My saboteur is a little Jewish guy who works in a deli. He knows how it really is and doesn't speak very often except to tell you how it really is when he just can't take holding back the obvious any more. He speaks his view of the obvious which is part Divine and part "you dumb preppy blond". He is really too busy to bother with his hands in greasy salami and salmon, and he can not take the time for any more than a brief judgmental glance at my chest...he's disappointed because its not much. But he does state a truth and it is easy to justify his wise views.

"God let me grow old, but lead me not into the times of old age."

B.H. 5-24-10

My Saboteur is French...Armand. He's skinny, smug and arrogant, and everything bores, annoys or disgusts him. He wears a beret, smokes thin French cigarettes constantly, and works as an art critic (of course). For some reason, people invite him to all of their parties, because he is, after all, witty and sarcastic and fearless about tearing anyone and anything down. His gift is to put our secret, shameful dark side into words. He's never been married. No one is good enough for him.

I never realized how invasive and annoying he really is, how much destruction and chaos he creates. He’s the guy that blows out the candles on the cake before the birthday boy even has a chance, and he doesn’t even care. In fact, he lives for moments like that. He tells himself that he is the Great Protector. In reality, he’s a jealous lover who never wants you to find happiness again, and he’s going to insure that you won’t.

So to you, Mon Ami, hear this and listen well….

Vous n’etes pas le patron de moi.

There’s a new sheriff in town.

PJ 4-10-10