Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the soft uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there.
I did not die.
-Anonymous
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
My Life is a Laptop Balanced Precariously on a Binder and Two Pillows, with Its Power Cord Attached with Scotch Tape
I am writing this post on my laptop, which is sitting balanced precariously on top of a plastic binder, which sits on two pillows. Further, the power cord is scotch taped into the back of the computer. And yet. And yet, at any moment, even in this magic position, I may still lose power to my laptop, which no longer has a battery that actually holds a charge, because the power cord no longer attaches securely to the laptop, and even when it does attach (due to scotch tape) if just the right atmospheric conditions are not met, if the Gods are in an unhappy mood, if the wind blows outside my house, the connections between the little metal pieces in the power cord and the laptop will cease to match up and instantly, in the middle of whatever I am doing, the computer will shut down. It took me all evening to figure out what was wrong and how to fix this situation.
(Pardon me while I save the work I've done so far in case of said catastrophe.)
Phew. Okay. I almost had a heart attack there because my sister's cat put her paws on the pillows to demand food. Thank god this did not upset the powers that be.
Do you have any idea how long it took to fill in a simple Excel sheet with the Democratic Town Committee meetings for the next four months? A task that should have taken me an hour maybe? Four. Four hours. And several times I had to waste my time going back to redo work I had already done that was lost by the sudden shutdowns, until I learned to save after the entry of every row of information. Which reminds me . . .
(Okay, saved again.)
Why am I going into such detail about my ghetto laptop? Because I feel that this is a strong metaphore for my current life situation.
I was going to use the rest of this space to go back over the metaphore and show how it directly relates to my life, but my back aches from sitting in this precarious position to type, and besides, I'm getting sick of me whining, so I can only imagine how anyone reading this is feeling. So we'll sum up the metaphore by simply saying: My life has been hard lately.
Complete non sequitur: Willie Nelson is the coolest country singer ever. First he evaded his taxes, then he sent cases of his whiskey to the Texas Democrats when they were on the lam in Oklahoma, then he recorded a gay-themed Country song entitled, "Cowboys Are Frequently, Secretly (Fond of Each Other)."
(Pardon me while I save the work I've done so far in case of said catastrophe.)
Phew. Okay. I almost had a heart attack there because my sister's cat put her paws on the pillows to demand food. Thank god this did not upset the powers that be.
Do you have any idea how long it took to fill in a simple Excel sheet with the Democratic Town Committee meetings for the next four months? A task that should have taken me an hour maybe? Four. Four hours. And several times I had to waste my time going back to redo work I had already done that was lost by the sudden shutdowns, until I learned to save after the entry of every row of information. Which reminds me . . .
(Okay, saved again.)
Why am I going into such detail about my ghetto laptop? Because I feel that this is a strong metaphore for my current life situation.
I was going to use the rest of this space to go back over the metaphore and show how it directly relates to my life, but my back aches from sitting in this precarious position to type, and besides, I'm getting sick of me whining, so I can only imagine how anyone reading this is feeling. So we'll sum up the metaphore by simply saying: My life has been hard lately.
Complete non sequitur: Willie Nelson is the coolest country singer ever. First he evaded his taxes, then he sent cases of his whiskey to the Texas Democrats when they were on the lam in Oklahoma, then he recorded a gay-themed Country song entitled, "Cowboys Are Frequently, Secretly (Fond of Each Other)."
Friday, February 24, 2006
When I Was a POA at Luci's Wedding
Crushing Jew Anon has requested that I write "summit" for him to read when he gets to work in the morning all hung over. So naturally I thought of one of my own drunk stories, which occured last summer (before I started blogging) and therefore was never described here. Oh, kiddies, hold onto your hats because this one is a treat!
So it was my friend Luci's wedding. I couldn't decide which of two guys I wanted to bring so I decided to bring my friend Nicole instead. It was an open bar so we were buzzed within oh about 30 minutes of the beginning of the reception. First Nicole asked the bartender for a margarita and he said he was too busy to make it! The nerve! We were so upset! So we consoled ourselves by moving to the daiquiri bar and sucking down two each.
We went to the ladies' room and in the powder room section I saw that someone had left their disposable camera on the vanity. Well, I had just finished lamenting that I forgot to bring a camera of my own so I decided this was a sign that I needed to take this lost camera. We were just leaving the ladies' room when this girl came in and looked directly at the spot where the camera had been sitting moments before. So, being the honest girl I am, I shoved it down the front of my dress. Yay to having lots of cleavage!
So we get back to the reception and now I am in a room with a hundred people and a camera between my breasts. How to remove it without the 8 strangers sharing a table with us witnessing me groping myself?? Well, I decided that the best course of action was to shimmy it down the dress so it would drop out between my legs and under the table. Problem solved! Off for another round of free drinks! The daiquiri bar having been removed, we went back to the mean bartender and asked him to make us a drink. We asked him to decide on it. So he says, "I'll make you a P.O.A." Oh, thought I, a drink I haven't heard of (having been a bartender myself for a whole month at the time). It was good-yummy, fruity, and strong.
We discussed what we thought P.O.A. stood for. The meal was pretty uneventful. You know, what with the food and the speeches, etc, we weren't able to quaff much alcohol. But as soon as possible we were making our way right back up to the bar! We asked for two more P.O.A.'s and all sly said, "P.O.A. stands for Pissed Off Alcoholic, doesn't it?" (Figuring this was an excellent guess, given how angry we were over the initial margarita incident and how clearly alcohol-hungry we were.) Bartender man laughs and says, "No I swear that's not it!" But he wouldn't tell us what it was.
Another trip to the ladies' room. The wedding was at one of those places that hosts multiple events at the same time and there were two other weddings going on at the same time. Luckily camera girl must have been at one of the other weddings. Upon passing the guestbook for another wedding, we decided to sign that one as well. Ha ha, we thought. Aren't we clever little lushes?!
We danced. We drank some more. We did shots with the bride; we did shots with the underage kids that worked for Luci. We drank some more. At some point in our many trips to the bar, bartender man finally told us what P.O.A. stood for: Piece Of Ass. I almost would have preferred Pissed Off Alcoholic because it was funnier, though the real meaning was more flattering, obviously.
After the cake was cut, and everyone was dancing and away from the tables and mingling, I decided that I really, really liked Luci's wedding favors: Shot glasses inscribed with the bride and groom's names and the wedding date (filled with jordan almonds-ick-but still, the shot glasses were awesome). So I noticed that a few people had left the wedding and didnt' take their shot glasses. I all slick-like sat at their tables and slipped their shot glasses into my little mini purse.
We went to the bathroom again. This time, there was a videographer girl outside wanting the guests to give their little wedding speeches for prosperity's sake or whatever. So Nicole and I took our turn. I cannot remember what all I said to that girl but she sure as hell was laughing her ass off at me. On the way into the bathroom we signed the other couple's guest book again, this time with famous people's names. Ah, what clever P.O.A.'s we were! On the way back out we signed yet again, this time with clever messages like "Happy Hannukah!" and "Best wishes on this Arbor Day!" In the middle of leaving our latest best wishes, Videographer Girl comes over and says, "Um, I think that is the wrong guest book." Poor girl thought she was being helpful to the silly drunks that had lost their way.
Instead, I said, "We know! SHHHHHH!!" I would not be surprised to find out that she filmed this as well, as she laughed at the two of us some more, being giant asses. Then she asked us to get more wedding guests to come out and do the best wishes deal so we proceeded to harass everyone inside to get them to go out. Luci's friend Gay Matt (who wore a very pimped out suit and was looking incredibly slick--there may have even been a cane, though I am a little fuzzy) had us come out to do his video message with him. So in front of the camera Nicole, Matt, and I arranged to have a three-way marriage, and when he was done with his message, we both kissed him at the same time.
I believe this was when Videographer Girl realized that she would have excellent footage if she just began following us around the reception for the rest of the night because after that it seemed that every time we turned around, there she was! We decided to sneak into the reception of the "Happy Hannukah" people and check out their favors to decide if they were worth snitching. They weren't. Just crappy Hershey's bars with a picture of the happy couple on the custom label.
We did shots with the bride again when we could finally get her to ourselves. I wrote two signs on paper napkins and had Nicole take a picture of me holding the one that said, "I quit bitch!" The thought at the time was, wouldn't this be a hilarious way to give my notice at the end of the summer when I was returning to school? The other, that said "Fuck Karen" (the VP of the company where we all worked), I had Luci hold up for a snapshot.
Nicole picked up one of the groomsmen (with my forcing her to) and while she danced the last two or three dances with him, I made some more rounds of the empty tables, stealing more shot glasses. Now I didn't care if these people had left or not as long as they were otherwise occupied. Finally, at midnight, they forced us out. Nicole wanted to go with the groomsman to an afterparty but I told her that she couldn't since she has a boyfriend and I didn't think it was a good idea. So we made our way home.
Final shot glass count: 14. I have no idea how 14 shot glasses fit into a mini purse. No idea at all.
So it was my friend Luci's wedding. I couldn't decide which of two guys I wanted to bring so I decided to bring my friend Nicole instead. It was an open bar so we were buzzed within oh about 30 minutes of the beginning of the reception. First Nicole asked the bartender for a margarita and he said he was too busy to make it! The nerve! We were so upset! So we consoled ourselves by moving to the daiquiri bar and sucking down two each.
We went to the ladies' room and in the powder room section I saw that someone had left their disposable camera on the vanity. Well, I had just finished lamenting that I forgot to bring a camera of my own so I decided this was a sign that I needed to take this lost camera. We were just leaving the ladies' room when this girl came in and looked directly at the spot where the camera had been sitting moments before. So, being the honest girl I am, I shoved it down the front of my dress. Yay to having lots of cleavage!
So we get back to the reception and now I am in a room with a hundred people and a camera between my breasts. How to remove it without the 8 strangers sharing a table with us witnessing me groping myself?? Well, I decided that the best course of action was to shimmy it down the dress so it would drop out between my legs and under the table. Problem solved! Off for another round of free drinks! The daiquiri bar having been removed, we went back to the mean bartender and asked him to make us a drink. We asked him to decide on it. So he says, "I'll make you a P.O.A." Oh, thought I, a drink I haven't heard of (having been a bartender myself for a whole month at the time). It was good-yummy, fruity, and strong.
We discussed what we thought P.O.A. stood for. The meal was pretty uneventful. You know, what with the food and the speeches, etc, we weren't able to quaff much alcohol. But as soon as possible we were making our way right back up to the bar! We asked for two more P.O.A.'s and all sly said, "P.O.A. stands for Pissed Off Alcoholic, doesn't it?" (Figuring this was an excellent guess, given how angry we were over the initial margarita incident and how clearly alcohol-hungry we were.) Bartender man laughs and says, "No I swear that's not it!" But he wouldn't tell us what it was.
Another trip to the ladies' room. The wedding was at one of those places that hosts multiple events at the same time and there were two other weddings going on at the same time. Luckily camera girl must have been at one of the other weddings. Upon passing the guestbook for another wedding, we decided to sign that one as well. Ha ha, we thought. Aren't we clever little lushes?!
We danced. We drank some more. We did shots with the bride; we did shots with the underage kids that worked for Luci. We drank some more. At some point in our many trips to the bar, bartender man finally told us what P.O.A. stood for: Piece Of Ass. I almost would have preferred Pissed Off Alcoholic because it was funnier, though the real meaning was more flattering, obviously.
After the cake was cut, and everyone was dancing and away from the tables and mingling, I decided that I really, really liked Luci's wedding favors: Shot glasses inscribed with the bride and groom's names and the wedding date (filled with jordan almonds-ick-but still, the shot glasses were awesome). So I noticed that a few people had left the wedding and didnt' take their shot glasses. I all slick-like sat at their tables and slipped their shot glasses into my little mini purse.
We went to the bathroom again. This time, there was a videographer girl outside wanting the guests to give their little wedding speeches for prosperity's sake or whatever. So Nicole and I took our turn. I cannot remember what all I said to that girl but she sure as hell was laughing her ass off at me. On the way into the bathroom we signed the other couple's guest book again, this time with famous people's names. Ah, what clever P.O.A.'s we were! On the way back out we signed yet again, this time with clever messages like "Happy Hannukah!" and "Best wishes on this Arbor Day!" In the middle of leaving our latest best wishes, Videographer Girl comes over and says, "Um, I think that is the wrong guest book." Poor girl thought she was being helpful to the silly drunks that had lost their way.
Instead, I said, "We know! SHHHHHH!!" I would not be surprised to find out that she filmed this as well, as she laughed at the two of us some more, being giant asses. Then she asked us to get more wedding guests to come out and do the best wishes deal so we proceeded to harass everyone inside to get them to go out. Luci's friend Gay Matt (who wore a very pimped out suit and was looking incredibly slick--there may have even been a cane, though I am a little fuzzy) had us come out to do his video message with him. So in front of the camera Nicole, Matt, and I arranged to have a three-way marriage, and when he was done with his message, we both kissed him at the same time.
I believe this was when Videographer Girl realized that she would have excellent footage if she just began following us around the reception for the rest of the night because after that it seemed that every time we turned around, there she was! We decided to sneak into the reception of the "Happy Hannukah" people and check out their favors to decide if they were worth snitching. They weren't. Just crappy Hershey's bars with a picture of the happy couple on the custom label.
We did shots with the bride again when we could finally get her to ourselves. I wrote two signs on paper napkins and had Nicole take a picture of me holding the one that said, "I quit bitch!" The thought at the time was, wouldn't this be a hilarious way to give my notice at the end of the summer when I was returning to school? The other, that said "Fuck Karen" (the VP of the company where we all worked), I had Luci hold up for a snapshot.
Nicole picked up one of the groomsmen (with my forcing her to) and while she danced the last two or three dances with him, I made some more rounds of the empty tables, stealing more shot glasses. Now I didn't care if these people had left or not as long as they were otherwise occupied. Finally, at midnight, they forced us out. Nicole wanted to go with the groomsman to an afterparty but I told her that she couldn't since she has a boyfriend and I didn't think it was a good idea. So we made our way home.
Final shot glass count: 14. I have no idea how 14 shot glasses fit into a mini purse. No idea at all.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Cat Lovers Beware
I've added this to my links but as it was passed onto me from my (perfectly sane) (I think) sister Kristy, and it made me laugh out loud before the expired codeine-laced cough syrup kicked in, I wanted to draw special attention to it: Kitten Cannon
P.S. to Whit-We should so send this anonymously to Emily!
P.S. to Whit-We should so send this anonymously to Emily!
I Make a Hot Toddie
I was seized in the middle of class last night with coughing fits and a fever. I took some Dayquil, which is just never a good idea for me. Bouts of drug-induced paranoia and hysteria always soon follow. This time I began spouting something about "the foundation of my house is cracking as we speak!" (I don't even own a house) and "I just had a kid with three arms. I can't lose my job because how will I pay for my three-armed baby?"
Now yes, we were participating in an exercise that made the first comment at least slightly on-subject but there was no cause for the three-armed baby comment, as was demonstrated by the hysterical laughter that gripped the students for the remaining ten minutes of class. I fear my outbursts took the steam out of my dear friend Whit's class project. Bad Dayquil-drunk Tina! Bad!
When I got home I continued to be wracked with coughing, the deep chestal kind that rattles your whole rib cage. The damned Dayquil wasn't even doing its job, beyond making me act like an ass in class. So I decided what I needed was a good hot toddie. I researched toddie recipes as I have never had a hot toddie before. Here is a nice, easy-to-make one that was mmm, mmm yummy and did an excellent job of making my cough subside:
1. Take your favorite tea cup (or if you are like me and don't drink tea, coffee cup will do). I spent a bit of time deciding on whether to use my "Howard Dean for America" one or my "Is there life before coffee? Kitchen Little Eggstrordinaire" one. The latter is one of those cheezy white with blue writing mugs that I bought from this excellent breakfast place in Mystic, CT. You simply must have breakfast there if you are in Mystic. But I digress....
2. Take a bag of Chamomile Tea and add about 4 oz. of hot water. Let it steep for a minute or two.
3. Dig in the back of your refridgerator for honey. Put the honey in the microwave for ten seconds, pull it out and then read on the label where it says, "Do not microwave this container." Shrug your shoulders and add about two teaspoons of honey to your cup/mug.
4. Resume digging in your refridgerator until you find lemon juice (or if you happen to be Domestic Goddess, cut slice of fresh lemon and squeeze this into cup/mug). For non-Domestic Goddess, wipe dried ketchup off lid of lemon juice, briefly consider how old said lemon juice is, and whether lemon juice goes bad; then realize that when fruit goes bad it merely ferments, making it by dint of now containing alcohol better fruit, and then squeeze some lemon juice into your cupped/mugged concoction.
5. Get: Whiskey/brandy/dark rum. I chose whiskey. Of course, if you are indecisive, I see no reason why not to add all three. Fill the remainder of the mug/cup with alcohol of choice. Now, here is where the size of your container comes in. While most recipes call for two oz. of alcohol, I posit that whatever the size of the container, you simply must fill the container. SO if, say, your "Is there life before coffee? Kitchen Little Eggstrordinaire" white mug with blue writing holds 12 oz. of liquid, you are of course forced to add at least another 5 oz of alcohol to fill the mug.
6. Stir. Smell the aroma. Sip. Ah.
Of course, the flaw in my plan was the fact that I was still high on Dayquil. Last I remember was greedily gulping the last of my concoction before I must have passed out drunk/high. This morning I find the empty mug, a bottle of water, and my alarm clock scattered across the floor.
That was a good hot toddie.
Now yes, we were participating in an exercise that made the first comment at least slightly on-subject but there was no cause for the three-armed baby comment, as was demonstrated by the hysterical laughter that gripped the students for the remaining ten minutes of class. I fear my outbursts took the steam out of my dear friend Whit's class project. Bad Dayquil-drunk Tina! Bad!
When I got home I continued to be wracked with coughing, the deep chestal kind that rattles your whole rib cage. The damned Dayquil wasn't even doing its job, beyond making me act like an ass in class. So I decided what I needed was a good hot toddie. I researched toddie recipes as I have never had a hot toddie before. Here is a nice, easy-to-make one that was mmm, mmm yummy and did an excellent job of making my cough subside:
1. Take your favorite tea cup (or if you are like me and don't drink tea, coffee cup will do). I spent a bit of time deciding on whether to use my "Howard Dean for America" one or my "Is there life before coffee? Kitchen Little Eggstrordinaire" one. The latter is one of those cheezy white with blue writing mugs that I bought from this excellent breakfast place in Mystic, CT. You simply must have breakfast there if you are in Mystic. But I digress....
2. Take a bag of Chamomile Tea and add about 4 oz. of hot water. Let it steep for a minute or two.
3. Dig in the back of your refridgerator for honey. Put the honey in the microwave for ten seconds, pull it out and then read on the label where it says, "Do not microwave this container." Shrug your shoulders and add about two teaspoons of honey to your cup/mug.
4. Resume digging in your refridgerator until you find lemon juice (or if you happen to be Domestic Goddess, cut slice of fresh lemon and squeeze this into cup/mug). For non-Domestic Goddess, wipe dried ketchup off lid of lemon juice, briefly consider how old said lemon juice is, and whether lemon juice goes bad; then realize that when fruit goes bad it merely ferments, making it by dint of now containing alcohol better fruit, and then squeeze some lemon juice into your cupped/mugged concoction.
5. Get: Whiskey/brandy/dark rum. I chose whiskey. Of course, if you are indecisive, I see no reason why not to add all three. Fill the remainder of the mug/cup with alcohol of choice. Now, here is where the size of your container comes in. While most recipes call for two oz. of alcohol, I posit that whatever the size of the container, you simply must fill the container. SO if, say, your "Is there life before coffee? Kitchen Little Eggstrordinaire" white mug with blue writing holds 12 oz. of liquid, you are of course forced to add at least another 5 oz of alcohol to fill the mug.
6. Stir. Smell the aroma. Sip. Ah.
Of course, the flaw in my plan was the fact that I was still high on Dayquil. Last I remember was greedily gulping the last of my concoction before I must have passed out drunk/high. This morning I find the empty mug, a bottle of water, and my alarm clock scattered across the floor.
That was a good hot toddie.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Learning to Say No
I was talking to a new friend of mine, someone that lives far away and doesn't know any of my other friends. I felt safe enough telling him my second secret. In answering his questions about it I realized that the reason I got into the situation I was in was because of my inability to say no. That's not to say I don't lack blame for doing what I did; God knows I should be blamed and blamed a lot. By not saying no, I implicitly said yes.
Not saying no is a recurring theme in my life, one that only very recently have I been trying to fix. In my way I am a very passive person, and it is so much harder to say no than to just go along with whatever other people want you to do. This is how I become overextended and unable to complete everything I'd like to. This is how my family learned to depend on me to do whatever needed to be done.
I said no to my family members twice over the last weekend and the result was that I nearly ended up losing my bartending job. I said I wouldn't cover my sister's shift at the bar where we share a job. I had plans for the first time in many Fridays and I didn't want to cancel. I always cancel. Just because she decided to stay at school too long to show up for work I didn't see why I had to fix things for her. But since we share the job, if one of us loses it, the other does too. In the end, though, they decided to give us a raise instead of firing us. Go figure. Crazy Chinese people running a Japanese restaurant.
The result from the other no was that I felt guilty not doing something for my mom.
I said no to an aquaintance at school and given who this person was, I felt damn good saying no that time.
I know my problem is actually more pervasive than learning to say no; it's really about an underlying desire to be passive with the world around me, to just let things go on as they are going, rather than try to shape or change things in any way. But I'm starting with learning to say no. The other part, the even harder part, I'll deal with later.
Baby steps.
Not saying no is a recurring theme in my life, one that only very recently have I been trying to fix. In my way I am a very passive person, and it is so much harder to say no than to just go along with whatever other people want you to do. This is how I become overextended and unable to complete everything I'd like to. This is how my family learned to depend on me to do whatever needed to be done.
I said no to my family members twice over the last weekend and the result was that I nearly ended up losing my bartending job. I said I wouldn't cover my sister's shift at the bar where we share a job. I had plans for the first time in many Fridays and I didn't want to cancel. I always cancel. Just because she decided to stay at school too long to show up for work I didn't see why I had to fix things for her. But since we share the job, if one of us loses it, the other does too. In the end, though, they decided to give us a raise instead of firing us. Go figure. Crazy Chinese people running a Japanese restaurant.
The result from the other no was that I felt guilty not doing something for my mom.
I said no to an aquaintance at school and given who this person was, I felt damn good saying no that time.
I know my problem is actually more pervasive than learning to say no; it's really about an underlying desire to be passive with the world around me, to just let things go on as they are going, rather than try to shape or change things in any way. But I'm starting with learning to say no. The other part, the even harder part, I'll deal with later.
Baby steps.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
I am not a Girly Girl
I'm watching "Airline" on A&E this morning. I freaking love this show! This one woman got her wedding dress run over out on the tarmac. Needless to say, she was a little pissed.
Another one was flying to meet her fiance and get married but she couldn't get on the flight because she was too drunk. Southwest Airlines doesn't let people who drink onto the plane. This would be a problem for me, as I always down 2 drinks before a flight. (I'm ok once we're in the air but the taking off is nerve-wracking for me.) SO note to self: Do not fly Southwest.
Noticing a theme here? Yup. It appeared to be the wedding episode. Which of course did nothing for me because to quote Carrie Bradshaw, I'm missing the bride gene. I have not been planning my wedding since I was a little girl. Even when I was with the Big X, I may have wanted to be married but the getting married part never held my imagination. I would absolutely have eloped if I didn't think it would break my parents' hearts.
I am not a girl. I mean, of course I'm a girl. I have the boobies and the woohoo and I like to make the beast with two backs with boys. But I hate talking on the phone and I don't want to have a wedding and I don't like sad, mushy love stories and I can only stand shopping for so long before I want to shoot someone.
And I like porn (though I wish they made more girl porn-the point of view is so male-oriented) and I like to play video games and I am really good at doing things like hooking up a surround sound system and I am good with tools and I have commitment fears and I like sleeping around.
I sometimes find myself with guys who are very girly and they annoy the piss out of me, being all emotional and clingy and crap. Like, suck it up. Be a man for god's sake! When I'm ready for another relationship, I want a manly man, someone who's not afraid to hide his emotions a bit for a change.
Another one was flying to meet her fiance and get married but she couldn't get on the flight because she was too drunk. Southwest Airlines doesn't let people who drink onto the plane. This would be a problem for me, as I always down 2 drinks before a flight. (I'm ok once we're in the air but the taking off is nerve-wracking for me.) SO note to self: Do not fly Southwest.
Noticing a theme here? Yup. It appeared to be the wedding episode. Which of course did nothing for me because to quote Carrie Bradshaw, I'm missing the bride gene. I have not been planning my wedding since I was a little girl. Even when I was with the Big X, I may have wanted to be married but the getting married part never held my imagination. I would absolutely have eloped if I didn't think it would break my parents' hearts.
I am not a girl. I mean, of course I'm a girl. I have the boobies and the woohoo and I like to make the beast with two backs with boys. But I hate talking on the phone and I don't want to have a wedding and I don't like sad, mushy love stories and I can only stand shopping for so long before I want to shoot someone.
And I like porn (though I wish they made more girl porn-the point of view is so male-oriented) and I like to play video games and I am really good at doing things like hooking up a surround sound system and I am good with tools and I have commitment fears and I like sleeping around.
I sometimes find myself with guys who are very girly and they annoy the piss out of me, being all emotional and clingy and crap. Like, suck it up. Be a man for god's sake! When I'm ready for another relationship, I want a manly man, someone who's not afraid to hide his emotions a bit for a change.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Sex and Secrets
Let's see if I can put together a semi-intelligent post during this fuzzy-brained hangover.
Last night I went down to New Haven to hang out with my new friend Becca and two of her friends. I made pomegranate martinis. Too many of them. I left my shaker there. That's ok. I have a spare. I am sitting on the bed right now wondering if Becca's mad at me from last night and looking at this book that her friend Mike gave me to read: The Ethical Slut. I will wait her out for a day and if she doesn't talk to me, I'll talk to her tomorrow. Why would she be mad at me, you ask? Because I made out with her ex-boyfriend a lot last night. Nope, false alarm. She's cool with me still. (Just IMed with her a bit.) But she did feel the need to share with Whit that nipple clamps were involved with the evening last night. At least she didn't tell her about the whip.
I'm thinking about sex and secrets today. Not necessarily together but those are the two issues I'm thinking about. I'm thinking about my definition of sex. When Bill Clinton said, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman," even though I voted for and still supported the guy, and even though I did and still do feel that his sex life was no one's business, I, like most of the rest of the country, had a hard time swallowing (forgive the pun) that a bj did not count as sex. But you know what I realize now? I have a Bill Clinton definition of sex. When I count who I've been with, I don't count anything besides penetration. Anything else only counts as fooling around to me.
I'm also thinking about the secrets I keep, not the secrets I keep for others but the secrets I keep for myself. I consider myself to be a very open person; ask me any question and I will give you an honest answer. In fact, I will likely tell you much more than you really wanted to know anyway. But there are a couple of things that I would not tell anyone. Two, to be precise.
One is something that happened to me, something I had no control over. It happened a very long time ago and I keep the secret not for shame but for privacy. I have shared this secret with a few people but it is something I choose to share very rarely.
The other is something that I did, something I had complete control over. It happened not very long ago, within the last couple of years. This secret I do keep for shame. I try to live an ethical life; I try to do the right thing. I try not to hurt anyone, especially those I love. And yet once I did something that went against all these tenets. I don't have an excuse for why I did it; I just did it. And now I keep the secret. I won't share that secret here but I will share one part of it: I don't feel nearly as much guilt as I know I should.
Last night I went down to New Haven to hang out with my new friend Becca and two of her friends. I made pomegranate martinis. Too many of them. I left my shaker there. That's ok. I have a spare. I am sitting on the bed right now wondering if Becca's mad at me from last night and looking at this book that her friend Mike gave me to read: The Ethical Slut. I will wait her out for a day and if she doesn't talk to me, I'll talk to her tomorrow. Why would she be mad at me, you ask? Because I made out with her ex-boyfriend a lot last night. Nope, false alarm. She's cool with me still. (Just IMed with her a bit.) But she did feel the need to share with Whit that nipple clamps were involved with the evening last night. At least she didn't tell her about the whip.
I'm thinking about sex and secrets today. Not necessarily together but those are the two issues I'm thinking about. I'm thinking about my definition of sex. When Bill Clinton said, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman," even though I voted for and still supported the guy, and even though I did and still do feel that his sex life was no one's business, I, like most of the rest of the country, had a hard time swallowing (forgive the pun) that a bj did not count as sex. But you know what I realize now? I have a Bill Clinton definition of sex. When I count who I've been with, I don't count anything besides penetration. Anything else only counts as fooling around to me.
I'm also thinking about the secrets I keep, not the secrets I keep for others but the secrets I keep for myself. I consider myself to be a very open person; ask me any question and I will give you an honest answer. In fact, I will likely tell you much more than you really wanted to know anyway. But there are a couple of things that I would not tell anyone. Two, to be precise.
One is something that happened to me, something I had no control over. It happened a very long time ago and I keep the secret not for shame but for privacy. I have shared this secret with a few people but it is something I choose to share very rarely.
The other is something that I did, something I had complete control over. It happened not very long ago, within the last couple of years. This secret I do keep for shame. I try to live an ethical life; I try to do the right thing. I try not to hurt anyone, especially those I love. And yet once I did something that went against all these tenets. I don't have an excuse for why I did it; I just did it. And now I keep the secret. I won't share that secret here but I will share one part of it: I don't feel nearly as much guilt as I know I should.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Today is a :) Day
I went into Dunkin Donuts this morning, paid the nice lady, and then walked out. Problem? I never took my coffee. Some days I wonder how I manage to wipe my own ass in the mornings. And yesterday I was at that point again: The go commando or else do the laundry point. So do you know what I did? I bought new underwear just to avoid doing the laundry for a few more days.
I am raising forgetfulness and procrastination to an art form and I don't know whether to be proud or ashamed.
I walked the dog today in a t shirt and I wasn't cold. The sky was so blue and there were just a few fluffy white clouds--you know, the kind you make into animals when you are a kid. I am so missing Spring. It's going to be cold again this weekend and that just sucks. I think I have that what do you call it-SID? No, that's Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. SAD, that's it. Seasonal Affective Disorder. I need to get a prescription for sunshine to make me happy.
But today I am happy, all on my own. Part of that is the sunny day. And part of it is that I get to wear this pretty new pink tweed jacket to an interview. I don't really care if I get the job; in fact, the more I learn about it, the less I think I want it. But I like printing out my resumes on the nice, heavy watermarked resume paper and putting on pretty clothes and getting to meet new people.
Today is a smiley day.
I am raising forgetfulness and procrastination to an art form and I don't know whether to be proud or ashamed.
I walked the dog today in a t shirt and I wasn't cold. The sky was so blue and there were just a few fluffy white clouds--you know, the kind you make into animals when you are a kid. I am so missing Spring. It's going to be cold again this weekend and that just sucks. I think I have that what do you call it-SID? No, that's Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. SAD, that's it. Seasonal Affective Disorder. I need to get a prescription for sunshine to make me happy.
But today I am happy, all on my own. Part of that is the sunny day. And part of it is that I get to wear this pretty new pink tweed jacket to an interview. I don't really care if I get the job; in fact, the more I learn about it, the less I think I want it. But I like printing out my resumes on the nice, heavy watermarked resume paper and putting on pretty clothes and getting to meet new people.
Today is a smiley day.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Is Being Single a Disease?
"What did you do for Valentine's Day? Did you have fun last night?"
When I was with someone I could self-righteously say nothing! No more fun than usual! I did nothing because the holiday is a sham! But now if I say that, even though it is just as true, I will only sound bitter to all my coupled friends.
I didn't do nothing. I skipped work (was supposed to make romantic Scorpion Bowls for Two all night), got a margharita pizza and a bottle of red wine; had chocolate for dessert. Watched Gilmore Girls on tv.
If you are not with someone, it's supposed to be Singles Awareness Day. Not sure who thought up this one, but I'm betting it was a self-righteous couple person. Ooh. We must be aware of our single friends! Gimme a break. I don't want anyone to spend time being "aware" of me or feeling sorry for me, or trying to be conscientious of me spending this day alone.
I don't give a shit about the day or the fact that I am single so why should anyone else? You know why I got a bottle of wine and margharita pizza? Because I do that about once every week or two and tonight I didn't feel like cooking. The end. The chocolate? The same, except unfortunately I have chocolate more often than every week or two.
So now I suppose this whole post sounds bitter. It's not meant to. It's just my reaction to having heard that question and that term Singles Awareness Day once too often over the last 36 hours. Do you know what Singles Awareness Day sounds like? Like it's a disease. AIDS Awareness Day, Hunger Awareness Day, Disability Awareness Day, Fibromyalgia Awareness Day. Singles Awareness Day.
How about changing it to It's Good to Be Single Day? Because I think it is. I like sleeping with who I want, doing what I want, when I want to. I like worrying about me and me alone. One day I might want a relationship again. But now, right now, I think it is good to be single.
When I was with someone I could self-righteously say nothing! No more fun than usual! I did nothing because the holiday is a sham! But now if I say that, even though it is just as true, I will only sound bitter to all my coupled friends.
I didn't do nothing. I skipped work (was supposed to make romantic Scorpion Bowls for Two all night), got a margharita pizza and a bottle of red wine; had chocolate for dessert. Watched Gilmore Girls on tv.
If you are not with someone, it's supposed to be Singles Awareness Day. Not sure who thought up this one, but I'm betting it was a self-righteous couple person. Ooh. We must be aware of our single friends! Gimme a break. I don't want anyone to spend time being "aware" of me or feeling sorry for me, or trying to be conscientious of me spending this day alone.
I don't give a shit about the day or the fact that I am single so why should anyone else? You know why I got a bottle of wine and margharita pizza? Because I do that about once every week or two and tonight I didn't feel like cooking. The end. The chocolate? The same, except unfortunately I have chocolate more often than every week or two.
So now I suppose this whole post sounds bitter. It's not meant to. It's just my reaction to having heard that question and that term Singles Awareness Day once too often over the last 36 hours. Do you know what Singles Awareness Day sounds like? Like it's a disease. AIDS Awareness Day, Hunger Awareness Day, Disability Awareness Day, Fibromyalgia Awareness Day. Singles Awareness Day.
How about changing it to It's Good to Be Single Day? Because I think it is. I like sleeping with who I want, doing what I want, when I want to. I like worrying about me and me alone. One day I might want a relationship again. But now, right now, I think it is good to be single.
Things You Can Learn From My Purse
My cell phone is always on. So is my computer (and I'm always online). I can't stand to be disconnected ever since my mom got sick. It's not specifically about being able to know if she is in trouble or needs me. It's that my world is a different place for me now. Scary things can happen at any time of day or night. People I love may need me at any time and I want to be there for them.
I put my first DMV notice in my purse along with my checkbook. I don't normally carry my checkbook. I hate people that whip out their checkbooks and write a check for like ten dollars' worth of groceries. But tomorrow (finally) I'm going to the DMV to pay my $200 procrastination fee.
I carry about five pens at all times, in my purse, in my car, in my bookbag. I am always afraid of being without a writing instrument. I don't carry paper at all times. I find this can be improvised if needed-receipts, envelopes, napkins--the palm of my left hand is always a favorite if I'm desparate.
Gum, lip gloss and hand lotion are important to always have. Gum is great if you: 1. Have bad breath. 2. Are hungry but can't get food. 3. Are bored. Lip gloss is a quick fix for dried wintertime lips and also makes me look pretty! I am obsessed with not getting old lady hands so I must always have access to hand lotion. Period.
Breath spray and/or mints. I am hyperconscious about not smelling bad. I have been known to ask people to smell me randomly if I am afraid that I do smell bad. I also keep a stick of deodorant in my car for this same reason. And my hand lotion is scented for this same reason as well.
Pill splitter. I have gargantuan tonsils that interfere with my swallowing. If I am ever in a position where I have to bum pills off random people and they are too big for me to swallow, I must be able to cut them. I know that one day my pill splitter will be confiscated at the airport because of its big old razor blade.
There are also the usual things like a wallet, sunglasses, spare change rolling around in the bottom, lint balls, etc.
I put my first DMV notice in my purse along with my checkbook. I don't normally carry my checkbook. I hate people that whip out their checkbooks and write a check for like ten dollars' worth of groceries. But tomorrow (finally) I'm going to the DMV to pay my $200 procrastination fee.
I carry about five pens at all times, in my purse, in my car, in my bookbag. I am always afraid of being without a writing instrument. I don't carry paper at all times. I find this can be improvised if needed-receipts, envelopes, napkins--the palm of my left hand is always a favorite if I'm desparate.
Gum, lip gloss and hand lotion are important to always have. Gum is great if you: 1. Have bad breath. 2. Are hungry but can't get food. 3. Are bored. Lip gloss is a quick fix for dried wintertime lips and also makes me look pretty! I am obsessed with not getting old lady hands so I must always have access to hand lotion. Period.
Breath spray and/or mints. I am hyperconscious about not smelling bad. I have been known to ask people to smell me randomly if I am afraid that I do smell bad. I also keep a stick of deodorant in my car for this same reason. And my hand lotion is scented for this same reason as well.
Pill splitter. I have gargantuan tonsils that interfere with my swallowing. If I am ever in a position where I have to bum pills off random people and they are too big for me to swallow, I must be able to cut them. I know that one day my pill splitter will be confiscated at the airport because of its big old razor blade.
There are also the usual things like a wallet, sunglasses, spare change rolling around in the bottom, lint balls, etc.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Addendum to Valentine's Day
Worst Valentine's Day present ever: a 3-pack of blank VCR tapes.
"But you needed them," he said.
"I need tampons too but I hope you don't get me those for Easter."
"But you needed them," he said.
"I need tampons too but I hope you don't get me those for Easter."
Happy Valentine's Day
Ha. How fitting that my breaking up post ended up posting the day before Valentine's Day. Last Valentine's Day I spent working 14 hours, and the same amount the day before. Working in the chocolate industry for Valentine's Day really kind of removes all the romance for you. It really is purely a commercial enterprise.
Honestly, even when I am with someone, I'd rather just have him buy me flowers and stuff on some random day rather than the day everyone else is doing it. Plus I know that when I get flowers or chocolate on Valentine's Day the guy just spent half his day waiting in an incredibly long line full of other men (because most men are and always will be last minute shoppers) and when he got up to the register he got fleeced.
I don't know. To me, knowing the roses I just got cost at least five times what they would on any other day just sucks the romance right out of it. Plus, roses? Boys, everyone does roses. Do a nice arrangement with some tulips, tiger lilies, snap dragons, gerbera daisies, etc. Trust me. A much more beautiful, original sentiment.
But still, happy Valentine's Day, all you romantics.
Honestly, even when I am with someone, I'd rather just have him buy me flowers and stuff on some random day rather than the day everyone else is doing it. Plus I know that when I get flowers or chocolate on Valentine's Day the guy just spent half his day waiting in an incredibly long line full of other men (because most men are and always will be last minute shoppers) and when he got up to the register he got fleeced.
I don't know. To me, knowing the roses I just got cost at least five times what they would on any other day just sucks the romance right out of it. Plus, roses? Boys, everyone does roses. Do a nice arrangement with some tulips, tiger lilies, snap dragons, gerbera daisies, etc. Trust me. A much more beautiful, original sentiment.
But still, happy Valentine's Day, all you romantics.
Monday, February 13, 2006
The Big X, Part IV: Finally, the End
My mother was his mother, in a way. He hadn’t spoken to his own mother in years and mine was an excellent substitute. So in a way we were both dealing with the same emotions. He was in complete denial. It’s not that I was saying, “Hey, let’s dig a hole in the back yard and throw mom in.” I was being as optimistic as I could be while trying to balance with a bit of realism. When all the experts tell you there’s no hope, you have to at least plan for the worst to some extent. He couldn’t deal with that.
I talked about the things that upset me about my mom’s illness. I couldn’t or wouldn’t open up to the rest of the family and I expected him to let me do so with him but he wouldn’t. He got angry with me when I tried to talk about it. He wouldn’t even accept that there was any possibility whatsoever that she might die.
Also he said he understood that since this was most likely my mom’s last Thanksgiving, her last Christmas, that I wanted to spend them both with her. (We used to swap Thanksgiving between our families and it was technically his family’s turn for Thanksgiving. Christmas we always split. I said I still wanted to go over to his house but wanted to spend as much time as possible with my mother.) It turns out he wasn’t okay with it. Christmas night he started a big fight over it.
I also for the first time ever applied some pressure in the marriage department. I told him that if we really were going to end up married (as he always said), I didn’t understand why we couldn’t plan a simple wedding for my mother to see while she was still alive. Yes, it wouldn’t be ideal but we only had a year.
He resented the amount of time I began devoting to my mother. Honestly in hindsight I can’t blame him for that one. I resented the amount of time I ended up devoting to my mother after awhile, when I saw that no one else in the family was even doing one tenth of what I was. It wasn’t a pace I could keep up. But that is really another topic. For the first time in our eleven years together, I went on a trip without him when I took my mother to Florida to see her brother.
He was spending later and later nights at his parents’ house and leaving me home alone nights. New Year’s came and went. One night the first week of January he was supposed to go out to the bar with his friend that was up from Ohio for the week. I was fine with this until I heard about a storm approaching for that evening. He has been known to drink and drive when he was less than coherent. I called and asked him if he was still going and when he said he was, I asked why he couldn’t just hang out with his friend at home and have a few drinks where it was safe.
He blew up at me. Who was I to question him? He could control himself. If Timmy drank, he wouldn’t drink too much. (Timmy is a known alcoholic who always drinks.) I just didn’t want him spending time with Timmy, he said. I didn’t like any of his friends and I wanted him all for myself, he said. Okay. I had no idea where this was coming from. I had always given him an incredible amount of freedom with his friends. (I honestly didn’t have much choice in the matter since he used to lie to me anyway and since he was the dominant person in this relationship.) Plus, I really liked all of his friends and was constantly encouraging him to spend more time with them.
Well, almost all of his friends. There was closet gay Matt that was secretly in love with the Big X, who I couldn’t help but feel some sort of bizarre rivalry with.
He didn’t come home that night until about 4 in the morning. He came in and saw me, didn’t say much of anything, went outside and shoveled the driveway from the storm, and then left without saying a word. Next night he came home around midnight I think. I asked where he had been all day. Driving around was his response.
Here was where I knew for sure there was something going on. He drove a 1978 truck that burned gas at a rate of about 10 mpg and in the time he was “driving around” he could have driven to the Canadian border and back, twice probably. I told him so.
He started hammering me again with how I didn’t like his friends and was jealous of them and only wanted him to ever spend time with me and me alone (which is pretty silly since the reason he was mad at me a couple of weeks ago was that I wasn’t spending enough time with him.) The argument became one of those hours-long blowouts. We discussed why I was unhappy with him, which didn’t have to do with his friends at all. I explained that if after all these years, he didn’t marry me while my mother was still alive, that was something I would always begrudge him. That was just honesty, not an ultimatum, just me telling him how it was.
He told me he couldn’t marry me. All these years and now he finally was honest. He was way too afraid of commitment to marry me. Afraid I’d leave him. I said I’d never leave him unless: 1. He beat me or our children. 2. He cheated on me ever again, which I had made clear years ago. Immediately after I made this statement he suddenly didn’t love me anymore and wanted to end things. Of course, this having been an eleven-year relationship, the conversation continued for a couple of hours after that statement before I finally had enough and threw him out. Before he left, I said, “Just tell me one thing. You can be honest now. It’s over. Is there someone else?”
“No!” he said, emphatically. “How could you even think that?”
This was one month after I was told my mother was going to die. It was three days before my birthday. I was devastated. I don’t like to talk about the couple of months after that. Suffice it to say they were dark. I cried a lot. Everywhere.
After the first month I learned he had been cheating on me, that there was indeed someone else. That helped me because now I could be angry. Before I was just lost and confused. I still thought he might come back. The first thing I did when I got home every night in that first month was check my caller ID to see if he’d called. When a car drove by at any time of day or night that I thought might be his, I looked out the window.
Yet despite my emotions, I was strong in one thing: I never called him. I never after that last night together tried to get him back. And when I learned of the other woman (his parents’ neighbor-go figure; with him spending all that time over there) I knew I didn’t even want him back anymore. I could begin to move on.
It was still at least another month before I stopped crying so much. Not all this crying was because of him; don’t give him that much credit. It was because in just a couple of short months, my world as I knew it had fallen apart. My mother was dying, I was suddenly the head of the family; I no longer was part of Tina and X. I was just Tina. I didn’t even know what I was going to do about getting my oil changed anymore. I didn’t know anything.
I didn’t know anything.
I talked about the things that upset me about my mom’s illness. I couldn’t or wouldn’t open up to the rest of the family and I expected him to let me do so with him but he wouldn’t. He got angry with me when I tried to talk about it. He wouldn’t even accept that there was any possibility whatsoever that she might die.
Also he said he understood that since this was most likely my mom’s last Thanksgiving, her last Christmas, that I wanted to spend them both with her. (We used to swap Thanksgiving between our families and it was technically his family’s turn for Thanksgiving. Christmas we always split. I said I still wanted to go over to his house but wanted to spend as much time as possible with my mother.) It turns out he wasn’t okay with it. Christmas night he started a big fight over it.
I also for the first time ever applied some pressure in the marriage department. I told him that if we really were going to end up married (as he always said), I didn’t understand why we couldn’t plan a simple wedding for my mother to see while she was still alive. Yes, it wouldn’t be ideal but we only had a year.
He resented the amount of time I began devoting to my mother. Honestly in hindsight I can’t blame him for that one. I resented the amount of time I ended up devoting to my mother after awhile, when I saw that no one else in the family was even doing one tenth of what I was. It wasn’t a pace I could keep up. But that is really another topic. For the first time in our eleven years together, I went on a trip without him when I took my mother to Florida to see her brother.
He was spending later and later nights at his parents’ house and leaving me home alone nights. New Year’s came and went. One night the first week of January he was supposed to go out to the bar with his friend that was up from Ohio for the week. I was fine with this until I heard about a storm approaching for that evening. He has been known to drink and drive when he was less than coherent. I called and asked him if he was still going and when he said he was, I asked why he couldn’t just hang out with his friend at home and have a few drinks where it was safe.
He blew up at me. Who was I to question him? He could control himself. If Timmy drank, he wouldn’t drink too much. (Timmy is a known alcoholic who always drinks.) I just didn’t want him spending time with Timmy, he said. I didn’t like any of his friends and I wanted him all for myself, he said. Okay. I had no idea where this was coming from. I had always given him an incredible amount of freedom with his friends. (I honestly didn’t have much choice in the matter since he used to lie to me anyway and since he was the dominant person in this relationship.) Plus, I really liked all of his friends and was constantly encouraging him to spend more time with them.
Well, almost all of his friends. There was closet gay Matt that was secretly in love with the Big X, who I couldn’t help but feel some sort of bizarre rivalry with.
He didn’t come home that night until about 4 in the morning. He came in and saw me, didn’t say much of anything, went outside and shoveled the driveway from the storm, and then left without saying a word. Next night he came home around midnight I think. I asked where he had been all day. Driving around was his response.
Here was where I knew for sure there was something going on. He drove a 1978 truck that burned gas at a rate of about 10 mpg and in the time he was “driving around” he could have driven to the Canadian border and back, twice probably. I told him so.
He started hammering me again with how I didn’t like his friends and was jealous of them and only wanted him to ever spend time with me and me alone (which is pretty silly since the reason he was mad at me a couple of weeks ago was that I wasn’t spending enough time with him.) The argument became one of those hours-long blowouts. We discussed why I was unhappy with him, which didn’t have to do with his friends at all. I explained that if after all these years, he didn’t marry me while my mother was still alive, that was something I would always begrudge him. That was just honesty, not an ultimatum, just me telling him how it was.
He told me he couldn’t marry me. All these years and now he finally was honest. He was way too afraid of commitment to marry me. Afraid I’d leave him. I said I’d never leave him unless: 1. He beat me or our children. 2. He cheated on me ever again, which I had made clear years ago. Immediately after I made this statement he suddenly didn’t love me anymore and wanted to end things. Of course, this having been an eleven-year relationship, the conversation continued for a couple of hours after that statement before I finally had enough and threw him out. Before he left, I said, “Just tell me one thing. You can be honest now. It’s over. Is there someone else?”
“No!” he said, emphatically. “How could you even think that?”
This was one month after I was told my mother was going to die. It was three days before my birthday. I was devastated. I don’t like to talk about the couple of months after that. Suffice it to say they were dark. I cried a lot. Everywhere.
After the first month I learned he had been cheating on me, that there was indeed someone else. That helped me because now I could be angry. Before I was just lost and confused. I still thought he might come back. The first thing I did when I got home every night in that first month was check my caller ID to see if he’d called. When a car drove by at any time of day or night that I thought might be his, I looked out the window.
Yet despite my emotions, I was strong in one thing: I never called him. I never after that last night together tried to get him back. And when I learned of the other woman (his parents’ neighbor-go figure; with him spending all that time over there) I knew I didn’t even want him back anymore. I could begin to move on.
It was still at least another month before I stopped crying so much. Not all this crying was because of him; don’t give him that much credit. It was because in just a couple of short months, my world as I knew it had fallen apart. My mother was dying, I was suddenly the head of the family; I no longer was part of Tina and X. I was just Tina. I didn’t even know what I was going to do about getting my oil changed anymore. I didn’t know anything.
I didn’t know anything.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
The Big X, Part III: Interlude
There’s a blizzard outside and I’m drinking blackberry martinis. Ah, the benefits of being a bartender. Anyhow, I find myself trapped at home for at least the next 18 hours so it’s now or never to finish the tale of the Big X. This is the part I’ve been dreading reliving…
Last Fall, my mother was diagnosed with Gall Bladder Cancer. It’s very rare, so rare in fact that there are no known treatments once it has spread. If you catch it early, you might remove the gall bladder and be successful in preventing the spread. Mom’s was not caught early.
There was a month of doctor visits—the oncologist sent us to the surgeon; the surgeon sent Mom for lots of tests; if she passed, she could have a risky procedure that might increase her survival chances from 30% to maybe 70%; the surgeon had us come see him again. The test results were bad. The cancer had spread farther than they thought, too far to operate. Would chemotherapy or radiation work? No. All it would do was make her uncomfortable in the last part of her life. The best to do would be to enjoy what time there was left. How much time was left? Hard to say. A year maybe.
The oncologist argued for chemotherapy and radiation. Though there are no studies that this can be successful, that is because there are no studies on Gall Bladder Cancer because it is so rare. The oncologist had a feeling. She had read some anecdotal evidence that a certain couple of chemotherapies might work. Mom decided to try.
She was still weak from the initial surgery that had removed her gall bladder (due to gallstones) and caused the discovery of the cancer. She was tired and confused and trying to be hopeful but really was lost. We all were, my whole family.
My father was useless. Mom is the love of his life and he just couldn’t deal with all this. He cried a lot. Stacy, my younger sister, was the same. Mom is Stacy’s best friend. Mom helps Stacy live her life. I don’t know how Stacy will get through any major or minor crisis when Mom is no longer here. Stacy and Dad cried a lot together.
This left my youngest sister, Kristy, and me. I am the oldest. I appear to be the strongest. In that manner, if in no other, I take after my mother very much. I took charge of the family because no one else would or could. I told Kristy that I needed her to be strong with me because I couldn’t do this alone. Of the other members of the family, I knew she was the most capable. So I cursed her with having to “be strong.” I know this is a curse. Anyone who has had to be the strong one knows that. I’m so sorry, Kristy. And at the same time, I thank you more than you can ever know.
So this was the situation I was thrown into, or perhaps that I threw myself into. I became the de facto head of this broken family. I cared for my mother; I advised her on what to do; I became her confidant and heard all her thoughts and feelings about what she was going through. I became my father’s and Stacy’s confidant; I heard all their thoughts and feelings about what Mom was going through and how it was affecting their lives. I leaned a bit on Kristy and she leaned a bit on me. But we both stood strong, or at least as strong as we could.
I ran the household. I put my name on all my mother’s accounts. I helped her create a living will. I took her to arrange her cremation and signed my name to the documents and when she dies, I will pick up her jewelry and her ashes from the crematory. I will write her obituary. I took her to visit her brother in Florida one last time while she was still up to traveling. I made Thanksgiving and Christmas. I did everything.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I was coping with the fact that I was losing my own mother. The two saddest things to me were that she may not see me married and that she would not be there to help me raise my own children. I cried when I was alone in my car driving to or from work. Otherwise, I didn’t dwell.
This is where I was, what I was doing with my life when the end of things with the Big X occurred. More in a bit.
Last Fall, my mother was diagnosed with Gall Bladder Cancer. It’s very rare, so rare in fact that there are no known treatments once it has spread. If you catch it early, you might remove the gall bladder and be successful in preventing the spread. Mom’s was not caught early.
There was a month of doctor visits—the oncologist sent us to the surgeon; the surgeon sent Mom for lots of tests; if she passed, she could have a risky procedure that might increase her survival chances from 30% to maybe 70%; the surgeon had us come see him again. The test results were bad. The cancer had spread farther than they thought, too far to operate. Would chemotherapy or radiation work? No. All it would do was make her uncomfortable in the last part of her life. The best to do would be to enjoy what time there was left. How much time was left? Hard to say. A year maybe.
The oncologist argued for chemotherapy and radiation. Though there are no studies that this can be successful, that is because there are no studies on Gall Bladder Cancer because it is so rare. The oncologist had a feeling. She had read some anecdotal evidence that a certain couple of chemotherapies might work. Mom decided to try.
She was still weak from the initial surgery that had removed her gall bladder (due to gallstones) and caused the discovery of the cancer. She was tired and confused and trying to be hopeful but really was lost. We all were, my whole family.
My father was useless. Mom is the love of his life and he just couldn’t deal with all this. He cried a lot. Stacy, my younger sister, was the same. Mom is Stacy’s best friend. Mom helps Stacy live her life. I don’t know how Stacy will get through any major or minor crisis when Mom is no longer here. Stacy and Dad cried a lot together.
This left my youngest sister, Kristy, and me. I am the oldest. I appear to be the strongest. In that manner, if in no other, I take after my mother very much. I took charge of the family because no one else would or could. I told Kristy that I needed her to be strong with me because I couldn’t do this alone. Of the other members of the family, I knew she was the most capable. So I cursed her with having to “be strong.” I know this is a curse. Anyone who has had to be the strong one knows that. I’m so sorry, Kristy. And at the same time, I thank you more than you can ever know.
So this was the situation I was thrown into, or perhaps that I threw myself into. I became the de facto head of this broken family. I cared for my mother; I advised her on what to do; I became her confidant and heard all her thoughts and feelings about what she was going through. I became my father’s and Stacy’s confidant; I heard all their thoughts and feelings about what Mom was going through and how it was affecting their lives. I leaned a bit on Kristy and she leaned a bit on me. But we both stood strong, or at least as strong as we could.
I ran the household. I put my name on all my mother’s accounts. I helped her create a living will. I took her to arrange her cremation and signed my name to the documents and when she dies, I will pick up her jewelry and her ashes from the crematory. I will write her obituary. I took her to visit her brother in Florida one last time while she was still up to traveling. I made Thanksgiving and Christmas. I did everything.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I was coping with the fact that I was losing my own mother. The two saddest things to me were that she may not see me married and that she would not be there to help me raise my own children. I cried when I was alone in my car driving to or from work. Otherwise, I didn’t dwell.
This is where I was, what I was doing with my life when the end of things with the Big X occurred. More in a bit.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Presence
Couldn't face telling the last part of my tale tonight. It's been a rough couple of days without reliving that memory. So I thought I'd share a quick story about my niece. As I mentioned a few months ago, my mother and I share responsibility for my niece's education and health. She spends at least five nights a week in our care. Tonight was my turn to watch her.
I had to feed my sister's Chinchilla, and Vicky, my niece, said, "You better be careful. He's been getting out lately."
"He never tries to get out when I feed him," I replied.
"Well. I'm just saying, because he does for me and Nana."
"He won't try it with me," I replied. "He never does."
"Why not?"
"Because I have presence."
"What does that mean?" she asked.
"Well, let me ask you, when you do something wrong, who are you more afraid of? Me or Nana?"
She thought for a moment. "You. Why is that?"
"Presence," I replied.
I had to feed my sister's Chinchilla, and Vicky, my niece, said, "You better be careful. He's been getting out lately."
"He never tries to get out when I feed him," I replied.
"Well. I'm just saying, because he does for me and Nana."
"He won't try it with me," I replied. "He never does."
"Why not?"
"Because I have presence."
"What does that mean?" she asked.
"Well, let me ask you, when you do something wrong, who are you more afraid of? Me or Nana?"
She thought for a moment. "You. Why is that?"
"Presence," I replied.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
The Big X, Part II: The Meat of the Matter
When I think back on the meat of the relationship now, I am hard pressed to list the good things, though I know they existed. I did love him once and for a long time. Partly, there is truth in my thinking that the bad outweighed the good, especially in the last couple of years, but also I think that it is the soul's way of mending itself to emphasize the bad after it's over. It helps the crying stop.
In the first couple of years, we were happy together. I was young. He was four years older than me but emotionally at about my level. I had been in relationships (of the high school variety) before and he had not. It was all young love and rushing hormones and the newness of an adult relationship for the first couple of years.
I left him briefly when I was 22. He wasn't treating me right. I was never beaten or anything but he yelled at me a lot. He took out his anger verbally on me. And he kept me separate from his friends. And he lied sometimes about where he'd been or who he'd been with. He thought if I knew he went to a strip club I'd get mad, or if there were girls out with his group of friends, I'd get mad. I could never get it through his head that what made me mad was the lying, not so much the actual activities. Boys like the boobies. I get that.
I had given up some of my dreams for him. I always wanted to join the Peace Corps but now would not because I didn't want to give up our relationship. I would have liked to travel abroad but we could not because he wouldn't fly. I had also during this time become friends with another man and we fell in love, of a sort. I never physically cheated on the Big X but this friend proposed marriage to me and I accepted and immediately left the Big X. But I realized within weeks that my love for this friend was more about being treated right than about the actual man, and that despite the problems we had, I did still love the Big X. I went back to him.
Six months later he cheated on me. I have really good instincts about these things sometimes. (Of course, his father answering the phone at his house and calling me by the other girl's name was a good clue. I'll give you that.) He ended things with her and we had a very long talk about the problems in our relationship, of which there were many. We decided to give it one more shot. I told him right then that I would forgive him this once only and if it ever happened again, we were done forever. He said he loved me so much and wanted things to work and all the right stuff that I needed to hear.
A few more years passed thusly: We fought a lot. We made love a lot. We were best friends. We talked about marriage and buying a house and kids. He said he wanted all that stuff but we were always at least six months away from any of it happening. He was always going to go back to school next semester but next semester never came. Sometimes he threw things at me when we fought. I started to throw things back. He stopped throwing things at me.
We travelled the U.S. a lot. Travelling was our band-aid, I think now. It was our version of having kids to fix what was wrong. The next trip was always going to make things better. Trouble was, we couldn't seem to spend more than 48 hours straight in each others' presence without having a giant screaming match. He had issues. He had anger management problems and problems with crowds. We couldn't go to restaurants on the weekend or before 10 pm because they were too busy for him to deal.
After eight years of being together, I was seriously depressed. Every year after that that passed my depression got worse and worse. I didn't want to leave him because when I was 18 I had decided that he was my one true love and if I left I'd never find a love like that again. I had shut myself off from any true friends besides him so there was no one to tell me how stupid I was being. Always after each anniversary I thought by next year we will surely be engaged.
I was a pitiable person. I had given up friends, I had given up my youth, I had given up my personality for this dominant man and it all seemed worth it because he was going to be my husband one day and we would be together always. I stayed home every night waiting for him to come home and deign to spend time with me.
I was pitiable but I wasn't stupid. I knew he still lied to me. I caught him in many, big and small. After he cheated that one time, I checked up on him often. I knew who he called and when and how long he talked to them. I knew who emailed him and so on. Of course, now I can see that here was another big clue we didn't belong together. If I trusted him that little, there was a reason. And someone that doesn't deserve trust isn't a great person to spend your life with. I don't care to ever be in a position where I feel the need to check up on someone again.
But then I watched each year pass; I watched the age of 30 approach. I watched him putting off his future (our future) and forcing me to put off any plans I had for my own future. I would have gone back to graduate school years ago if I hadn't been waiting for him to get his degree first because after all, if we were going to buy a house we couldn't both be going to school. Boy was I stupid.
In total, ten and a half years passed before we come to the final part of my story about the Big X. Stay tuned, Readers.
In the first couple of years, we were happy together. I was young. He was four years older than me but emotionally at about my level. I had been in relationships (of the high school variety) before and he had not. It was all young love and rushing hormones and the newness of an adult relationship for the first couple of years.
I left him briefly when I was 22. He wasn't treating me right. I was never beaten or anything but he yelled at me a lot. He took out his anger verbally on me. And he kept me separate from his friends. And he lied sometimes about where he'd been or who he'd been with. He thought if I knew he went to a strip club I'd get mad, or if there were girls out with his group of friends, I'd get mad. I could never get it through his head that what made me mad was the lying, not so much the actual activities. Boys like the boobies. I get that.
I had given up some of my dreams for him. I always wanted to join the Peace Corps but now would not because I didn't want to give up our relationship. I would have liked to travel abroad but we could not because he wouldn't fly. I had also during this time become friends with another man and we fell in love, of a sort. I never physically cheated on the Big X but this friend proposed marriage to me and I accepted and immediately left the Big X. But I realized within weeks that my love for this friend was more about being treated right than about the actual man, and that despite the problems we had, I did still love the Big X. I went back to him.
Six months later he cheated on me. I have really good instincts about these things sometimes. (Of course, his father answering the phone at his house and calling me by the other girl's name was a good clue. I'll give you that.) He ended things with her and we had a very long talk about the problems in our relationship, of which there were many. We decided to give it one more shot. I told him right then that I would forgive him this once only and if it ever happened again, we were done forever. He said he loved me so much and wanted things to work and all the right stuff that I needed to hear.
A few more years passed thusly: We fought a lot. We made love a lot. We were best friends. We talked about marriage and buying a house and kids. He said he wanted all that stuff but we were always at least six months away from any of it happening. He was always going to go back to school next semester but next semester never came. Sometimes he threw things at me when we fought. I started to throw things back. He stopped throwing things at me.
We travelled the U.S. a lot. Travelling was our band-aid, I think now. It was our version of having kids to fix what was wrong. The next trip was always going to make things better. Trouble was, we couldn't seem to spend more than 48 hours straight in each others' presence without having a giant screaming match. He had issues. He had anger management problems and problems with crowds. We couldn't go to restaurants on the weekend or before 10 pm because they were too busy for him to deal.
After eight years of being together, I was seriously depressed. Every year after that that passed my depression got worse and worse. I didn't want to leave him because when I was 18 I had decided that he was my one true love and if I left I'd never find a love like that again. I had shut myself off from any true friends besides him so there was no one to tell me how stupid I was being. Always after each anniversary I thought by next year we will surely be engaged.
I was a pitiable person. I had given up friends, I had given up my youth, I had given up my personality for this dominant man and it all seemed worth it because he was going to be my husband one day and we would be together always. I stayed home every night waiting for him to come home and deign to spend time with me.
I was pitiable but I wasn't stupid. I knew he still lied to me. I caught him in many, big and small. After he cheated that one time, I checked up on him often. I knew who he called and when and how long he talked to them. I knew who emailed him and so on. Of course, now I can see that here was another big clue we didn't belong together. If I trusted him that little, there was a reason. And someone that doesn't deserve trust isn't a great person to spend your life with. I don't care to ever be in a position where I feel the need to check up on someone again.
But then I watched each year pass; I watched the age of 30 approach. I watched him putting off his future (our future) and forcing me to put off any plans I had for my own future. I would have gone back to graduate school years ago if I hadn't been waiting for him to get his degree first because after all, if we were going to buy a house we couldn't both be going to school. Boy was I stupid.
In total, ten and a half years passed before we come to the final part of my story about the Big X. Stay tuned, Readers.
The Big X, Part I: The Beginning
Brit Anon didn't miss the part where I wrote about the Big X because so far I have avoided writing much about him. So now, dear readers, you get to read all about him. And I fear this may turn into a multiple post odyssey (thanks for the spelling, Whit!). If you get bored and want to shoot yourselves, you know where to send your complaints.
I met the Big X when I was 18 years old. I used to like to tell the story of how we met because it all sounded very romantic. In light of how I felt at the end of things, it now sounds tragic to me, but here it is. The beginning's not about him but stick with me here; it all ties together.
When I was in the 7th grade, there was this boy, Billy, in my homeroom and study hall. I thought he was kind of cute but he hung around the wrong people. He was an outcast. I wasn't ultrapopular but I was somewhere in the middle. So one Friday in study hall, Billy asked me out in a note, and I said yes. Of course, in 7th grade, going out didn't mean much of anything.
Over the weekend I told my friends and they all told me how gross it was to go out with Billy and at that age those things mattered to me. So come Monday, I decided to write him a breaking-up note during English class. Well, Ryan, who sat in front of me, stole the note off my desk, read it, and passed it around the whole class, about 1/2 of which was in our study hall. So now half of the room was going to know I was breaking up with poor Billy.
The note said something to the effect of, "I don't want to go out with you anymore. Don't write back because I won't read it if you do." Billy wrote back and I went up to the front of the room and threw out the note without reading it. To this day I wonder what it said.
There were of course many boyfriends between the 7th grade and when I was 18 and starting college, but that fall of my freshman year of college, I had ended things with my summer bf and was single again. Well who but Billy should show up in the Lazer Tag arena where I worked. (What can I say? It was the 90's. Lazer Tag was hip.) Billy was hot. And he remembered me. And he wanted me.
He came in several times a week and did things like bring me flowers. I resisted for a bit because: 1. I still felt guilty for being mean to him when I was younger. 2. I wasn't feeling in the mood to be serious with anyone at that point. But finally I broke down and told him I'd go to a friend's Christmas party with him.
So we went and had a decent time and made out and stuff, and I told him I'd see him but I wasn't looking for anything serious right now. Then later that night I met the Big X. I felt like the minute I met him I knew we'd end up together but I didn't think it would be then because he was totally crushing on my friend Deanna. We got along wonderfully, though. He was so funny and I was so attracted to him. So we exchanged numbers and he drew me a map of how to get to his house because he actually lived only about a mile from me it turned out.
I figured I'd become friends with him and in time something would happen. I knew Deanna wasn't interested in him because she was head over heels for this other guy. So two nights later--Christmas night--I get a phone call from Billy. When I picked up he said, "Hey, it's me." He wanted me to come over and hang out for awhile so I agreed but then after thinking about it I really didn't want to spend the evening with him so I called him back and told him that I changed my mind and didn't want to come over after all.
Billy didn't know what the hell I was talking about. Turns out I thought it was him but really it was the Big X. So I stuttered through some excuses and explanations and hung up, then hightailed it over to the Big X's house because him I was willing to see. We talked for hours and then at one point we started kissing. I don't know who initiated it to this day, just that it started happening. We kissed and talked until the sun came out.
It all ended that first night wonderfully, with his step mother coming downstairs and finding my shoes in the living room and screaming to his father about what a whore I was, and me sitting in his bedroom waiting for her to stop and go away so I could slink out of the house and go home.
We saw each other just about every single day from then until last year. The beginning was wonderful. It was a whirlwind of clandestine kisses leading to groping leading to consummation. Within a week we decided to be exclusive and I had to call Billy and tell him that though I said I wasn't looking for anything serious, now here I was in a serious relationship and I couldn't see him anymore.
Billy hung around for months, convinced that the Big X was wrong for me and we'd never last and I'd come back to him. In hindsight, of course, I think I should have. But at the time all seemed perfect with my world.
I met the Big X when I was 18 years old. I used to like to tell the story of how we met because it all sounded very romantic. In light of how I felt at the end of things, it now sounds tragic to me, but here it is. The beginning's not about him but stick with me here; it all ties together.
When I was in the 7th grade, there was this boy, Billy, in my homeroom and study hall. I thought he was kind of cute but he hung around the wrong people. He was an outcast. I wasn't ultrapopular but I was somewhere in the middle. So one Friday in study hall, Billy asked me out in a note, and I said yes. Of course, in 7th grade, going out didn't mean much of anything.
Over the weekend I told my friends and they all told me how gross it was to go out with Billy and at that age those things mattered to me. So come Monday, I decided to write him a breaking-up note during English class. Well, Ryan, who sat in front of me, stole the note off my desk, read it, and passed it around the whole class, about 1/2 of which was in our study hall. So now half of the room was going to know I was breaking up with poor Billy.
The note said something to the effect of, "I don't want to go out with you anymore. Don't write back because I won't read it if you do." Billy wrote back and I went up to the front of the room and threw out the note without reading it. To this day I wonder what it said.
There were of course many boyfriends between the 7th grade and when I was 18 and starting college, but that fall of my freshman year of college, I had ended things with my summer bf and was single again. Well who but Billy should show up in the Lazer Tag arena where I worked. (What can I say? It was the 90's. Lazer Tag was hip.) Billy was hot. And he remembered me. And he wanted me.
He came in several times a week and did things like bring me flowers. I resisted for a bit because: 1. I still felt guilty for being mean to him when I was younger. 2. I wasn't feeling in the mood to be serious with anyone at that point. But finally I broke down and told him I'd go to a friend's Christmas party with him.
So we went and had a decent time and made out and stuff, and I told him I'd see him but I wasn't looking for anything serious right now. Then later that night I met the Big X. I felt like the minute I met him I knew we'd end up together but I didn't think it would be then because he was totally crushing on my friend Deanna. We got along wonderfully, though. He was so funny and I was so attracted to him. So we exchanged numbers and he drew me a map of how to get to his house because he actually lived only about a mile from me it turned out.
I figured I'd become friends with him and in time something would happen. I knew Deanna wasn't interested in him because she was head over heels for this other guy. So two nights later--Christmas night--I get a phone call from Billy. When I picked up he said, "Hey, it's me." He wanted me to come over and hang out for awhile so I agreed but then after thinking about it I really didn't want to spend the evening with him so I called him back and told him that I changed my mind and didn't want to come over after all.
Billy didn't know what the hell I was talking about. Turns out I thought it was him but really it was the Big X. So I stuttered through some excuses and explanations and hung up, then hightailed it over to the Big X's house because him I was willing to see. We talked for hours and then at one point we started kissing. I don't know who initiated it to this day, just that it started happening. We kissed and talked until the sun came out.
It all ended that first night wonderfully, with his step mother coming downstairs and finding my shoes in the living room and screaming to his father about what a whore I was, and me sitting in his bedroom waiting for her to stop and go away so I could slink out of the house and go home.
We saw each other just about every single day from then until last year. The beginning was wonderful. It was a whirlwind of clandestine kisses leading to groping leading to consummation. Within a week we decided to be exclusive and I had to call Billy and tell him that though I said I wasn't looking for anything serious, now here I was in a serious relationship and I couldn't see him anymore.
Billy hung around for months, convinced that the Big X was wrong for me and we'd never last and I'd come back to him. In hindsight, of course, I think I should have. But at the time all seemed perfect with my world.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
On Sleeping Around
A portion of Anon the Brit's last comment: "Do you find sleeping around makes you happy? Whos the Big X? i havent read far back enuf to see if hes mentioned...."
Do I find sleeping around makes me happy? Well first, I need to put things in perspective. In the grand scheme of things, I probably don't sleep around all that much. I was with the Big X for many years, and in all that time, he was the only person I had ever slept with. I've been single for a bit over a year now and I suppose if you considered the number of partners I've had in just one year, and figured that I sleep with that many people every year, you might think I sleep around a lot.
But even by that standard--how many people I've slept with in one year--I'm betting that there are many girls that would put me to shame. And I do not intend to keep up the pace, either, but more on that in a bit. I've been, I suppose, living out my twenties in a very condensed fashion.
I purposely had a one-nighter a few months after the breakup because having never slept with anyone else, I wanted to get that done with without having to worry about mucking up a real relationship with the pressure of "What's it like with everyone else? Am I really any good?" and all that crap in my head. Then I didn't sleep with anyone else for a few months. I dated a bit, nothing remotely serious.
Then there was Greg. We were together maybe a month and a half. It wasn't all that serious at all but it might have become. Here was where I realized that I have a real problem with commitment. Much has been written about him here. Since him, I've slept with a handful of guys.
I guess when I say I sleep around, I'm really being flip. What I've actually done is seek out no-strings sexual relationships. This has been harder than you might think because I do have certain standards. I want a man that is both willing to sleep with me without emotional ties and also isn't a sleazeball. I have to like him. I have to think he's a nice guy. He can't be someone tied too directly to my friends or family or classmates because I want my sex life to be my business unless I choose otherwise. And yet I have to know him through some degree of separation so that I feel comfortable with him.
I've been honest with these guys that I have no designs on a relationship at this point. But I still have needs; frankly, I think I either have a much higher sex drive than many women, or else I am more willing to admit and aim to satisfy my sex drive.
Does sleeping around make me happy? To the extent that I have done it and in the way that I have done it, yes, it did. Did. I'm tired of it now. Plus I know it's not a healthy way to live your life for long. I've been safe but even being safe you are always playing a bit of Russian Roulette.
And yet I'm still not convinced I'm ready for another relationship; and yet I still have the same physical needs. I've entered into a tentative arrangement with a friend of mine. We'll see how it progresses, as it is very new. We are friends with benefits, fuck buddies, whatever you want to call it. We satisfy our needs together but without the fuss of a relationship.
I know that such a situation can't last forever but for as long as it does last, at least I'm in a sexually monogomous relationship, which is marginally healthier than the way I've been pursuing my sex life up til now. And I don't have to confront my emotional relationship issues. Yet.
Guess I'll address the Big X tomorrow, as this entry is already a bit long.
Do I find sleeping around makes me happy? Well first, I need to put things in perspective. In the grand scheme of things, I probably don't sleep around all that much. I was with the Big X for many years, and in all that time, he was the only person I had ever slept with. I've been single for a bit over a year now and I suppose if you considered the number of partners I've had in just one year, and figured that I sleep with that many people every year, you might think I sleep around a lot.
But even by that standard--how many people I've slept with in one year--I'm betting that there are many girls that would put me to shame. And I do not intend to keep up the pace, either, but more on that in a bit. I've been, I suppose, living out my twenties in a very condensed fashion.
I purposely had a one-nighter a few months after the breakup because having never slept with anyone else, I wanted to get that done with without having to worry about mucking up a real relationship with the pressure of "What's it like with everyone else? Am I really any good?" and all that crap in my head. Then I didn't sleep with anyone else for a few months. I dated a bit, nothing remotely serious.
Then there was Greg. We were together maybe a month and a half. It wasn't all that serious at all but it might have become. Here was where I realized that I have a real problem with commitment. Much has been written about him here. Since him, I've slept with a handful of guys.
I guess when I say I sleep around, I'm really being flip. What I've actually done is seek out no-strings sexual relationships. This has been harder than you might think because I do have certain standards. I want a man that is both willing to sleep with me without emotional ties and also isn't a sleazeball. I have to like him. I have to think he's a nice guy. He can't be someone tied too directly to my friends or family or classmates because I want my sex life to be my business unless I choose otherwise. And yet I have to know him through some degree of separation so that I feel comfortable with him.
I've been honest with these guys that I have no designs on a relationship at this point. But I still have needs; frankly, I think I either have a much higher sex drive than many women, or else I am more willing to admit and aim to satisfy my sex drive.
Does sleeping around make me happy? To the extent that I have done it and in the way that I have done it, yes, it did. Did. I'm tired of it now. Plus I know it's not a healthy way to live your life for long. I've been safe but even being safe you are always playing a bit of Russian Roulette.
And yet I'm still not convinced I'm ready for another relationship; and yet I still have the same physical needs. I've entered into a tentative arrangement with a friend of mine. We'll see how it progresses, as it is very new. We are friends with benefits, fuck buddies, whatever you want to call it. We satisfy our needs together but without the fuss of a relationship.
I know that such a situation can't last forever but for as long as it does last, at least I'm in a sexually monogomous relationship, which is marginally healthier than the way I've been pursuing my sex life up til now. And I don't have to confront my emotional relationship issues. Yet.
Guess I'll address the Big X tomorrow, as this entry is already a bit long.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
I Pick Losers
I always pick the loser. In my lifetime I can remember one time where the team/person I was rooting for won, and that was when the Sox finally won the World Series. Besides that, nada. In sports I am a Boston fan, but not very dedicated about it. I don't think the Pats' wins at the Superbowl count if I wasn't even into it enough to watch it.
Politically, I like the Dems. I wasn't much interested yet in politics back when Clinton first ran and the next time, when I was interested, I realized my curse and threw my support to the candidate I liked the least: Perot. I worked for the Dem in the last CT gubenatorial race, and he lost. I supported Bill Bradley in the 2000 primary and then Gore in the final race. I supported Dean in 2004 and then reluctantly Kerry in the final race.
So yeah. I supported the Seahawks tonight and we all see what happened there. So I am questioning how much good my support actually does. Perhaps I should support the people I want to see lose. Look what happened when I supported Perot, after all. So I'm beginning to wonder whether I should continue to work for the candidates that I support or else throw my support to the one I want to see lose.
Because I pick losers. In sports, in politics, and in love.
Politically, I like the Dems. I wasn't much interested yet in politics back when Clinton first ran and the next time, when I was interested, I realized my curse and threw my support to the candidate I liked the least: Perot. I worked for the Dem in the last CT gubenatorial race, and he lost. I supported Bill Bradley in the 2000 primary and then Gore in the final race. I supported Dean in 2004 and then reluctantly Kerry in the final race.
So yeah. I supported the Seahawks tonight and we all see what happened there. So I am questioning how much good my support actually does. Perhaps I should support the people I want to see lose. Look what happened when I supported Perot, after all. So I'm beginning to wonder whether I should continue to work for the candidates that I support or else throw my support to the one I want to see lose.
Because I pick losers. In sports, in politics, and in love.
P.S. to the Last
Continuing the last paragraph of the last post: When Dylan sang for Victoria's Secret, that was the worst. The absolute worst.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Notes from Bedrest
I put on my fuzzy pj bottoms again today since I am having another forced PJ day. There is debate among friends and family as to whether it is possible that a bone in my foot was chipped or cracked in last week's stair-falling incident. If so, most think I should visit the doctor on Monday morning for foot x rays and to get one of those ginomous broken foot shoes. I don't want to wear one of those, and more importanty, I don't want to be told to use crutches any more! So I am on forced bedrest for the weekend, trying to make it so that come Monday, my foot does not hurt.
Okay. Perhaps my forced bedrest is causing me to go insane. I just let out a maniacal laugh because I was just so thrilled at sitting here listening to my iPod while sipping on a 2 day old iced Dunkin Donuts coffee I just discovered in the fridge. And I made my hair curly today.
The pets are demanding attention today. Goober the dog needs constant belly rubs and whenever I stop she whines and hits me with her paw. Andy the cat is mysteriously wet and insisting on pets by climbing onto my chest and purring like a madman, making it very hard to blog. Chloe the cat is just sitting in the corner glowering angrily at Andy, who is the baby in my twisted little family and therefore inspires jelousy in Chloe.
Ha! I'm so proud of myself for linking their names to photos! Aren't I clever? Currently "Friend of the Devil" is playing on the iPod. This song we played endlessly while driving through Nevada, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona since there is a line at the beginning that goes,"I lit out from Reno, I was trailed by twenty hounds," and another that goes, "Spent the night in Utah and I gave up in the hills." We lit out from Vegas, not Reno though. But we did spend the night in Utah. And we hid a gun in the hills. Ah, good times. But that is a story for another time.
A new friend of mine has been celibate for almost three years because he only wants to be intimate with a girl when he is really serious about her. (He's had girlfriends in these years but not considered them serious enough.) I on the other hand can't stick to a vow of celibacy for more than two weeks. I feel so lacking in self-control.
I am not wearing a bra or panties today. This is not some attempt to be sexy; it is because I have run out of clean lingerie. So I have decided to do laundry. Sadly, this is how most of my decisions are made. I metaphorically run out of clean underwear and so decide to do the metaphorical laundry. I understand that this makes me a flawed person but I don't seem to have the ambition to fix myself.
"Lovefool" is now playing. I am upset with the advertising world for stealing my favorite music for commercials. This song is currently featured in an automobile commercial. Furthermore, the M &Ms float psychadelically (sp?) to "Such Great Heights." A little piece of my soul breaks away every time I hear another one of my favorites used for commercial purposes. Ah, but I know that Professor Bob would tell me that it is just the free market at work. And that is precisely why I hate economics. It is a cold, cold world that the Economist inhabits.
Okay. Perhaps my forced bedrest is causing me to go insane. I just let out a maniacal laugh because I was just so thrilled at sitting here listening to my iPod while sipping on a 2 day old iced Dunkin Donuts coffee I just discovered in the fridge. And I made my hair curly today.
The pets are demanding attention today. Goober the dog needs constant belly rubs and whenever I stop she whines and hits me with her paw. Andy the cat is mysteriously wet and insisting on pets by climbing onto my chest and purring like a madman, making it very hard to blog. Chloe the cat is just sitting in the corner glowering angrily at Andy, who is the baby in my twisted little family and therefore inspires jelousy in Chloe.
Ha! I'm so proud of myself for linking their names to photos! Aren't I clever? Currently "Friend of the Devil" is playing on the iPod. This song we played endlessly while driving through Nevada, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona since there is a line at the beginning that goes,"I lit out from Reno, I was trailed by twenty hounds," and another that goes, "Spent the night in Utah and I gave up in the hills." We lit out from Vegas, not Reno though. But we did spend the night in Utah. And we hid a gun in the hills. Ah, good times. But that is a story for another time.
A new friend of mine has been celibate for almost three years because he only wants to be intimate with a girl when he is really serious about her. (He's had girlfriends in these years but not considered them serious enough.) I on the other hand can't stick to a vow of celibacy for more than two weeks. I feel so lacking in self-control.
I am not wearing a bra or panties today. This is not some attempt to be sexy; it is because I have run out of clean lingerie. So I have decided to do laundry. Sadly, this is how most of my decisions are made. I metaphorically run out of clean underwear and so decide to do the metaphorical laundry. I understand that this makes me a flawed person but I don't seem to have the ambition to fix myself.
"Lovefool" is now playing. I am upset with the advertising world for stealing my favorite music for commercials. This song is currently featured in an automobile commercial. Furthermore, the M &Ms float psychadelically (sp?) to "Such Great Heights." A little piece of my soul breaks away every time I hear another one of my favorites used for commercial purposes. Ah, but I know that Professor Bob would tell me that it is just the free market at work. And that is precisely why I hate economics. It is a cold, cold world that the Economist inhabits.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
I Have Issues
A Brit has told me he can provide me with a psychological analysis. I'm sure he can. But as I have already previously been in therapy I doubt I would be surprised with much or anything he had to say. Here are some of my issues:
- Obvious one is my fear of commitment, which I have discussed a few times here already. But where does this stem from? An easy answer is that I was burned and am either afraid of my own future choices in men or now can't trust men. My ex lied to me about his intentions for our future and in the end cheated on me as well. But the truth is I'm over that already. I knew all along that he had a tendency to lie and I was in the relationship way too long to not be able to at least subconsciously admit that we weren't headed for the future I wanted. The trust thing? I don't have trust issues; I really don't. He was not cheating on me for very long before things ended, and my instincts told me something was wrong. It wouldn't have been long (had we stayed together) before I found out on my own. And I know that some men cheat and others don't. I rely on my instincts and my ability to analyze a situation to decide if someone is breaking my trust.
- But what I do have is trust issues with myself. I do not trust myself to do what is best for me. This is why I stayed with the ex for far too long. It was the easy thing to do and I didn't care to change things even though it was not a healthy situation for me. Further, I allowed my personality to change over a long period of time to fit the relationship so that by the time I left the relationship, I no longer recognized myself. I have gotten back the Tina I used to be, the Tina I actually like to be. But I do not at this point trust myself to protect that personality and not lose it in the next relationship.
- I allow people to use me. Not for sex; that is not what I am referring to here. Any time I've slept with a guy I had my eyes wide open to what he wanted or didn't want from me. I allow people to use me in other ways. I allow my family to take advantage of me in caring for my mother. At first, it only made sense. I was the one closest geographically to her. I was the one who had the easiest time leaving work during the day. When Tom left me, I even ended up living in my parents' house. And since I was the one without a boyfriend, without school, well, why shouldn't I take care of her? But I ended up taking on the whole burden of being caretaker. No one else did anything and I allowed it. It sucked the life out of me. I'm better now. After getting my head on a bit straighter, I demanded more help. I mean, after a couple of months of wallowing in depression, I wanted a life again. Yet my family has been trained that I will pick up the slack, that I am the one that can take care of everything in a crisis, and they still tend to take advantage of that. Sometimes I let it slide before I realize what is going on, and sometimes I am able to force everyone into doing their share.
- I also thrive on other people. I cannot be alone for too long before I begin to sink into depression. I love having friends and can't have enough of them. Because of this, I also tend to let some friends take advantage of me. Most of my friends are true and good friends and don't do this, and I am working on standing up to the other ones. But it is a lot of work because I want so much for everyone to like me that I hate to say anything that may upset them. So there are two problems here: One is that I need to learn to be okay with being alone; the other is that I need to set boundaries with the "friends" that want to take advantage of my friendship.
I Take Weird Quizzes
My ankle was screwed up worse again today so I took a vicodin tonight and now I am wide awake and a little high and bored so I took some quizzes:
What kind of cheese I am
What kind of cheese I am
- Swiss-You're a little out of it. I mean, come on. You're covered in holes, after all.
- Cheddar-You are the best in the world. Absolutely perfect.
- American-You're icky alone and you're flat. You're cheap. Also you taste good on burgers.
- Lawrence Ferlinghetti
- William S. Borroughs
- Allen Ginsberg
- Haman
- Pontius Pilate
- Abraham
- Josef Stalin
- Mao Tse-Tung
- Bill Clinton
- Knight
- Druid
- Monarch
- Flea
- Cricket
- Fly
- Bob Wiley
- Lilly Marvin
- Sigmund Marvin
- Chunk Cohen
- Jake Fratelli
- Mama Fratelli
- the Criminologist
- Frank N. Furter
- Dr. Scott
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
