The End

I'm ending this blog. I think it's time to start fresh. There's a new one getting started. I'm not going to link to it here but if I visit your blog, I'll let you know how to find me. Or you can email me for the url if you like.

Yeah. It's over. I don't think there's anything to do to change his mind, and that is probably healthier for me, anyway. For reasons I'll explain when I have the strength. He wants to know if he can keep the key for a few days.

Forgive Me

I fucked up. I didn't mean to but I guess that doesn't count for anything. I made one big fuck-up in the year I've spent with J. I told J about it on Wednesday night because he was finally honest with me about some of his biggest secrets. I thought we had finally made a bit of progress in our relationship and I was completely willing to try to work through the problems we had. I wasn't sure that things would work out in the end but I care too much about him to not at least give it my best try.

He was feeling really awful about the things he told me, and I wanted him to understand that he wasn't a bad person because of the secrets he held. So I told him a few of my own. Including my one big mistake which I have never told anyone about. I thought that he cared enough to at least try to forgive me. But either my mistake was too big to forgive or he just doesn't care about me as much as I thought he did.

Maybe it's naive, but I haven't yet given up all hope. I'm pretty sure it's over since he said as much Wednesday night and hasn't come back since. But I'm still hoping that if he has time to think about things, he might come to understand that I have forgiven his every transgression big or small and have always given him a chance to try again. I'm hoping if he realizes that, maybe he might reconsider just once forgiving me and letting me try again.

I just don't have the energy to write more than bits and pieces right now. Forgive me.

Morning After the Night Full of Trouble, aka Happy Thanksgiving, Asshole

I'm sure it's pretty clear that I had a rough night. I have yet to sleep a solid hour. I may have fucked up the turkey. I am very, very fragile. I just needed a walk to clear my head and prepare myself for the fakeness I must put on to deal with the Grandmonster. I just don't know if I have it in me today.

So I smoked. I took the dogs for a walk and had a cigarette. Smoking is a huge sin in my family because of the fact that it can kill you so I walked a few houses down to a corner that was shaded by trees and no one was around. I stood there and smoked my cigarette while watching Ginny play with Katie. When I was done, I turned around and began walking home.

A truck whipped around the corner so I shortend the dogs' leashes so they wouldn't get run over. The guy pulled up right next to me and started yelling at me. "Get your dogs off my lawn! This is private property! How dare you let your dogs shit on my lawn!" (In a raised, but not screaming, voice.)

I remained calm and responded. I told him first and foremost that I was sorry. I didn't realize that he didn't want the dogs on his lawn. He didn't give a shit. He hated me because I let my dogs on his lawn and it didn't matter that I hadn't let them shit there and that I was clearly carrying a big bright yellow recyclable shit bag, which one would only carry with the intention of picking up their dog's shit. You know, because they had no intention of leaving shit on someone's lawn.

He didn't want to hear it. He kept yelling, if anything getting only more agitated by the fact that I wasn't being the asshole he wanted me to be so his hate would be justified. "This is private property! Keep your dogs off my lawn!"

"Look, I don't live around here. I'm sorry; I didn't know. You can see I've shortened my dogs' leashes. I promise I won't let it happen again. Just please stop yelling at me."

"I have every right to yell!" (And then some more of the same blah blah . . . private property! . . . blah blah . . . dogs shit on my lawn! . . .blah blah . . . )

At this point, I realized that he would not be placated and I just wanted the yelling to stop. So I said, with no trace of any emotion but earnestness, "Did you know that my mother just died? I just wanted to take a peaceful walk. I'm sorry I upset you. Thank you for being so polite." By now, tears were streaming down my face. I was just so tired and so sick of people hating strangers. When did everyone become so hateful?

Now clearly, the "Thank you for being so polite" was meant to be ironic and he knew it. He was a smart man. He finally shut up and said, "Well alright then." He may have even felt a tiny bit remorseful. I didn't know anymore. I didn't care.

I did what I very rarely do and I let my anger out on a perfect stranger, just as he had done to me. As I walked away, I said, "Have a happy Thanksgiving." Then I raised my voice to make sure he heard me as he started pulling away: "Asshole."

He stopped and threw the truck in reverse. He backed up next to me and screeched to a halt. He said, "That was uncalled for."

I said, in my normal voice, though I was still crying, "It was uncalled for for you to speak to me the way you did. I was nothing but polite and I apologized and said it wouldn't happen again. But you didn't care."

He did what I did not expect and said, for the first time speaking to me like someone with feelings, "You're right. Let's start over. I'm sorry. Don't let your dogs walk on my lawn."

I said, "I won't."

"Happy Thanksgiving."

"Thank you," I said. "Happy Thanksgiving."

And he drove away and I walked away. I felt actually almost peaceful for a moment. I could almost forget the hurt.

I really needed another cigarette. I sat in my car with the door open and lit up while I waited to see if Ginny would finally shit. Still feeling almost peaceful. It lasted nearly a full two minutes until the Grandmonster pulled up.

The Grandmonster does not get showing your feelings. The Grandmonster would never be described as caring, compassionate, or understanding. You always put on your best face for her. And I just couldn't do it. The peacefulness was gone and I didn't know how I was going to sit near her right then when I was so raw.

I got the dogs in the car and drove to Dunkin' Donuts to get some coffee. It was purely an excuse to buy myself some time to get a grip. I thought maybe I was better when I got back. I just kept thinking, I only have to hold it together for six or seven more hours before I can go home and lose it if I need to.

I came in with Ginny and Katie and the Grandmonster reared its ugly head and pretended to fear for its life because of Ginny. The day my mom died, Ginny--a tiny puppy at the time, with tiny, sharp puppy nails and eager puppy love--jumped up to greet the Grandmonster as a new friend. Her nail scratched the Grandmonster's scaly skin and drew a tiny bit of blood. The Grandmonster got very angry at me as I pulled Ginny away and scolded her. We got her a band-aid. I put Ginny in my parents' room as my mother's one-hour-old corpse lay cooling in the guest room next door.

The Grandmonster assumed center court as it loves so much to do, putting a chair in the middle of my mother's grieving sisters and my mother's grieving mother. The Grandmonster bled through one band-aid and needed it replaced because the Grandmonster has old people tissue-thin skin. The bleeding stopped with the second band-aid. But the Grandmonster has never forgiven my dog, and I have never forgiven her not just for that time but for all the times she felt the need to treat my mother like shit. She had no right even being in that house at that moment if she couldn't respect the grief of others and stop being selfish for just one moment.

But the Grandmonster is named the Grandmonster for a reason.

And when I got back into the house this morning and the Grandmonster reared its ugly head to spout hate, I just pulled Ginny into the sun room and locked her in. Then I went and poured out a third of my coffee and filled the cup again with Bailey's.

Ah, the holidays with the family. A bunch of White Anglo-Saxon Protestants hiding their various vices from each other so they can use said vices to deal enough to get through a day spent together. Maybe I can get a few minutes' sleep before the meal starts and I need to sit at the same table with the Grandmonster and try to get through a few hours of conversation while apologizing profusely for not saying hello immediately despite the fact that I was crying and visibly shaken at the moment.

As I write, I hide in the sun room with Ginny drinking my coffee and Bailey's trying to figure out whether it will be hours, days, or months before I feel peace in my soul again for long enough to maybe even be happy.

I ponder whether to get drunk or sleep.

Night Full of Trouble

A moment of levity in a night full of trouble: I kid you not--someone from Wasilla, Alaska visited my blog three hours ago. This Wasillan was searching for hot toddie recipes and if you spell it wrong like I did in that posting, I pop up all the time. I'm sure it wasn't Sarah Palin, since this person visited on his or her Mac. And I am positive that Sarah Palin is a PC person.

About the night full of trouble, I have only this to say for now:

• I am in love with J and have been for a long time.
• I am a very self-destructive person.
• I had been thinking for a long time that I was as screwed up as J and that two equally screwed up people who wanted to badly enough just might be able to make it work. Then tonight I thought maybe I was too screwed up for J to get over.
• Reading those last sentences again, I still think I may have been right the first time. But I also may have been right the second time, or maybe wrong both times, but I just don't fucking know anymore.
• I'm barely sure of very much in my life right this second, but I'm sure I don't want it to be over just yet. Even if it's going to be over eventually.
• And I need to try to put the pieces of my life back together again, whether it's over or not. It's been nearly a year and a half that I've grieved, and it's time I started healing. Read: Start acting like a grown-up again and clean my house, walk my dog, spend time with friends, and actually try to succeed rather than live on the adrenaline of seeing how close I can come to total destruction.

When I've gotten some decent sleep and I've got the turkey almost ready for Thanksgiving, I'll try to fill in some more detail. But not all of it.

A girl's got to have some secrets, after all. And she's got to stop hurting the ones she loves.

Crying Over a Man

The last time I was up at this hour crying over a man was, I think, the week after the Big X and I broke up. The whole week.

Oh, Bother

It bothers me that J did not come home tonight. I know that it shouldn't; we've never made each other any real promises. And he's not come home in the past. And this isn't home to him anyway; he has his own place still, even if the cable and internet have both been shut off for months. And we've both gone on trips without the other, not coming home for days.

But it does bother me.

There has been very little in the ten or so months since we've started dating that has bothered me. But now I'm bothered.

And that bothers me.

On a night when he was out, presumably at the bar, and the bars closed 2 1/2 hours ago, it bothers me that he hasn't come home or called. I really, really hate that it bothers me. In fact, it bothers me more that I'm bothered than his not coming home bothers me to begin with. I've worked very hard for a very long time to not let my heart be in a position to be bothered by a man's actions.

And now I don't know what to do.

A Little Interlude, After a Long Silence

This is a picture of the house that I helped burn down.

Let me explain. One day earlier this summer, I stayed home from work, not feeling very well. I had to get to the post office, however, to mail my already-late rent. On my way to the car, I looked over the fence in the backyard and saw smoke coming from the backyard of the house behind mine. It smelled like burning wood, and there were no flames. It was only a little smoke, and the little voice in the back of my head, which I affectionately refer to as Murphy, for reasons I'll have to explain some other time, said, Maybe you should call the fire department. What if it's a real fire? But the rest of my voices were saying, Ha. It's just a chiminea or something and I'll look stupid. So off to the post office I went.

An hour later, I turned back onto my street after running a few other errands, and saw flashing lights at the other end, where my house is. My first thought was, Jesus Christ, Crazy Magdalena the downstairs neighbor lady has called the cops on me again, and this time I wasn't even home. (I'll have to explain that whole story soon.) Turns out, though, I saw as I got closer, that it was just that the house behind me had burned down.

It took me a minute to realize it was in some way my fault.

This is a nice allegory for myself lately--letting things burn down around me because I'm some combination of too overly cautious and lazy.

But I'm actually doing better after the last three weeks or so. More detailed updates soon, but first...

This is a picture of the kitten I temporarily adopted in order to train it to be a good cat for my dad. His name is Willy. He is in J's Pirates hat.

And second...

This is a picture of my new nephew at a month old, on my first baby sitting venture. He survived. I can't wait to do it again.

So there have been nice things in my life lately too. Just regarding the bad things--I've let them get really bad, and it's time I actually tried to do something about them before it's too late.

Like with the house behind mine.

Digression and Mourning, Part I

I heart "Shortbus" and if you haven't seen it yet you should. I mean, the Mayor...James and Jamie...Caleb and Ceth-pronounced-Seth...the orgies...the pot and the masturbation...the photographs and the molestation...the blackout....the orgasms...but I digress...

I need to go see my Uncle George and Mike in Florida again soon. They just wrote me an email:

Now you didn't hear this from me....but huggy bear said word on the street is that john and his wife ( sorry I can't think of her name ..my mind is a complete blank..) is going to have another baby ...a boy ... due in august... How do you think they will be able to take care of this one??? Is Vickey old enough to take care of the new one??? Hope your all doing good and we miss you and think of you all daily...
stay healthy and happy ...Love always George and Mike

I heart my Uncle George...and Mike...One month after my mom died, he came up for a week to help prepare for and attend my mother's memorial. At that time and again with the help of Mike afterward, he filled a void that has been in my soul since Mom left me.

I've been having a rough time of it with the grief thing lately...I've been aware that I've been at bottom for some time.

A description of chronic depression that has always resonated with me is that of cliffs and oceans. Most people experience emotions as peaks and valleys--some have steeper hills than others and tumble faster down into the valleys of being depressed, and they have a harder time trying to climb back up to the peaks of contentment (a term which I prefer to happiness, which I believe sets an unrealistic goal of a feeling that we cannot achieve frequently enough nor hold onto for a long enough duration; contentment, on the other hand, is more easily accomplished and therefore comes with more frequency and longevity...but I digress...). Most people only experience short bursts of being depressed, and some (those with the steeper slopes) experience occasional mild depression (sometimes affectionately referred to as The Blues).

And then there are those who experience moderate to severe depression. We fart in your peaks' and valleys' general direction ("Monty Python and the Holy Grail", for those of you who aren't hip enough for that reference...) We experience cliffs and oceans. When we fall into depression, we step off the edge of a cliff; we fall farther and faster, and when we hit the bottom, we fall hard into an ocean of sad. It surrounds and overwhelms us so that we can't see a way out because it's so big and all-consuming. Most of us can tread water and get through our daily lives while trying not to choke as the waves of depression crash over our heads; most of us can ride it out. We're the Moderates. The Severes I can't explain as well because I have been lucky enough not to have to experience that, but I would venture that they are in far choppier seascapes; they probably cannot see land anywhere, not even behind them, where the cliff they fell from used to be. They probably swallow a lot more water with those higher, harder waves, and we all know some of them drown...so it's no wonder they often get to the point where they cannot get through their daily lives anymore. But I digress...

I fell off the cliff ten and a half months ago and have been in the Ocean of Sad ever since. I can figure it to the day, because it was the day I went on my first date since I had returned from England. It was the night that date was interrupted with a phone call followed by a trip to the Emergency Room to see my mother be admitted for what would turn out to be the last time. It was the beginning of the last two weeks of my mother's life.

The night (a Wednesday night) before what would be the last night of my mother's life , the boy I had been dating for two weeks jumped off a roof to prove his love to me. Then, of course, on Friday morning just before 8 AM, she died. I wrote her obituary. I directed the days that followed for my family, and after three days of mourning with them, I found the energy to end things with Crazy Andy. I spent two weeks in a daze, a good portion of that at two of my best friends' house in New Hampshire (hiding out in case Crazy Andy decided to show up at my apartment to slice his other arm open to further prove his love to me--the first arm having been sliced open a year earlier to prove his love to his ex-girlfriend who cheated on him with her cousin).

The first day back from New Hampshire, I went to the funeral parlor to pick up my mother's ashes. Then my nuclear family and I made our first social appearance since my mother left us at the wedding of my cousin Jamie. Jamie and his family--especially his mother and my mother's sister, Mary--are our second nuclear family; Mary is the closest thing I have to a Godmother, and Jamie is like a little brother of mine.

The Big X attended the wedding as Jamie's Best Man, and brought along his girlfriend the slut with whom he cheated on me and his father and stepmother, who were the equivalent of my in-laws for eleven years. It was the first time he and I had seen each other since the night we broke up two and a half years previously. He did not approach me or any member of my family to express sympathy for my mother's death which had occurred just over a week before that day. His parents came to me and spoke with my sister and I for a long time; his gay best friend Matt who I always knew was secretly in love with the Big X approached me at the bar to express his sympathy and share some kind words about my mother. But the Big X didn't have the balls. And that was all the closure I needed on that relationship. Dad, Stacy, Kristy and I had our first picture taken as a family without a mother.

I had forgotten that picture existed until just now.

Stacy, Kristy, and I were to spend the next two weeks cleaning the basement (a promise we had all made to my mother in her last years) but after my first day of cleaning (and heavy lifting), I came home newly inspired to rearrange and clean my bedroom and moved the mattress on my own, throwing out my back. A fight with my sisters ensued over my not pulling my weight with the cleaning despite my bad back for the next few days (during which the first of my financial troubles began to occur, along with the realization of the fact that I would fail to complete my thesis in time to graduate in August). My back got better and I had my niece over for a couple of days, on the last of which we were heading out the door to go to my dad's house and begin my first day back at cleaning when I fell down an entire flight of stairs, cracking my elbow, snapping a toe, and spraining an ankle (and of course re-throwing out my back). My niece had to come to the ER with us, where I witnessed her terror because what she knew of hospitals is that her Nana went there and got very sick and eventually died. I comforted her and got her to understand that I would not die on this particular day in this particular hospital because of that particular accident. More than that specific promise I could not make. But I digress...

The next week or so I spent healing from the fall and recovering from what would be the first of many minor illnesses like colds, bronchitis, and sinus infections, each of which lingered with me longer than usual. The end of the week was the beginning of Uncle George's visit. He came and pulled my sisters and I out of our feuding, helped clean the house for the memorial, and filled a hole that had been in our family since just before 8 in the morning on July 20. The memorial was held on August 25, a little over a month after my mother died, and it was the best and worst day I had had since that awful morning.

My mother's entire family (over 40 sisters, brothers, brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews, grand-nieces and nephews, her mother, her husband and children) and over 30 friends of the family came to my parents' house, which was filled with displays of her artwork and writing. There was the memory book we gave to her for her college graduation (which took place six months after her diagnosis) that was filled with love letters and happy memories from all who cared for her. There was the music video montage with pictures of her throughout the many stages of her life, at the conclusion of which a choir of 50 of her loved ones sang Amazing Grace as her friend Paula accompanied on the piano. My father's brother Jack and a few of my father's friends formed a makeshift folk band and played for awhile as small groups shared memories over wine and food. I do believe it was the best way my mother would have liked to be remembered.

But I digress yet again...

The rest of the month of August, and then September through December were marked for me by continued sicknesses, mild hermitism (yes, I made that word up), the wedding of my dear friends Whitney and Jake, and a lot of wallowing in grief, financial troubles, procrastination of my thesis work, frustrated failings with training Ginny the puppy, and a few bad dating experiences (see the Musician, the Republican, and, of course, the Whore Looker, the story of whom has become legend among my friends, a story that I am begged to tell at parties). In early November, I took a road trip down to Florida, where I picked my sisters up from the airport and we spent a few days visiting Uncle George and Mike. The purpose of the trip was to bring some of my mother's ashes to be placed in a memorial garden he has been creating on his property. Those days with George and Mike--and the solitude of the drive down and back--were the most peaceful I have experienced since my mother died.

I returned from the trip in mid-November and prepared for and hosted our first Thanksgiving without my mother. It was a surprisingly okay weekend--weekend because our family spends the entire day together, followed the rest of the weekend by some combination of Black Friday shopping, traveling to the tree farm to chop down a family Christmas tree, and decorating my parents' house for Christmas. The hangover between Thanksgiving and Christmas was filled with trying to figure out how to buy Christmas presents for family and friends now that my bank account was officially just about dry. I also met J (formerly known as the MF) during this time period, and after a few days of talking, our first date was on December 1.

This ends the first half of the story of my ten and a half months of grief, and since it's 4:30 in the morning after a long night of partying after a long day of cleaning after a slightly less long night of partying on Friday, I'm going to pick up the second half of the story later on.

Mr. Morning Person Security Guard

When I walk into the building every morning, I am greeted by security. They always say good morning and most of them know me so they add some other comment as well. There is one guy, however, who I dread seeing when I get here because he is one of those Morning People. I have never once seen him anything less than absolutely beaming at the prospect of starting a new day, and no matter how grumpy I am, he just keeps smiling that bright shit-eating grin.

As much as I like my job, it is still work, and there is nothing pleasant to me about being forced out of my bed before 8 am every day to go somewhere you have to stay until 5 pm every day. Not to mention I am not a morning person and am a generally grumpy, sarcastic individual. So I send him psychic resentment mixed with disdain as I fake-smile back every morning he's there. Luckily they rotate their duties, so next week it should be someone else. Maybe even the tall bald guy who saw me drunk after the wine tasting we had here and, I am sure, is a kindred spirit in hating the Man in his many forms.

I'm Working on It . . .

I'm working on something. Something that I'm going to post here but it's taking me some deep thought. It was started by the conversation that the MF and I had last night--a sort of checking in on the status of us thing, making sure we are roughly on the same page. Actually, though, it was started long before then, but that gave me the motivation to try to put it down in writing.

It's all about us--what I want and can handle from him, what I can't handle from him . . . but it is really me putting words to a way of thinking I've developed in the last few years--a way of thinking about my life, which includes men in general (and him in specific, now). And I'm doing it for him because there are some things I need him to know about me, and about what I do and don't expect. I think he will be relieved when he sees it, and there is a chance he won't like some of it. But I think mostly it will relieve him, and--I hope--free him and me up to be more honest about our feelings for each other, for other people, and about how we want to fit into each other's lives.

The Office Is Full of Floozies

(I'd apologize for the inappropriate nature of this post but then most of you have read this blog long enough to expect inappropriate . . .)

This is how low I’ve sunk: I went to the ladies’ room a few minutes ago to remove my panties because they are old and uncomfortable, so now I am going commando (with a skirt on) all because I have been too lazy to do my laundry for two weeks. And on my way back to my cube, I walked past the secret service guy who is in the office today preparing the Republican senator for President Bush’s visit later this week. And here I am walking around like a floozy with the breeze blowing across my ass cheeks.

AND.

And I went and told my office mate because I wanted to make sure it wasn’t obvious that I was walking around without panties on (not being a person who generally makes a habit of those types of things [at least in public]), and guess what I found out? She (who shall remain nameless) walked to work from the train station today as her panties crept into her ass crack so when she got to the office, she stormed into the bathroom, tore them off, and threw them into the trash. So there are two panty-less, skirted chicks in my office today. If only the secret service guy knew . . .

And THEN.

I got this email from my friend Raquel when I got back to my chair from the excursion:

HERE'S A RIDDLE TO MAKE YOU SMILE. Pantyhose quiz Q: How many animals can you fit into a pair of pantyhose?

Now, think about it...

Answer: 10 little piggies . . .

2 calves . . .

1 ass . . .

an unknown number of hares . . .

and of course one (1) . . . ahem . . .

Stream of Consciousness

why they are opposite . . . going to be an aunt again . . . the things that make him right . . . forgiving/forgetting . . . i'm sure i'm forgetting something . . . why so sensitive?

I like stories where the timing is completely different from all the other stories, where you’re never sure whether you’re near the end or just the start of another chapter of the story, not even when you pay attention to the timing of where the beginning and the end are. They break the rules, stretch the bounds of story-telling, not to the point of unbelievability—not to the point where they seem to break the bounds of reality—but just to the point where you are never sure what might happen next. You know there will be an end, eventually, but you don’t know exactly where it will come or what will happen when it does—but you know for absolute certainty that the path you take getting there will be highly enjoyable. I love stories like that, to be honest.

Big Things on my Mind

Sometimes a lot of time lapses between posts on this blog because I’m very busy and sometimes it’s because I have something big on my mind but I’m not ready to put words to it. This time it’s the second reason, and there are two big things on my mind.

I have avoided relationships for over three years. I have not wanted to get entangled with another person to that level mainly out of fear. When things ended with the Big X, I had to create a whole new life; over the course of a decade with him, I had lost all of my old friends and he was my best friend, so I thought that was okay. I had become a completely different person—someone who was unhappy most of the time, who had a temper, had lost her sense of humor . . . just not a great person, and not at all who I was before the Big X, and not at all who I wanted myself to be.

I didn’t ever want that to happen again; I didn’t want to lose who I am because of a guy. And I know it wasn’t entirely the Big X’s fault; he wasn’t so emotionally abusive to me that I HAD to give up my friends; he never verbally stated that I was to put him above family and everyone else—it was clearly implied and I was punished with screaming and name-calling if things weren’t the way he wanted—but still, I could have walked away at any point. I could have said no, I’m not going to go along with what you want over my own interests. It wasn’t entirely the Big X’s fault that I became a mean and unhappy person; he didn’t force my personality to change—it was nearly impossible not to pick up his pessimism and mean-spiritedness because that was the only thing I was ever exposed to—but still, I could have walked away at any point. I could have but I didn’t.

So after I picked myself up and put the pieces together again like the Humpty Dumpty of 2005, I decided I shouldn’t get in a relationship with anyone again for a long, long time. And I dated quite a bit, but I either always found something wrong with the guy within the first couple of dates, or they began to talk to me as if they wanted a relationship (using terms like girlfriend or talking about “our future”) and I had my usual panic attacks and ran away. I never had to worry about ending a relationship because I never let it get to that point.

I’ve been dating the MF now for nearly 3 months, and within the last week or two I’ve felt like things have turned some kind of corner with us. I haven’t been able to put the words to it even in my own head and certainly not to the MF himself. The best I’ve been able to do is tell him how I feel about the sex, and I’ve been telling him that a lot—maybe too much. I mean, it is really just great. Everything fits together just right and I am very satisfied—more satisfied than I have been in the past. But I don’t want to give him the impression that I’m in this for the sex because you know what I can’t hide from myself anymore? My feelings run deeper than just casual sex. I’d be lying to myself if I said that was all this is anymore. Maybe it started that way for me, but it’s not that way for me anymore.

I’m still scared as hell, though. I now find myself in the middle of that thing I’ve spent 3 years fearing: A Relationship. And I don’t want to end it just yet. But I’m still scared, and I’m trying to put words to why and see if they are reasons I can fix, or if this really just won’t work. I hope I can fix all the fears, but I don’t know that that is true, which is probably the biggest fear of all: What if I invest my efforts into this thing now (something I’ve really avoided doing so far)—get through such scary things as him meeting a couple of my friends, for example, or God forbid make myself vulnerable to him—and in the end, there are other things that just can’t be fixed? What if I do all that really scary and hard work and it’s all for naught? What if I let him hurt me? Or I hurt him unintentionally because of all my stupid fears? I couldn’t live with myself anymore.

So for now I just tell him about how much I love the sex, and not about how much I love everything else.

Oh. And the second big thing on my mind? An unsolicited IM from my sister which hurt me very deeply, so deeply I’m not ready yet—even though it was sent over a week ago—to discuss it here, or with her for that matter. So . . . to sum up: I’m afraid of getting hurt by or hurting the MF; and I am deeply hurt already by someone who I’ve considered one of my best friends in these last couple of years. The two of those things together is enough to make me re-think the philosophy by which I’ve lived my life from 2005 to 2008.

Translation: It may be awhile until my next post again. And I probably need a shrink.

A Short Missive on Tights

One of the things about working at the State Capitol is that there are cameras everywhere. Between just the fact that it is a government building and the fact that we now live in a Homeland Security Rainbow Alert world, there is nothing you can do anywhere on the campus of the Capitol without being recorded. Now, I’m sure that most of the time the state cops who are monitoring those cameras are unable to actually watch what is going on in range of all the hundreds of them. Still, as a rule, I try not to pick a wedgie or fix my bra anywhere in the building except for inside the four walls of the bathroom stall. (And I’m not even sure that the bathroom stalls don’t have cameras…) But yesterday I was wearing some tights that kept falling off my ass. This is because I recently lost over 10 pounds and they no longer fit properly (yay me except for the expense of buying new stockings). However, this also means that periodically throughout the day until I get around to buying some new black tights, I have to stop somewhere out of view of people and yank my skirt up under my armpits, bend over, and slowly work the extra material that has now gathered down around my ankles back up to my hips where it belongs. (And do so without causing a run due to my icky winter-time fingernails.)

If I do not do this, I risk walking down a long hallway in the Legislative Office Building while my stockings slowly fall all the way down my legs and rest—crotch exposed—between my ankles while I try to crab-walk to the nearest bathroom. And there are always dozens of people in the LOB hallways just waiting for someone like me to do something embarrassing so as to entertain them. No, this has not happened yet. Almost, but not quite. What has happened is that I’ve had to duck into an empty conference room or office, close the door, and perform the skirt-lifting, stocking-tugging ritual described above. All the while knowing that there’s a chance that just maybe some state cop down in the control room is sitting there calling his buddies over to ogle and laugh at me. And should that happen (or should that already have happened), then I will forever be followed around the building by the monitor-watching cops, just waiting to see what I might do next. Still, it can’t be helped. I’ll have the state cops ogling me in private any day over dozens of legislators, lobbyists, and staffers pointing and laughing in public at my bare ass shuffling quickly away from them.

Plus I'm sure I'm not the first person to be doing something inappropriate in private while the Staties silently witness down in the control room.

Why, Yes. Yes I Was Drunk.

I reread that last post again this morning, and I really wanted to delete it. But there is something in me that disagrees with ever deleting a completed post. All I can say is I'm glad I didn't say what was in my head. And I was drunk. Yes, this particular time, I was drunk. I had been out with a friend for dinner and had a martini and a Guinness. Those Guinnesses can do me in. And of course, when I came home I had a bit more to drink. And I've been feeling the warm fuzzies toward the MF of late, as you know. And out popped that thought in my head. Thank god my drunk ass was able to keep my lips closed so I didn't vocalize the thought. What's never been said does not need to be explained.

The Answer

I said to him about my dog, "Because she loves you."

He said, "That's why I give her chocolate."

I thought of a hundred different variations of a response, all along the lines of, "So why did you give me chocolate for Valentine's Day?" before I realized what the response was to that question, why I kept asking it from his lips and responding in my voice, in my mind.

Something Little

The weekend was a very nice one. There was a snow storm Friday night into Saturday, and the MF and I just holed up in the apartment, played games, watched tv, and talked. And other stuff . . . I keep waiting for things to take a turn for the worse with the MF but every time I spend time with him, it just gets better and better. I'm feeling very warm and fuzzy toward the MF and not at all like talking about anything that might ruin things.

~~~~~

I went to my hometown at lunchtime today for a doctor's appointment and then went over to the pharmacy to pick up some prescription refills. Now that I actually have insurance, I'm using the hell out of it. At the pharmacy, the pharmacist came out to hand me the prescription himself--turns out it was this guy (who we shall refer to as LD so as to keep him anonymous) that grew up down the road from me. He was a few years ahead of me in school, but my god was he hot. I always had a crush on him.

When I was 18, I was at a friend's party and so was LD. There was significant drinking, as there tends to be at parties when you're that age, and I told a friend that I used to have a crush on LD. She of course thought it would be funny to tell him, and then he approached me. One thing led to another and a little bit later we were hooking up in a quiet corner. Things were going very well until . . . I slid my hand down his pants and felt his erect . . . member . . . which--remember I was only 18 with limited experience--but even so, I knew that this was the smallest penis I had ever seen or touched. And it was erect. Reader, I ask you to examine your thumb. Yeah.

I reacted poorly, snatching my hand back out of his pants and making excuses and going away. I felt really bad about this later on, especially the part where I told a couple of people about this *ahem* little issue. I'm sure that had this happened today, I would not have acted like that. I would have been able to cover up my surprise and I wouldn't have blabbed to people, but then again, I was only 18 and drunk. Also later on I found out he was cheating on his gf with me anyhow. So all's well that ends well.

Today he was very eager to remind me of who he was (I didn't recognize him) so apparently he wasn't too hurt by the incident. He also wasn't wearing a wedding ring, despite the fact that I know he's married. Once a little snake, always a little snake I guess. And now you know what LD stands for.

Intensity

I was talking to Rose last night and I mentioned that on Wednesday night, I got barely any sleep. I believe this was due partly to the fact that my father announced his wishes for Mother’s Day: He wants his girls to all come to the house so we can all talk about our memories of our mother with him. This is not what I want to do on the first Mother’s Day after my mom has died. Frankly, I may never want to celebrate Mother’s Day again ever, in any fashion, unless I myself become a mother. I want to just hide in my apartment, maybe with a friend, maybe drink, and go to bed early. My dad just won’t let go of his grief and sometimes I feel like when I spend time with him, his grief is drowning me. I cried a lot that night; he made me feel like maybe I’m a bad person, like maybe I don’t respect my mother’s memory as much as he does. I mean, he didn’t say that, but he surely did a good job of implying it when he said, “Well, of course I’ll respect your wishes, but I hope you change your mind.”

The other part of why I think I didn’t sleep is that I’ve been a bit lonely lately for my friends and family; between being sick basically for 3 weeks, and then getting mugged, I kind of pulled in on myself and I haven’t spent any real time with my sisters (or my dad, but after last night I’m not sure I care to spend much time with him right now anyway) or with any of my friends besides Rachel, who I see at lunch most days but with other people and only for like 45 minutes, so it’s not like I’ve been able to have a one-on-one with her or anything.

I spent Tuesday night with the MF, and I told him that we needed to talk soon but I couldn’t do it on Tuesday night; I was just too tired to deal with it. Last night I saw him again but I didn’t talk to him. I don’t know if I will at all. There are things I want to say to him that I just can’t, like “I don’t think you lie to me but I do think you intentionally keep secrets from me” but I don’t know that I really want to know those secrets anyway. I probably should; there is probably a reason he’s keeping them and it would probably be good for me in the long run to know, but I just don’t want to deal with it right now.

There are also things I need to say to him that I don’t want to say, like “You need to stop leaving marks on my body” because it’s disrespectful to the FWB—the FWB who I’m very ambivalent about seeing again anyway, but I’m afraid if I’m not seeing the FWB I might be stupid and let the MF hurt me. I’m also afraid that I might hurt the MF. Sometimes certain things—the way he looks at me or touches me, the things he does for me—make me think he likes me quite a bit. And I would feel awful if I hurt him.

~~~~~

P.S. I just realized what “marks on my body” might sound like; they’re sex marks, people. The MF doesn’t beat me. You should know by now that I would beat to a bloody pulp any guy who ever raised a hand to me in anger; shame on you, readers, for thinking otherwise.