks, it’s a Sunday.  To be fair, I don’t remember if I hated Sunday evenings back when I was still married.  There was always too much to do before Monday to really wallow in one’s thoughts much, making sure the kids had enough diapers, formula, milk, wipes, clean clothes, Cheerios, and so forth for getting started for the week.  Cleaning out the diaper bag and cleaning the house, loading the dishwasher, putting away laundry, getting ready for the week ahead.  The cycle continues.

Now that I’m older, divorced, and my kids are getting a little older, I find myself on Sunday nights every other week completely alone.  My ex has 50% custody, so I have my two boys every other week.  This is one of those solo Sundays.  I think I hate these the most.  Because I don’t look at Sundays the same way anymore – yes, there are the inevitable, before-the-week-starts chores of laundry, dishes, cleaning out my purse (a nightmare) and tote bag (ditto).  But no kids, no spouse, no one pressuring me to do any of these things.  And therein lies the problem.

Given too much time on my hands, I think too much.  Rather than enjoy the time and read a book and escape like most normal people do, I get wrapped up in some notion and BROOD on it until the cows come home.  Sometimes even long after they’ve come home.  The holsteins are setting up camp in the living room with an espresso maker and I’m still sulking.  I wish I could do something productive like go take out my frustrations on my elliptical exerciser that sits downstairs, but ask me to and I can come up with a list of excuses longer than Rapunzel’s locks faster than you can get the words, “but why …” out of your mouth.  I’m well-practiced at it.  And no, I’m not looking for sympathy, or motivational lectures or speeches.   A kick in the ass, maybe, but that’s about it. 

I spend large portions of my life wondering why I can’t just be normal.  Admittedly, I don’t really know what “normal” is.  But in some part of my mind I think that normal people actually enjoy shopping at Wal-Mart and find watching prime time TV fulfilling.  They don’t ruminate over what they could have been or whether or not they should have pursued a post-graduate degree, and odds are that they don’t even know what the word “ruminate” means.  Now I’m no genius but for some reason I come off to a lot of people as being very smart.  Probably just the occasional use of big words, I’m guessing. 

Sometimes I think the reason I write this blog is merely so that maybe somewhere out there, someone else in the world will read these words and think, “Hey, I feel like that a lot, too.  I’m glad to know I’m not alone.”

But back to Sunday nights for a moment.  I’m not sure what it is, but something about Sunday nights seems to bring out different instincts in different people.  A nesting instinct, a booty call urge, you name it.  Not the same as finding oneself alone on a Saturday night with no date prospects.  The Sunday night booty call is more of the white flag failure, the “I’ve gone the whole week and haven’t gotten laid by anyone except my hand; help me out here.” 

I seem to attract the type of guys that see me as nothing more than a booty call, too.  At least a lot of them do.  And I suppose I can’t complain – there is a more masculine, testosterone-based side to me that has a tendency to look at men as notches on a bedpost myself.  Like I’d like to sleep with them just for the sake of satisfying my curiosity about what it was like, and then move on.  Rather chauvinistic of me, I’d have to say.  However, there are men that I’ve actually dated, or been friends with, ones I’ve met in the office or elsewhere and had real conversations with, and thought that we were friends as well as the occasional lovers.  What I don’t get is what is it that prompts these guys to contact me and inevitably, with little or no other conversation, ask, “wanna fuck?” usually coinciding with sending me cell phone photos of their erect penis.  Am I the only one this happens to?  Bear in mind, I now have a sizable enough digital collection of cell phone penis photos that I’m planning to publish a coffee table book on the subject.  Thinking of calling it “Cocks on the Line” or maybe “The CockTail Book”.   Or for shits and grins, maybe I’ll start sending photos of penises to guys who send them to me … except I won’t send them a photo of their own equipment, I’ll mix them up.  I’ll caption it as “Juan, the Pool Boy” and see what happens.

Do guys think that this turns women on?  I think this is one of those classic Mars/Venus communication breakdowns.  Yes, I understand that men get very turned on by looking at naked females or even just female body parts – a breast or nipple, or the curve of a hip, for instance.  Women, by and large, aren’t wired this way. I don’t get turned on by visual stimuli, unless I’m waking up next to George Clooney and he tells me he’d love to take me shoe shopping.  But even then I’m wondering how fast I can get dressed before he changes his mind.  Sending me a photo of your dick is like sending me a photo of your new Ryobi compound mitre saw.  I get equally excited by either because they end up in the same category in my mind.  It’s a tool.  Why do men think that this will have me salivating like some Pavlovian puppy and calling them up to say, “oh, God, I must have you now!?”  Honestly, unless you have a dick the size of a Vienna sausage that is going to have me stifling a laugh and looking for the nearest frilled toothpick to poke it on the end of, by and large, most men’s – ahem – equipment looks about the same to me.  And I’ve probably seen somewhere between three and four dozen of them, which I think is a lot more than most women of my generation.  There is larger and smaller, bigger and slimmer, curved and straight.  But I just don’t get as excited by looking at it as you do.  Odds are good I have something in my nightstand drawer that outguns it by several hundred RPMs anyway and I don’t have to deal with it telling me online that “well, if you don’t want to fuck, then we’re through talking” and going off to pout like some petulant child, even though they were the one who brought up the whole f-word question to begin with, and we don’t even have an ongoing relationship! 

Oy vey.  And I thought women were complicated.  Yes, these are things that typically happen to me on a Sunday night.

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About rachelroust

Looking to live a life less ordinary. Join me on the journey if you wish.
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