I hit a roadblock in my uphill battle to just finish what I damn started in November with my novel, trying to turn a scattered, fragmented mess of words into something I can actually stand by. Separating the wheat from the chaff, I have found that a lot of those 50,000 words were chaff, and that even worse, I can't even fit a great deal of the wheat into the new version of my book. Cleaning up this thing is hard because while I love chopping off the unusable parts, I have trouble not falling in love with the parts I can no longer use, but meant a great deal to me when I wrote them.
The roadblock came about as a result of trying to write a sex scene. I had no trouble with any of the other ones I had already written because unlike those ones, this one has not happened to me in real life. I have written about all of the sex I have had so far in this thing, and the end result is I don't know how to create something new. I can take my life experiences and rework them into fiction, share every humiliating moment that actually happened, and do it with total abandon. What I can't do is write a character I don't already know and then have my main character have sex with them without criticizing my every creative impulse. If I make the character too good-looking, I criticize myself for thinking the fictionalized version of me would deserve someone that good-looking. If I make him too funny, or tall, or nice, or anything else, this little voice in my head tells me what I assume anyone who reads it would think, that I think I deserve that. I trust myself when I write about things that actually happened because I can point to the past and say, "See? That's how it really went!", but when it comes to inventing something, I am judgmental to a point that might be handicapping me.
Fiction is tricky, especially when it's the mundane kind that is just about dating and being a girl and stuff. I don't imagine writing fantasy, or mystery or sci-fi is any simpler, but it must free you up a little to just let your imagination guide you in a specific genre like that. My "fiction" is so reflective of my own life, it barely passes as fiction, and that comes with its own set of complications. As much as this piece of writing is fiction, and my fictional avatar is not me, I pass the same judgments on her about what she deserves, and I end up punishing her because I have come to the conclusion that I deserve nothing. If I deserve nothing, that means she deserves nothing. I have little sympathy for her because I feel that I have earned every bit of mistreatment I have been handed, and any time I try to just give her a fucking break, I have to ruin it for her and make it weird.
I kind of chickened out, and barely wrote any sex. I talked to my sister about it a few days after, and she and I agreed that when you have sex, you don't remember every single thing, and every thing going into a thing, you remember snippets. I don't want to get too fruity with my explanation, but I don't think in terms of what was happening in my vagina all the times I had sex, I think in terms of what was happening in my head. I've given myself permission to not muddy up my book with, "and then this happened... and then THIS happened."
I've decided t's okay for me to not be gross about it, that I don't have to come up with twenty different words for penis, because I'm not writing Twilight fanfic here. I get flinty whenever I bring up what I am writing in conversation, especially with other women, because they always giggle and ask, "Is it like Fifty Shades Of Gray?"
No, you idiots, it isn't like that awful book. My character never says, "Argh!" and her boyfriends aren't control freaks who nag her about eating and make her sign a contract that stipulates getting her vagina waxed. I try to be supportive of all writers, but Jesus Henry Christ that fucking book is doing something to the book-reading public. The lines between erotica and literature have blurred, and while that can be good because sex doesn't have to be brown paper bag/bottom drawer any longer, it can also be bad. It seems that if I want people to ever buy what I create, I either have to force more grossness into my book or just make it sterile; dirty it up or clean it up, respectively. For a book to be marketable, it seems, there has to be a hook, and I don't know if I will ever be able to get published because I don't have that hook. I'm not trying to get anybody hard with my writing, and I doubt anybody would get hard when reading it, not even accidentally. Sex can be useful in writing, especially when it's not about that. It can be informative and funny and sad. I only write it into my fiction, and into this blog, because of all of those uses, not the other ones. I made it weird, but that's kind of okay because it usually does get weird, even when I'm not the one making it weird.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Nope, No, Not Right Now
I spent Patriot's Day at work, despite the fact that the office was technically closed, getting my boss ready for trial the following day and dealing with the craziness generally associated with that. I was too busy to check news websites or generally be aware at all of what was happening outside of my cubicle. When I heard the news about the bombing in Boston, it was in passing, and though I wanted to read about it and find out what the F happened, I still had hours of work to do and knew it would take twice as long if I stopped to check Gawker for an update. It was as if my mind said, "Nope, no, not right now, not while you have 300 more pages of exhibits to Bate stamp."
After getting out of work, I had a dinner to go to, and by the time I got home it felt too late in the day for me to get into what actually happened, how many people were affected, and all the things I wasn't doing to help. I was right to wait. If I had gotten into it late Monday night, I might not have ever fallen asleep. I didn't watch the raw footage until Tuesday morning, look at the photos of the blast victims being wheeled away on stretchers, see how much devastation had come to my state's capitol while I was doing stuff that seemed less and less like it actually mattered. Nearly the same thing happened when 9/11 happened. I was in Nova Scotia at the time, living in a house with no television, so I was insulated from how huge that event was. Everything I saw was after the fact, over a month later, and by then, it was old news. I was protected by distance, far from the panic that overtook the entire nation at that moment in time.
I hate how a tragedy like this makes me feel. It's not enough to acknowledge how unthinkable this madness is, I have to think of it in terms of how it is affecting me. Me, who had no loved ones anywhere near the blast site and has little affiliation with Boston as a city. I hate that I turn it around and use a dark mirror like this to reflect how small my problems are, how fortunate I am to have two legs and arms and a beating heart. It takes three deaths and upwards of one-hundred injuries for me to see how lucky I am, that I deserve no pity, and that there are people so much worse off. It is pathetic that things only come into perspective for me when something as tragic as this happens.
Despite all the perspective or focus or whatever bullshit name I can ascribe to it, I have been anxious this week about my parents moving back to the Berkshires. When I say that, I don't mean that I am anxious because I don't want them living near me, I'm just not sure yet how I feel about it. They have been living so far away for eleven years, basically the whole time I have been becoming a tolerable person, and now they are back, and I know it's going to take me a while to be a normal-ass person around them. I have gotten used to seeing them only twice a year, and being my happiest, wackiest, funniest self when they are around, trying not to burden them, being me but with the volume turned up. It's a happy thing, a good thing, but of course it's manifesting itself as slight mania. I now have the freedom to disagree with them, fight with them, have a real relationship with them that is not just a bunch of stops along the way. I stopped over to see them the day they got in, and I had to keep reminding myself that they are here for good, that I don't need to cram in all the time with them that I possibly can before I don't see them for another six-to-twelve months.
The distraction of anticipating their arrival and the panic over how and why and who set off the bombs at the marathon has kept me from thinking about one more thing that would probably bother me more if I had time to think about it. This week, Friday, in fact, would be my fifth wedding anniversary. Five years ago, I was looking at the man I was about to marry, thinking I was going to love him forever, no matter what. That hasn't changed, really. I will still love Gino forever, just not the way I planned. We're still present in each other's lives, still mean something to each other, but there is a bitter edge to our friendship that might never go away. Thinking about how giddy and unbelievably happy I was the day I got married, I can't help now thinking about how broken I was when he told me he wanted a divorce, and I wonder if I ever will be that hopeful again. I think I will, but who knows? These days, yon can't predict anything and at the same time have to prepare for anything. Nothing is certain, except for the certainty that things like this, life changes that come from out of nowhere, are not insurmountable. Nothing is, really. If I haven't learned that by now, I might not ever learn it. Right now, my heart is not breaking for myself and the fact that my wedding anniversary is just another day, it is breaking for everyone affected by the marathon bombing and what they will have to deal with for the rest of their lives.
After getting out of work, I had a dinner to go to, and by the time I got home it felt too late in the day for me to get into what actually happened, how many people were affected, and all the things I wasn't doing to help. I was right to wait. If I had gotten into it late Monday night, I might not have ever fallen asleep. I didn't watch the raw footage until Tuesday morning, look at the photos of the blast victims being wheeled away on stretchers, see how much devastation had come to my state's capitol while I was doing stuff that seemed less and less like it actually mattered. Nearly the same thing happened when 9/11 happened. I was in Nova Scotia at the time, living in a house with no television, so I was insulated from how huge that event was. Everything I saw was after the fact, over a month later, and by then, it was old news. I was protected by distance, far from the panic that overtook the entire nation at that moment in time.
I hate how a tragedy like this makes me feel. It's not enough to acknowledge how unthinkable this madness is, I have to think of it in terms of how it is affecting me. Me, who had no loved ones anywhere near the blast site and has little affiliation with Boston as a city. I hate that I turn it around and use a dark mirror like this to reflect how small my problems are, how fortunate I am to have two legs and arms and a beating heart. It takes three deaths and upwards of one-hundred injuries for me to see how lucky I am, that I deserve no pity, and that there are people so much worse off. It is pathetic that things only come into perspective for me when something as tragic as this happens.
Despite all the perspective or focus or whatever bullshit name I can ascribe to it, I have been anxious this week about my parents moving back to the Berkshires. When I say that, I don't mean that I am anxious because I don't want them living near me, I'm just not sure yet how I feel about it. They have been living so far away for eleven years, basically the whole time I have been becoming a tolerable person, and now they are back, and I know it's going to take me a while to be a normal-ass person around them. I have gotten used to seeing them only twice a year, and being my happiest, wackiest, funniest self when they are around, trying not to burden them, being me but with the volume turned up. It's a happy thing, a good thing, but of course it's manifesting itself as slight mania. I now have the freedom to disagree with them, fight with them, have a real relationship with them that is not just a bunch of stops along the way. I stopped over to see them the day they got in, and I had to keep reminding myself that they are here for good, that I don't need to cram in all the time with them that I possibly can before I don't see them for another six-to-twelve months.
The distraction of anticipating their arrival and the panic over how and why and who set off the bombs at the marathon has kept me from thinking about one more thing that would probably bother me more if I had time to think about it. This week, Friday, in fact, would be my fifth wedding anniversary. Five years ago, I was looking at the man I was about to marry, thinking I was going to love him forever, no matter what. That hasn't changed, really. I will still love Gino forever, just not the way I planned. We're still present in each other's lives, still mean something to each other, but there is a bitter edge to our friendship that might never go away. Thinking about how giddy and unbelievably happy I was the day I got married, I can't help now thinking about how broken I was when he told me he wanted a divorce, and I wonder if I ever will be that hopeful again. I think I will, but who knows? These days, yon can't predict anything and at the same time have to prepare for anything. Nothing is certain, except for the certainty that things like this, life changes that come from out of nowhere, are not insurmountable. Nothing is, really. If I haven't learned that by now, I might not ever learn it. Right now, my heart is not breaking for myself and the fact that my wedding anniversary is just another day, it is breaking for everyone affected by the marathon bombing and what they will have to deal with for the rest of their lives.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
My Stupid Hurt Feelings
I don't know what is wrong with me today, and really, every day since my birthday, but I reached some kind of tipping point in terms of what I am able to suppress, roughly at 10 am. It struck me, in the way I all of a sudden notice something that I have been trying to ignore, that my ex never wished me happy birthday, and that really started to piss me off. It set off my Anger Avatar, which just happens to look and sound exactly like Krazee-Eyez Killa from my favorite episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Outwardly, I looked pretty placid, but inside, my inner monologue was just a constant scroll of, "Muthafucka, whatthefuck?" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eC8V7uLoVko
I sent Gino a text message wishing him a happy birthday this year, and I invited him to my party, which he did not attend. I assumed he was too busy watching the Bruins-Canucks game, which was not surprising, but I was hoping I would see him since I hardly ever run into him anymore. I did everything a friend does for another friend. I got into an argument with my father wherein I defended Gino. I told my father that he was wrong to pass judgement on someone he, truly, barely knows, and how I know he doesn't understand, but that Gino was my best friend for seven years and how I don't want to just let go of that because everyone thinks I should. I know it's just my hurt pride taking over, but god, it's really embarrassing to tell a 68-year-old man, "You're wrong! We can still be best friends! Everything is FINE!", and then find out a few days later that he was right, that Gino and I can't be as close as we used to be. My father is always right, and it still annoys me. My dad makes up for it, though, by never pointing out that he is always right, and then doing something adorable, like leaving a Facebook post on my timeline that begins, "Hey, girlfriend-" and then sending me tulips at work for my birthday.
I sent Gino a text, not so much angry as it was passive-aggressive, and he responded with a confused one, a message that basically amounted to, "What?"
Come to find out, he was distracted this week. A friend of his passed away, a friend his age, from cancer, and he didn't think to congratulate me on, oh, being born. Surprise, everyone, I'm a jerk.
I did my best to lower myself to the floor, tell him I'm here for him, and if he needs anything, please tell me. I called him out for being a shitty friend and acted, in turn, like an even shittier one. I overreacted, as I tend to do, and now I'm just trying to get him to forget that I did that. It isn't easy. Nothing about this is easy. Getting older and finding that I still act like a child is not easy. Hoping for some kind of acknowledgement from the person I used to expect it from, and not getting it, is not easy. Admitting that my father still knows best is not easy. I'm pretty good, though, with not easy. At least, I think I am. I'll keep finding out if that's true.
I sent Gino a text message wishing him a happy birthday this year, and I invited him to my party, which he did not attend. I assumed he was too busy watching the Bruins-Canucks game, which was not surprising, but I was hoping I would see him since I hardly ever run into him anymore. I did everything a friend does for another friend. I got into an argument with my father wherein I defended Gino. I told my father that he was wrong to pass judgement on someone he, truly, barely knows, and how I know he doesn't understand, but that Gino was my best friend for seven years and how I don't want to just let go of that because everyone thinks I should. I know it's just my hurt pride taking over, but god, it's really embarrassing to tell a 68-year-old man, "You're wrong! We can still be best friends! Everything is FINE!", and then find out a few days later that he was right, that Gino and I can't be as close as we used to be. My father is always right, and it still annoys me. My dad makes up for it, though, by never pointing out that he is always right, and then doing something adorable, like leaving a Facebook post on my timeline that begins, "Hey, girlfriend-" and then sending me tulips at work for my birthday.
I sent Gino a text, not so much angry as it was passive-aggressive, and he responded with a confused one, a message that basically amounted to, "What?"
Come to find out, he was distracted this week. A friend of his passed away, a friend his age, from cancer, and he didn't think to congratulate me on, oh, being born. Surprise, everyone, I'm a jerk.
I did my best to lower myself to the floor, tell him I'm here for him, and if he needs anything, please tell me. I called him out for being a shitty friend and acted, in turn, like an even shittier one. I overreacted, as I tend to do, and now I'm just trying to get him to forget that I did that. It isn't easy. Nothing about this is easy. Getting older and finding that I still act like a child is not easy. Hoping for some kind of acknowledgement from the person I used to expect it from, and not getting it, is not easy. Admitting that my father still knows best is not easy. I'm pretty good, though, with not easy. At least, I think I am. I'll keep finding out if that's true.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Thirty For Thirty
Today is my thirtieth birthday. I keep expecting to feel some way about it, but I kind of don't, really. The more I think about it, I'm just one day older, and it's thirty, for the love of god, not ninety.
I think one of the reasons I don't really care about getting older is that I lucked out with genetics. I look younger than I really am, which won't last, but most of that is because I am the height of an average fifth-grader, which will last. I've watched most of my friends cross over into their thirties this year and the issue that keeps coming up with those of them who have a hard time with it is not being where they "expected to be" at their current age. Dudes, I wanted to say, no one ends up where they want to be at thirty except maybe Alexander the Great. Or Mark Zuckerberg. But he's still not there yet. There is time for him to fail.
When I turned twenty, I was in a very different place. I was living with my sister, I was unemployed, and I hadn't even had sex yet. I hadn't even met Najwa, who is now my closest, dearest friend, and hadn't yet reconnected with Tony, who is my other best friend. Still, I'm pretty much the same person I was. I'm single, just like I was ten years ago and I like to dance inappropriately, even more so than I did ten years ago. The only big changes are that I've stopped grooming my eyebrows so obsessively and I've stopped wishing my ass was smaller. I want my old eyebrows back, and I want an ass you could balance three or four cans of Coke on.
I am definitely not where I thought I would be at thirty. I thought I would still be married and I thought I would have at least one child by now. But, that wasn't the plan for me, and it's stupid for me to even make plans. When I make plans, the world laughs, and I have to learn to improvise. This whole past year of my life has been about improvising, because I have no fucking idea what I'm doing, and that's not just when I am at work. I've gotten comfortable with not knowing what I am doing, even when I'm just walking down the street or having a conversation. I'm pretty hopeless, but maybe I'll learn to not be so hopeless in my thirties.
I am lucky to have a best friend like Najwa, who threw me my very own dance party. In the months leading up to when I would have to either plan some way to celebrate or just decide not to do anything, I kept hearing that voice in my head, which happens to sound just like Regina George, saying, "Stop trying to make your birthday happen. It's never going to happen."
Every time I have tried to put together something for my own birthday, I have failed. I am not including my last birthday, which was, of course, hosted by Najwa and Gabriel, in that assessment, but I have bad associations with it now. From that party is the last photograph that will ever be taken of Gino and I as a couple, and Jesus, does he look unhappy in it. It was a fun party, but now it's got this pall over it, and I am still having trouble remembering it as fun.
I might just have bad luck with parties that I am in any way associated with in any other capacity than as an attendee. Any time I try to put together any party, it has been an epic let-down. There must be something about me that just makes some people say, "Uhh, no thanks?"
I still feel guilty about Gino's thirtieth birthday, two years ago, when I tried to organize a surprise party for him and only a handful of people showed up. Planning an event doesn't always work the way you want it to. In your head, you make the list, the people who say they want to come all show up and you have cake and everyone has a nice time. In reality, people say they will be there, but then at the last minute they forget or they find something better to do or they just don't feel like it and they assume they are the only person on the list who did so.
My birthday party this year was not a failure, even though I was competing with a Bruins-Canucks game and two other parties, so some people were absent. I saw the people I wanted to see and I got to dance and I ate too many cupcakes for my own good. And today, I don't have any papers to file or laundry to do or knitting classes to teach, and I'm sitting on my bed drinking water out of a martini glass because why not? It's my birthday, and I can do what I want.
I think one of the reasons I don't really care about getting older is that I lucked out with genetics. I look younger than I really am, which won't last, but most of that is because I am the height of an average fifth-grader, which will last. I've watched most of my friends cross over into their thirties this year and the issue that keeps coming up with those of them who have a hard time with it is not being where they "expected to be" at their current age. Dudes, I wanted to say, no one ends up where they want to be at thirty except maybe Alexander the Great. Or Mark Zuckerberg. But he's still not there yet. There is time for him to fail.
When I turned twenty, I was in a very different place. I was living with my sister, I was unemployed, and I hadn't even had sex yet. I hadn't even met Najwa, who is now my closest, dearest friend, and hadn't yet reconnected with Tony, who is my other best friend. Still, I'm pretty much the same person I was. I'm single, just like I was ten years ago and I like to dance inappropriately, even more so than I did ten years ago. The only big changes are that I've stopped grooming my eyebrows so obsessively and I've stopped wishing my ass was smaller. I want my old eyebrows back, and I want an ass you could balance three or four cans of Coke on.
I am definitely not where I thought I would be at thirty. I thought I would still be married and I thought I would have at least one child by now. But, that wasn't the plan for me, and it's stupid for me to even make plans. When I make plans, the world laughs, and I have to learn to improvise. This whole past year of my life has been about improvising, because I have no fucking idea what I'm doing, and that's not just when I am at work. I've gotten comfortable with not knowing what I am doing, even when I'm just walking down the street or having a conversation. I'm pretty hopeless, but maybe I'll learn to not be so hopeless in my thirties.
I am lucky to have a best friend like Najwa, who threw me my very own dance party. In the months leading up to when I would have to either plan some way to celebrate or just decide not to do anything, I kept hearing that voice in my head, which happens to sound just like Regina George, saying, "Stop trying to make your birthday happen. It's never going to happen."
Every time I have tried to put together something for my own birthday, I have failed. I am not including my last birthday, which was, of course, hosted by Najwa and Gabriel, in that assessment, but I have bad associations with it now. From that party is the last photograph that will ever be taken of Gino and I as a couple, and Jesus, does he look unhappy in it. It was a fun party, but now it's got this pall over it, and I am still having trouble remembering it as fun.
I might just have bad luck with parties that I am in any way associated with in any other capacity than as an attendee. Any time I try to put together any party, it has been an epic let-down. There must be something about me that just makes some people say, "Uhh, no thanks?"
I still feel guilty about Gino's thirtieth birthday, two years ago, when I tried to organize a surprise party for him and only a handful of people showed up. Planning an event doesn't always work the way you want it to. In your head, you make the list, the people who say they want to come all show up and you have cake and everyone has a nice time. In reality, people say they will be there, but then at the last minute they forget or they find something better to do or they just don't feel like it and they assume they are the only person on the list who did so.
My birthday party this year was not a failure, even though I was competing with a Bruins-Canucks game and two other parties, so some people were absent. I saw the people I wanted to see and I got to dance and I ate too many cupcakes for my own good. And today, I don't have any papers to file or laundry to do or knitting classes to teach, and I'm sitting on my bed drinking water out of a martini glass because why not? It's my birthday, and I can do what I want.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
What All Men Are Looking For
I ended up having the same conversation I have all the time the other night with a guy I work with. I still go to my former place of work twice a week to teach knitting, and every once in a while, I run into this guy. He's at least twenty years older than me, and must be doing that swing-for-the-fences thing that older single guys do because he cannot stop hitting on me. He was watching me set up the needles and yarn for my knitting class, talking about how Gino is such an idiot for breaking up with me. "I told him, I said, 'Gino, you're a fuckin' idiot for letting her go, you have no idea'"
I kind of tried laughing it off, but that bothered me. I don't want everyone shitting on my ex-husband. I'm over that stage of grief. I no longer want to hear that people are criticizing him just for doing what he thinks is right for him. I also didn't feel like it was coming from someplace genuine. This guy, who is way too old and way too boring for me, only told Gino that so he could tell me about it, probably. Does he think that insulting my ex will be his in? That I'll be so overtaken with gratitude for pointing out what a dumb move that was that I will repay it in blowjobs, or whatever 50-something-year-old guys like. I don't know what they do.
"You always had this, I don't know, unconditional love for him," Tim remarked.
"Yeah," I agreed, trying to cast stitches on at double-speed just to get away, "For him, specifically."
He then started listing off my "qualities" in a way that made me feel even more uncomfortable. "So, you're young, talented, attractive, with domestic inclinations," he said, "Just the type of girl I've been looking for."
I didn't even look at him when I answered, "Tim, I'm the girl every guy is looking for."
He laughed and tried to say something about how I'm sassy, too, and I chuckled, hoping he would just leave me alone so I could just relax and do my job. I like attention just as much as the next girl, but duh, Tim. Of course every guy in the world is looking for a woman who can knit them a sweater and cook them arancini di riso on a weekday night. And who is short enough to make them feel tall and has a weird figure that looks like it was put together by Russ Meyer. That's pretty much a gimme. I know what my good attributes are, and I don't need a maintenance man in his fifties to tell me what they are. I might sound like I'm full of myself, but until someone else is at least partially full of me, I'll continue to toot my own horn, and then I'll say something shitty about myself to negate it.
I could look at it from the point of view that he was just trying to be nice, but I know better. He's been hitting on me since I started working with him, when I was still happily married. And, when I was married, I did all of the things I did for Gino because I loved him, not because it's just what I would do for any man. Tim doesn't know anything about what my marriage was really like. I might know what my good features are, like my ability to appreciate a joke and my big, fat ass, but I also know what my bad attributes are. I have a temper, and I'm irresponsible with money, I tend to tune out when I become disinterested in a conversation topic, and for years, before I learned to tone it down, I was exhausting with all of my hard opinions on things. I didn't recognize all of the things about me that suck until I became single. Along the way, though, I also figured out what is awesome about myself all on my own.
I kind of tried laughing it off, but that bothered me. I don't want everyone shitting on my ex-husband. I'm over that stage of grief. I no longer want to hear that people are criticizing him just for doing what he thinks is right for him. I also didn't feel like it was coming from someplace genuine. This guy, who is way too old and way too boring for me, only told Gino that so he could tell me about it, probably. Does he think that insulting my ex will be his in? That I'll be so overtaken with gratitude for pointing out what a dumb move that was that I will repay it in blowjobs, or whatever 50-something-year-old guys like. I don't know what they do.
"You always had this, I don't know, unconditional love for him," Tim remarked.
"Yeah," I agreed, trying to cast stitches on at double-speed just to get away, "For him, specifically."
He then started listing off my "qualities" in a way that made me feel even more uncomfortable. "So, you're young, talented, attractive, with domestic inclinations," he said, "Just the type of girl I've been looking for."
I didn't even look at him when I answered, "Tim, I'm the girl every guy is looking for."
He laughed and tried to say something about how I'm sassy, too, and I chuckled, hoping he would just leave me alone so I could just relax and do my job. I like attention just as much as the next girl, but duh, Tim. Of course every guy in the world is looking for a woman who can knit them a sweater and cook them arancini di riso on a weekday night. And who is short enough to make them feel tall and has a weird figure that looks like it was put together by Russ Meyer. That's pretty much a gimme. I know what my good attributes are, and I don't need a maintenance man in his fifties to tell me what they are. I might sound like I'm full of myself, but until someone else is at least partially full of me, I'll continue to toot my own horn, and then I'll say something shitty about myself to negate it.
I could look at it from the point of view that he was just trying to be nice, but I know better. He's been hitting on me since I started working with him, when I was still happily married. And, when I was married, I did all of the things I did for Gino because I loved him, not because it's just what I would do for any man. Tim doesn't know anything about what my marriage was really like. I might know what my good features are, like my ability to appreciate a joke and my big, fat ass, but I also know what my bad attributes are. I have a temper, and I'm irresponsible with money, I tend to tune out when I become disinterested in a conversation topic, and for years, before I learned to tone it down, I was exhausting with all of my hard opinions on things. I didn't recognize all of the things about me that suck until I became single. Along the way, though, I also figured out what is awesome about myself all on my own.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Sick In The Head
I had a head cold this week, a sinuses-full-of-concrete, sneezing non-stop, half-tempted to take a power drill to my own nostrils head cold. No cough, no chest congestion, everything in my head. "It's all in my head", I though at one point, and then I laughed that weird, raspy, sick laugh that comes from drinking NyQuil well before bedtime and finding everything suddenly hilarious and kind of squishy around the edges. I was more miserable than I've been in a long time because for one, I haven't had a cold for at least a year and a half, and for another thing, this is the first time I've been sick since I started living alone.
Gino was not perfect, nor was I, but we took care of each other when we were sick. It wasn't a rule we announced or anything, it just kind of became the law between us after a few years. I remember one time, feeling really awful with some kind of stomach bug. Gino was about to leave to go see his best friend, but when he saw me looking so gross, calling to tell him, "Yeah, I can't come over, Liza's sick. She told me I could leave but she just made an adorable sicky noise, so I can't go," and then asked me if I needed more ginger ale.
Most people probably read that and think, "...and?"
The fact that anyone would take care of me, other than my parents who, let's face it, kind of had to, is still amazing to me. It's what I miss. That's what you do when you have made a commitment. It's not just in sickness and in health, it's in accepting the person you love while they look disgusting, while they are vomiting convulsively right in front of you, and not letting them know just how grossed out you are. It's committing to staying home instead of going out while they are passed out in bed, exhausted from being sick as fuck, just in case they need anything from you. Being sick when you're single, even with something that passes pretty quickly, like a cold, is the worst. It's like Valentine's Day had an illegitimate love-child with a wedding you don't have a date for. It makes you feel more alone than anything else, when you have no one around who feels obligated to get you hot water with lemon and put a cold compress on your forehead and tell you to feel better. As I tried to clear my sinuses for the third day in a row with a Neti pot I was convinced had it in for me, I imagined I would give up all of my stupid ideals if anyone was willing to take care of me at that moment. I told myself I would put up with a guy who lied, never picked up after himself and was really, really boring if that person was willing to go to another pharmacy and get me more tissues and then put VapoRub on my back. It was mostly exhaustion talking, but Jesus Christ, it's hard being sick when you are single and have to do these things for yourself. I did an okay job, making myself chicken-coconut soup and ginger tea and all the dumb bullshit I always think I need when I'm ill, but I annoyed myself a lot. I was passing myself tissues and measuring out decongestants for myself, thinking, "Uhh, get over it, you bitch, it's just a cold."
This is just another example of how with others, I am a good caretaker, but I suck when it comes to taking care of myself. This is why I still give Gino so much credit for taking care of me when I was sick for all of the years we were together: Healthy Eliza is annoying enough. Sick Eliza is so fucking emotional and whiny it's amazing my parents didn't drop me down a well and leave me there. I think being sick just made me appreciate my parents and my ex-husband that much more, because if I was this bad just with a cold, imagine how awful I was when I was a little kid, getting strep throat twice a year, every year? Or when I would get a cluster headache at least once a week and Gino couldn't watch hockey at top volume because I could literally see my own brain throbbing? In the future, if I ever do meet someone, I will probably just quarantine myself so they don't have to deal with me when I get sick or have a migraine. It's just safer that way.
Gino was not perfect, nor was I, but we took care of each other when we were sick. It wasn't a rule we announced or anything, it just kind of became the law between us after a few years. I remember one time, feeling really awful with some kind of stomach bug. Gino was about to leave to go see his best friend, but when he saw me looking so gross, calling to tell him, "Yeah, I can't come over, Liza's sick. She told me I could leave but she just made an adorable sicky noise, so I can't go," and then asked me if I needed more ginger ale.
Most people probably read that and think, "...and?"
The fact that anyone would take care of me, other than my parents who, let's face it, kind of had to, is still amazing to me. It's what I miss. That's what you do when you have made a commitment. It's not just in sickness and in health, it's in accepting the person you love while they look disgusting, while they are vomiting convulsively right in front of you, and not letting them know just how grossed out you are. It's committing to staying home instead of going out while they are passed out in bed, exhausted from being sick as fuck, just in case they need anything from you. Being sick when you're single, even with something that passes pretty quickly, like a cold, is the worst. It's like Valentine's Day had an illegitimate love-child with a wedding you don't have a date for. It makes you feel more alone than anything else, when you have no one around who feels obligated to get you hot water with lemon and put a cold compress on your forehead and tell you to feel better. As I tried to clear my sinuses for the third day in a row with a Neti pot I was convinced had it in for me, I imagined I would give up all of my stupid ideals if anyone was willing to take care of me at that moment. I told myself I would put up with a guy who lied, never picked up after himself and was really, really boring if that person was willing to go to another pharmacy and get me more tissues and then put VapoRub on my back. It was mostly exhaustion talking, but Jesus Christ, it's hard being sick when you are single and have to do these things for yourself. I did an okay job, making myself chicken-coconut soup and ginger tea and all the dumb bullshit I always think I need when I'm ill, but I annoyed myself a lot. I was passing myself tissues and measuring out decongestants for myself, thinking, "Uhh, get over it, you bitch, it's just a cold."
This is just another example of how with others, I am a good caretaker, but I suck when it comes to taking care of myself. This is why I still give Gino so much credit for taking care of me when I was sick for all of the years we were together: Healthy Eliza is annoying enough. Sick Eliza is so fucking emotional and whiny it's amazing my parents didn't drop me down a well and leave me there. I think being sick just made me appreciate my parents and my ex-husband that much more, because if I was this bad just with a cold, imagine how awful I was when I was a little kid, getting strep throat twice a year, every year? Or when I would get a cluster headache at least once a week and Gino couldn't watch hockey at top volume because I could literally see my own brain throbbing? In the future, if I ever do meet someone, I will probably just quarantine myself so they don't have to deal with me when I get sick or have a migraine. It's just safer that way.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Disapproval Rating
My parents shocked the hell out of me this week by calling me en route from Florida to let me know they would be in town for a little while. They shocked me even moreso when they told me the reason: my stepsister, Jenny, is in the hospital after a head-on collision. She is doing better, but is still recovering from surgery. I am happy to see my parents, always, but I hate that in order for me to see them, they have to be going through this. I am also worried for Jenny, despite the fact that we, truth be told, don't know each other very well. She is family, though, and of course I was concerned not only for her, but for her children, who are my niece and nephews, and for my stepmom, who had to deal with seeing her daughter in the hospital again.
My reaction to any crisis is, of course, to just be a goofball and keep them from thinking about it, tell them stories about my dumb life, and show them my tattoo so they can disapprove of it. They did not disappoint. "Why did you DO IT?!" my stepmom asked, looking completely aghast.
"Because I'm a grown-up," I had to remind them, "And because I can. And I wanted it."
My father was, as usual, silent, which is his usual state when faced with an uncomfortable moment. I had to remind them that I had wanted to get another tattoo for a while, and that I felt a great deal stronger after getting it. My arguments were valid despite there being no reason for them, or for my parents disapproving of what I do with my 29-year-old body. They just went into a story about my niece's boyfriend getting a really bad tattoo and having to spend $400 getting it covered up. I can't help but feel a little crestfallen that they didn't like it. They weren't even impressed when I told them that it took four hours, and that I sat quietly the entire time and never made a sound. My ability to withstand pain does not impress them. I don't usually quote Will Smith, but he had it right in 1988: Parents Just Don't Understand.
I had a similar feeling a few months ago, when my stepmom expressed some motherly disapproval over this blog. "I just don't understand," she said, "Why you wouldn't just write your feelings down in a journal if you have something to say. If you're worried about people reading it-"
"I'm not worried," I told her at the time, "I want people to read it."
She took that in and responded with, "Maybe it's a generational thing."
"Well, yeah," I said, "I don't see the point in writing something that no one is going to see. It keeps me honest- if I'm just writing for myself, I can tell myself anything."
She sounded like that confused her even more, but she didn't say it. I wanted to say that I'm doing this for myself! I'm putting all of my pain out there! Someone called me the female Hank Moody! But, I didn't say it. I knew I wouldn't get her to agree with my reasons for doing it. When Debbie got divorced, there was no blogging. There was therapy, and Snackwells, and there were her three children to take care of. We come from different worlds, and that is fine. I know my parents might disapprove of most of what I do with my new-found freedom. It's not their deal. They want the best for me, even if what they want me to do isn't what I want. They're smarter than me, and they want me to just go through life without all of this struggle, without the fallout from, say, my sister reading my blog or having to wear a cardigan even in summer to cover up my new tattoo when I file something to court for my boss. They want me to take it easy, give myself a break, tell a trained professional my thoughts and not put them online for anyone to read. They want me to make smarter decisions, but I want to take risks. I realize my risk-taking may cause even more head-scratching on their part. I'm going to keep sharing with them, keep being a goofus and waiting for them to scratch their heads in response. It's my role, and it's one I don't mind playing. Despite their disapproval, they have never influenced me to be anyone other than who I am, and I know they only react that way because they love me. They are the only parents I have, and I wouldn't change them even if I could.
My reaction to any crisis is, of course, to just be a goofball and keep them from thinking about it, tell them stories about my dumb life, and show them my tattoo so they can disapprove of it. They did not disappoint. "Why did you DO IT?!" my stepmom asked, looking completely aghast.
"Because I'm a grown-up," I had to remind them, "And because I can. And I wanted it."
My father was, as usual, silent, which is his usual state when faced with an uncomfortable moment. I had to remind them that I had wanted to get another tattoo for a while, and that I felt a great deal stronger after getting it. My arguments were valid despite there being no reason for them, or for my parents disapproving of what I do with my 29-year-old body. They just went into a story about my niece's boyfriend getting a really bad tattoo and having to spend $400 getting it covered up. I can't help but feel a little crestfallen that they didn't like it. They weren't even impressed when I told them that it took four hours, and that I sat quietly the entire time and never made a sound. My ability to withstand pain does not impress them. I don't usually quote Will Smith, but he had it right in 1988: Parents Just Don't Understand.
I had a similar feeling a few months ago, when my stepmom expressed some motherly disapproval over this blog. "I just don't understand," she said, "Why you wouldn't just write your feelings down in a journal if you have something to say. If you're worried about people reading it-"
"I'm not worried," I told her at the time, "I want people to read it."
She took that in and responded with, "Maybe it's a generational thing."
"Well, yeah," I said, "I don't see the point in writing something that no one is going to see. It keeps me honest- if I'm just writing for myself, I can tell myself anything."
She sounded like that confused her even more, but she didn't say it. I wanted to say that I'm doing this for myself! I'm putting all of my pain out there! Someone called me the female Hank Moody! But, I didn't say it. I knew I wouldn't get her to agree with my reasons for doing it. When Debbie got divorced, there was no blogging. There was therapy, and Snackwells, and there were her three children to take care of. We come from different worlds, and that is fine. I know my parents might disapprove of most of what I do with my new-found freedom. It's not their deal. They want the best for me, even if what they want me to do isn't what I want. They're smarter than me, and they want me to just go through life without all of this struggle, without the fallout from, say, my sister reading my blog or having to wear a cardigan even in summer to cover up my new tattoo when I file something to court for my boss. They want me to take it easy, give myself a break, tell a trained professional my thoughts and not put them online for anyone to read. They want me to make smarter decisions, but I want to take risks. I realize my risk-taking may cause even more head-scratching on their part. I'm going to keep sharing with them, keep being a goofus and waiting for them to scratch their heads in response. It's my role, and it's one I don't mind playing. Despite their disapproval, they have never influenced me to be anyone other than who I am, and I know they only react that way because they love me. They are the only parents I have, and I wouldn't change them even if I could.
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