The other night, the pipes froze in my apartment building because the basement of my building is unheated. The handyman who works for my landlord came over, assessed the damage and told me he was sorry, but he couldn't fix it tonight, leaving me without a working toilet, shower or bathroom sink for the evening. I was actually happy to live alone at a time like this. If I was going to spend the night peeing into a plastic bucket and pouring it out into the kitchen sink, I was grateful no one was around to see that.
It does nothing to point this out right at the moment, but it is fucking cold. It is so cold, I have been compelled to break out my "cuddle socks", which should never be worn by a person who wants to be touched by another human ever again. They came in one of my parent's notoriously misguided Christmas packages a few years ago. They are baby blue, fleecy and hideous as all-get-out, not to mention the rubber grippies on the bottom that remind me of slippers for invalids. They are so unattractive, they make me not even want to fuck myself when I'm wearing them.
It's too cold to even think of anything other than not freezing to death right now, so it should come as no surprise that I've settled into my extended dry spell for the time being. I am wearing so many layers, the first of which is gray long underwear that makes me look, to paraphrase Patton Oswalt, like a Dr. Seuss rough sketch, that no one could even get to me if they wanted to. They would have to fight through three layers of cotton, fleece and wool to be able to even know what my skin feels like. Winter is not a sexy time. When I was still in a relationship, sex during winter meant moving things to the side or half-off, getting it over with and then covering back up as quickly as possible. No one gets naked willingly when it is this cold. If I could get away with showering in my thermal undergarments, trust me, I would.
I was out the other night, at yBar Writer's Room, to see a poet named Jon Sands. Everyone, myself included was still wearing our coats indoors to keep from shaking like pathetic, wet poodles. I ended up in a conversation about this blog with Jim, the owner of the bar and founder of Word by Word. He mentioned that he kept meaning to check it out after I read a post at the Open Mic Night the week before. Gabriel, my best dude friend and reluctant writing mentor, referred to it as, "The naughty blog where things happen."
I wish things were happening right now, but I'm too busy shivering. I said as much to Gabriel, and he ordered me to go out and get some penetration before this turns into a cooking blog. This was similar to something my friend Joe expressed to me last week when he asked, "So, when are you going to embark on a new disastrous relationship that you can write about?"
I had a typically whiney reaction to both of these options, a response of, "Aww, come on, do I have to?"
I'm not going to start having gross, weird sex or date someone who is totally wrong for me just so I have something to write about. This isn't Nerve.com circa 2000. I am also not planning on posting about ten new ways to cook kale (because it is, apparently, the only vegetable that exists in New England during winter). Any of these things might be fun, but I hope I don't need to rely on them yet. I still have territory to mine, after all. I'm still in the process of getting divorced which, I found out thanks to my new legal career, is because an uncontested divorce is placed on a six-month hold from the time it is filed, in case one of the parties changes their mind. So, in the end, the address of this blog might not even be true. I might not, in the end, even be divorced by thirty. My thirtieth birthday is less than three months away, and this might not even go to court until after that date. For the time being, this blog is going to have to be how I'm not getting laid or getting divorced yet, and hopefully the horrible dates and bad (or good, or bad/good) sex can wait for now. I think I'll wait until I feel comfortable taking off the long underwear, and then I'll see.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Sunburn
A week ago last Wednesday, the day I had been waiting for since August finally arrived, and I got to drive to Cambridge and get my arm tattooed. It was an okay day for it- the sun was out, it wasn't too cold, and I didn't really mind being by myself, surprisingly. I always think I will prefer to have someone with me for long car rides, but the truth is, I usually end up wanting to be alone once the crankiness sets in and I get tired of talking. I was glad no one was available to go with me, actually, or I might have lost a friend in the process. Plus, I left early, I barely ate anything all day, and I would have felt weird smoking in my own car with someone else there. Plus, asking someone to sit on a bench, feeling like a weirdo is a big favor to ask. I did it for Mike, when he got tattooed there, sitting silently for hours like patience on the monument. It was kind of awful, and then I had to drive back to Pittsfield in rush hour with a guy who didn't like me that much anymore.
I got there early, of course, like I always do, so I had some time to catch my breath before I had to sit in the chair and get stabbed for hours. I talked with the mom of a kid who was getting some kind of shamrock/football jersey number thing on his ankle (probably the biggest Masshole cliche of them all) about what my tattoo meant, because it is, understandably, hard to understand why I would get a tattoo of a squid fighting a whale. "I've had a hard year," I said, "A whale of a year, and I think of myself as the squid, wrapping all my tentacles around it and taking it down."
She smiled, amused, and didn't seem to really get the why and wherefore of it, but I didn't expect her to, really. A tattoo is public and private at the same time. I could have just said that I wanted it because it looks cool and left it at that, but I never go with the easy answer. I always overexplain when I could just keep my mouth shut.
Once Erick, my tattoo artist, actually got me in the chair and started, it wasn't so bad. I've gotten tattoos before, but this one is the biggest, and I was in the chair for four hours, minus a few breaks. Erick did the entire thing in one sitting, from the outline to color, so I got to leave that day with the finished product, not just the rough sketch. He must have done the full job because I sat there so nice and still, not making any noise. I always thought I have a decent pain threshold, and I guess it's actually true.
Getting tattooed is a little more intimate than other services you pay for, moreso than getting your hair done, or getting a bikini wax, even. You are trusting a professional to put something permanent on your body, something meaningful that everyone will see. You have to almost form a false friendship with this person that only lasts a few hours, and only picks up again if you need a new piece. I still felt weird, and girly and silly, and like I was seventeen years old, but I felt something else this time, an electricity coursing through me while the needles were stabbing me over and over. I had to think, in order to sit calmly and not wince every time the needles pierced my arm, that this made me feel alive, that this was a good pain, a pain that was productive, and worthwhile. After all the just-below-the-surface pain, the ache that had no name that I've felt for more than half a year, this pain of getting a beautiful piece of art stitched into my skin felt great. It was because it was my choice, and I was in control of it. Now, I have something I get to keep forever, barring my arm getting chopped off. In an age of my life where nothing feels permanent anymore, where the list of people I love and who still love me changes from month to month, and sometimes day to day, this feels grounding. Plus, it's something I did just for me.
I got there early, of course, like I always do, so I had some time to catch my breath before I had to sit in the chair and get stabbed for hours. I talked with the mom of a kid who was getting some kind of shamrock/football jersey number thing on his ankle (probably the biggest Masshole cliche of them all) about what my tattoo meant, because it is, understandably, hard to understand why I would get a tattoo of a squid fighting a whale. "I've had a hard year," I said, "A whale of a year, and I think of myself as the squid, wrapping all my tentacles around it and taking it down."
She smiled, amused, and didn't seem to really get the why and wherefore of it, but I didn't expect her to, really. A tattoo is public and private at the same time. I could have just said that I wanted it because it looks cool and left it at that, but I never go with the easy answer. I always overexplain when I could just keep my mouth shut.
Once Erick, my tattoo artist, actually got me in the chair and started, it wasn't so bad. I've gotten tattoos before, but this one is the biggest, and I was in the chair for four hours, minus a few breaks. Erick did the entire thing in one sitting, from the outline to color, so I got to leave that day with the finished product, not just the rough sketch. He must have done the full job because I sat there so nice and still, not making any noise. I always thought I have a decent pain threshold, and I guess it's actually true.
Getting tattooed is a little more intimate than other services you pay for, moreso than getting your hair done, or getting a bikini wax, even. You are trusting a professional to put something permanent on your body, something meaningful that everyone will see. You have to almost form a false friendship with this person that only lasts a few hours, and only picks up again if you need a new piece. I still felt weird, and girly and silly, and like I was seventeen years old, but I felt something else this time, an electricity coursing through me while the needles were stabbing me over and over. I had to think, in order to sit calmly and not wince every time the needles pierced my arm, that this made me feel alive, that this was a good pain, a pain that was productive, and worthwhile. After all the just-below-the-surface pain, the ache that had no name that I've felt for more than half a year, this pain of getting a beautiful piece of art stitched into my skin felt great. It was because it was my choice, and I was in control of it. Now, I have something I get to keep forever, barring my arm getting chopped off. In an age of my life where nothing feels permanent anymore, where the list of people I love and who still love me changes from month to month, and sometimes day to day, this feels grounding. Plus, it's something I did just for me.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
One Foot In The Door
I heard from my friend Christina this past week, before New Year's, asking if I was still looking for a new job. I have missed working with her a great deal (she is the person who sent me home the day I came in to work looking like Samara from The Ring and insisted I go home and have a good cry), so when she suggested I send her my resume, I jumped at the chance. I've already been putting feelers out, sending my resume when I find a job posting online that seems like it might be a good fit, but I haven't been desperate to leave my current occupation. My job is not that challenging, but it is dependable. I like my co-workers, and I can deal with the specific aspects of it that make me unhappy. It's not like I work in a coal mine, so I've learned to be content with my weird schedule, my days off in the middle of the week, the insistance by the corporate office that in order to have dual roles as admin and events presenter (I teach a weekly knitting class for the guests of this establishment, which I love doing), that I need to only work a total of 40 hours between both departments. This means that I have to cut three hours out of my work week at the desk in order to make up for the three hours of class time. It's a pain, but I've never objected because despite finding it unfair, I understood where they were coming from. When you employ as many people as the corporation I work for does, you need to make sure your bases are covered.
The change in my hours, plus the fact that my boss told me, in no uncertain terms, that my days off could not be altered, plus the fact that she has been slightly lacking in the professionalism department, have made my decision that much easier to make. I sent my resume to Christina, who forwarded it to one of the partners at the law firm she left here to work for. I went in for an interview on Wednesday morning, only minimally prepared, figuring that going in cold was a better idea. I didn't want to do what I usually do- overprepare and oversell myself, ending up in a position I am really not the best fit for. I've done that once, when I worked for Verizon, and it was traumatizing, to say the least. I knew at that time, when I showed up for training, that I had to keep that job, even though it confused the hell out of me and I never really fit in with the other people there. I ignored my instincts and just buckled down, forcing myself to just deal with it, because as the primary bread-earner in my relationship, I had to keep Gino and myself afloat. When I got sent back to my original position as a lowly directory assistance operator, I was so relieved, I cried, even though I knew it meant finding a more affordable place to live and no more shopping at the nice food stores. Leaving that position was, in the end, worth going back to ghetto groceries. I also did the same thing when I interviewed for Pine Cone Hill, pitching myself at the woman who interviewed me with a little too much enthusiasm. I was not really the best fit for that position, as I had been working for a company that valued speed over accuracy for so many years that I didn't know how to make myself slow down. Their customer service model was all about building relationships with their customers and taking the time to listen. They were slow food, where I was used to short-order cooking. I couldn't adapt, and when they did their big layoff, I got the chop. If I hadn't been laid off, I think, I would have probably gotten fired for not learning their ways.
The interview with the attorney went well, and I felt my confidence swelling the longer she kept me in the room with her. I drew parallels between law and healthcare without really reaching for them, I was honest about why I felt the time had come to move on from a place I had worked for nearly three years, and I maintained eye contact, which my father taught me is key to showing a new person that you can be trusted. It didn't always come naturally to me, but I've reached a point where it actually feels strange to not look straight into another person's eyes while I'm speaking to them.
When I left the interview, I felt similar to the way I felt in September, after a particularly successful knitting class, thinking to myself, "There is nothing wrong with you. There is something wrong with every man who tells you there is something wrong with you," and I actually believed it. It is easy to say these words, aloud, to voice them with something close to conviction, but it is harder to really believe them, to take them to heart. The things that bothered me the most for the better part of this past year- being rejected, not once, but twice, hating myself and my body, wondering where I slipped on the tracks, are not eclipsed by a new professional achievement, but they seem less important. I was hired the day of the interview, despite not having a shred of legal experience, despite not having a college degree, despite the fact that I didn't have my references printed out and prepared. Who cares that I don't look perfect, that I am a little abrasive, that I love too hard and with too much of myself? What I have managed to do, this year, despite every painful moment, is pretty impressive to me. I don't usually impress myself, but I have managed to find a new job, squeeze my brain until a novel popped out, and form a better friendship with my ex-husband, all without missing a single day of work. All of these things serve as a reminder that just because I am not good enough for a couple of dumb guys does not mean I am not good enough.
I think that, and maybe this is a justification I make to myself just so things make some kind of sense, that my intelligence, my success, all of the things I really value about myself, might actually end up being a detractor to the guys I always end up being into. Gino is barely able to keep his head above water, money-wise, without me, but he didn't appreciate me more because I brought in more money. I think that knowing he needed me, literally, for survival, made him resentful of me. One time, his mother was lamenting the fact that she could never leave Gino's father, saying, "You can't escape the fact that you always need them for the financial support," referring, of course, to men.
I said nothing, never pointing out the fact that in our situation, the roles were reversed. Managing without the money Gino brought in has been difficult, but not impossible. He only ever worked part-time when we were together. Even when he split his time between his current job and working for UPS, he never worked a 40-hour week. Both of his jobs were hard, manual, labor, of course, and I gave him more credit than he probably deserved for working them, but he never put in as many hours as I did. I always brought home more money, but the thing is, I tried not to point that out to him. Gino remarked on it often, in terms of the unfairness of it, how I got paid more than him for sitting on my ass all day. I had to apologize for my own minimal success, with the fact that despite not completing my education, I managed to find steady employment using only my skill set. I was apologetic for earning more money than him and for earning a job that allowed me to sit on my ass all day in the first place. Nothing was handed to me and I was given the same advantages as anyone else, but Gino's persecuted worldview made me feel guilty for a lot of it. A man's ego is a fragile thing.
Gino also had a tendency, it seemed to me, to imply that I was ditzy. He would talk to me about things I could understand, but just wasn't interested in, like time travel and conspiracy theories. I would contribute nothing because I had nothing to contribute, which, to him, made me seem like I just didn't understand what he was talking about. He would try to get me to watch episodes of Dark Matters and Through The Wormhole, or other programming on Science Channel, and I would try to pay attention, but it just wasn't compelling to me. I would sit through an episode, then beg him to switch to an episode of Community or Hell on Wheels or something else I could just sit back and enjoy. At the end of the day, sometimes you just want to give your brain a rest. I asked him why he did that this week, and he seemed genuinely surprised that I would think that. He didn't apologize for anything, of course, turning on me and accusing me of talking down to him all the time, making him feel like he was the dumb one. I wanted to object, but I knew that the time wasn't right for it, so I did apologize for always correcting his grammar and pronunciation. It's a bad habit I could never kick, that I inherited directly from my father, and I knew he hated it, but his malapropisms were hard to let slip by. If he said "worth ethic" when he meant to say "work ethic", it just drove me nuts, because people are not always kind. I just wanted to protect him, keep him from getting made fun of. I looked at it from the angle of being protective, but it hit his ear as just more criticism.
Mike implied that I was kind of dumb as well. When I told him the story about Gino's attempts to educate me, he started teasing me about it, and Liam started showing up for our Thursday night get-togethers with episodes of Through the Wormhole loaded onto his USB drive for us to watch. I knew they were doing it just to annoy me, and I could have squashed it by not reacting, but I got a little irritated. I don't doubt my own intelligence, but I am used to insecure people inferring that I am not that smart, so I'm just a little sick of it. Sensing how much it was annoying me that Liam and Mike not only wanted to watch a television show about quantum worlds, but refused to stop talking about it while I was sitting there, contributing nothing, Mike said, "Well, we could watch something about knitting instead," his voice just dripping with condescension.
I'm not a big fan of being talked down to, and while I can take being teased, I have an easier time with it if the joke is, you know, good. I told him thanks for the offer (you fucking dickbag), but I don't watch television programs about knitting, I just knit. Having a hobby that is girly and silly does not make me girly and silly. And, even if it does, who cares? Being girly and silly doesn't make me stupid, either. I know I have a bad habit of dumbing myself down for men, especially if I like them, because most men like to feel that they are the smartest one in the room. Or, at the very least, the men I've been involved with seem to want that.
I guess I am a little more insecure about my intelligence than I used to be. When I was younger, and I was overweight and really awkward, my brain was all that I had. I was one of those people, who just had to remind everyone how smart I was every second of every day. It didn't really win me a lot of friends, so I toned it down. I know that I don't have to impress how smart I am upon people, but it gets to the point where, occasionally, I don't really seem that smart at all. Najwa told me recently that when we first met, she had no idea I was smart. That was probably due to the fact that when I first met her, I didn't talk much because I was totally intimidated by her prettiness and didn't really make a great first impression. Still, she told me that my brains aren't really there on the surface, that they come out slowly.
I hope I can learn to speed up that process, when it comes to work, because I have a very short window in which I need to learn my new job, and I don't want my new employer to regret hiring someone who seems like a dullard. I need to just remind myself that being smart is good, that it has gotten me farther than anything else has, and that I don't have to water my intelligence down for everyone.
The change in my hours, plus the fact that my boss told me, in no uncertain terms, that my days off could not be altered, plus the fact that she has been slightly lacking in the professionalism department, have made my decision that much easier to make. I sent my resume to Christina, who forwarded it to one of the partners at the law firm she left here to work for. I went in for an interview on Wednesday morning, only minimally prepared, figuring that going in cold was a better idea. I didn't want to do what I usually do- overprepare and oversell myself, ending up in a position I am really not the best fit for. I've done that once, when I worked for Verizon, and it was traumatizing, to say the least. I knew at that time, when I showed up for training, that I had to keep that job, even though it confused the hell out of me and I never really fit in with the other people there. I ignored my instincts and just buckled down, forcing myself to just deal with it, because as the primary bread-earner in my relationship, I had to keep Gino and myself afloat. When I got sent back to my original position as a lowly directory assistance operator, I was so relieved, I cried, even though I knew it meant finding a more affordable place to live and no more shopping at the nice food stores. Leaving that position was, in the end, worth going back to ghetto groceries. I also did the same thing when I interviewed for Pine Cone Hill, pitching myself at the woman who interviewed me with a little too much enthusiasm. I was not really the best fit for that position, as I had been working for a company that valued speed over accuracy for so many years that I didn't know how to make myself slow down. Their customer service model was all about building relationships with their customers and taking the time to listen. They were slow food, where I was used to short-order cooking. I couldn't adapt, and when they did their big layoff, I got the chop. If I hadn't been laid off, I think, I would have probably gotten fired for not learning their ways.
The interview with the attorney went well, and I felt my confidence swelling the longer she kept me in the room with her. I drew parallels between law and healthcare without really reaching for them, I was honest about why I felt the time had come to move on from a place I had worked for nearly three years, and I maintained eye contact, which my father taught me is key to showing a new person that you can be trusted. It didn't always come naturally to me, but I've reached a point where it actually feels strange to not look straight into another person's eyes while I'm speaking to them.
When I left the interview, I felt similar to the way I felt in September, after a particularly successful knitting class, thinking to myself, "There is nothing wrong with you. There is something wrong with every man who tells you there is something wrong with you," and I actually believed it. It is easy to say these words, aloud, to voice them with something close to conviction, but it is harder to really believe them, to take them to heart. The things that bothered me the most for the better part of this past year- being rejected, not once, but twice, hating myself and my body, wondering where I slipped on the tracks, are not eclipsed by a new professional achievement, but they seem less important. I was hired the day of the interview, despite not having a shred of legal experience, despite not having a college degree, despite the fact that I didn't have my references printed out and prepared. Who cares that I don't look perfect, that I am a little abrasive, that I love too hard and with too much of myself? What I have managed to do, this year, despite every painful moment, is pretty impressive to me. I don't usually impress myself, but I have managed to find a new job, squeeze my brain until a novel popped out, and form a better friendship with my ex-husband, all without missing a single day of work. All of these things serve as a reminder that just because I am not good enough for a couple of dumb guys does not mean I am not good enough.
I think that, and maybe this is a justification I make to myself just so things make some kind of sense, that my intelligence, my success, all of the things I really value about myself, might actually end up being a detractor to the guys I always end up being into. Gino is barely able to keep his head above water, money-wise, without me, but he didn't appreciate me more because I brought in more money. I think that knowing he needed me, literally, for survival, made him resentful of me. One time, his mother was lamenting the fact that she could never leave Gino's father, saying, "You can't escape the fact that you always need them for the financial support," referring, of course, to men.
I said nothing, never pointing out the fact that in our situation, the roles were reversed. Managing without the money Gino brought in has been difficult, but not impossible. He only ever worked part-time when we were together. Even when he split his time between his current job and working for UPS, he never worked a 40-hour week. Both of his jobs were hard, manual, labor, of course, and I gave him more credit than he probably deserved for working them, but he never put in as many hours as I did. I always brought home more money, but the thing is, I tried not to point that out to him. Gino remarked on it often, in terms of the unfairness of it, how I got paid more than him for sitting on my ass all day. I had to apologize for my own minimal success, with the fact that despite not completing my education, I managed to find steady employment using only my skill set. I was apologetic for earning more money than him and for earning a job that allowed me to sit on my ass all day in the first place. Nothing was handed to me and I was given the same advantages as anyone else, but Gino's persecuted worldview made me feel guilty for a lot of it. A man's ego is a fragile thing.
Gino also had a tendency, it seemed to me, to imply that I was ditzy. He would talk to me about things I could understand, but just wasn't interested in, like time travel and conspiracy theories. I would contribute nothing because I had nothing to contribute, which, to him, made me seem like I just didn't understand what he was talking about. He would try to get me to watch episodes of Dark Matters and Through The Wormhole, or other programming on Science Channel, and I would try to pay attention, but it just wasn't compelling to me. I would sit through an episode, then beg him to switch to an episode of Community or Hell on Wheels or something else I could just sit back and enjoy. At the end of the day, sometimes you just want to give your brain a rest. I asked him why he did that this week, and he seemed genuinely surprised that I would think that. He didn't apologize for anything, of course, turning on me and accusing me of talking down to him all the time, making him feel like he was the dumb one. I wanted to object, but I knew that the time wasn't right for it, so I did apologize for always correcting his grammar and pronunciation. It's a bad habit I could never kick, that I inherited directly from my father, and I knew he hated it, but his malapropisms were hard to let slip by. If he said "worth ethic" when he meant to say "work ethic", it just drove me nuts, because people are not always kind. I just wanted to protect him, keep him from getting made fun of. I looked at it from the angle of being protective, but it hit his ear as just more criticism.
Mike implied that I was kind of dumb as well. When I told him the story about Gino's attempts to educate me, he started teasing me about it, and Liam started showing up for our Thursday night get-togethers with episodes of Through the Wormhole loaded onto his USB drive for us to watch. I knew they were doing it just to annoy me, and I could have squashed it by not reacting, but I got a little irritated. I don't doubt my own intelligence, but I am used to insecure people inferring that I am not that smart, so I'm just a little sick of it. Sensing how much it was annoying me that Liam and Mike not only wanted to watch a television show about quantum worlds, but refused to stop talking about it while I was sitting there, contributing nothing, Mike said, "Well, we could watch something about knitting instead," his voice just dripping with condescension.
I'm not a big fan of being talked down to, and while I can take being teased, I have an easier time with it if the joke is, you know, good. I told him thanks for the offer (you fucking dickbag), but I don't watch television programs about knitting, I just knit. Having a hobby that is girly and silly does not make me girly and silly. And, even if it does, who cares? Being girly and silly doesn't make me stupid, either. I know I have a bad habit of dumbing myself down for men, especially if I like them, because most men like to feel that they are the smartest one in the room. Or, at the very least, the men I've been involved with seem to want that.
I guess I am a little more insecure about my intelligence than I used to be. When I was younger, and I was overweight and really awkward, my brain was all that I had. I was one of those people, who just had to remind everyone how smart I was every second of every day. It didn't really win me a lot of friends, so I toned it down. I know that I don't have to impress how smart I am upon people, but it gets to the point where, occasionally, I don't really seem that smart at all. Najwa told me recently that when we first met, she had no idea I was smart. That was probably due to the fact that when I first met her, I didn't talk much because I was totally intimidated by her prettiness and didn't really make a great first impression. Still, she told me that my brains aren't really there on the surface, that they come out slowly.
I hope I can learn to speed up that process, when it comes to work, because I have a very short window in which I need to learn my new job, and I don't want my new employer to regret hiring someone who seems like a dullard. I need to just remind myself that being smart is good, that it has gotten me farther than anything else has, and that I don't have to water my intelligence down for everyone.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
That's A Wrap
I concluded this year feeling the way I felt for the majority of the year- exhausted, hungry, and a little annoyed with my ex. Instead of going out and getting irritated with the crowds or spending more money than I wanted to, I worked the New Year's Eve party for the guests at the resort, manning the desk as a pit boss for our annual casino night. It was hectic, a little stifling, but all-in-all, it went pretty smoothly, and I got paid more than double what I make per hour at my "real" job to do it. I was also compelled, by my manager, to take all of New Year's Day off because if I worked that day, I would have gone into overtime. So, in the end, I got some extra money in my next paycheck, I got three days off in a row, and I did manage to sneak in one drink with Shauna before the bars closed on New Year's Eve. Can't say fairer than that.
As for Gino, I did get irritated with him for, of course, being himself. He was working New Year's as well, dealing poker, and when he showed up, he immediately started complaining about being hungry because he didn't eat enough that day. Not my problem, I thought to myself, although I have an inability to shut off the side of me that always ends up taking care of this man. Luckily, I didn't have to do much because one of the dining room employees brought out some leftover wraps that were going to be thrown out if we didn't eat them. I called Gino over and pointed them out, and he took one, with a look on his face that made it seem like I had just offered him a big bag of garbage. "These are the only ones they have?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, "But if you're hungry enough, it shouldn't matter."
He took one, still looking unhappy, but he ate it. I finished off half of mine and, trying to be nice and make sure Gino had enough, offered him the other half. This is an old, dying reflex, left over from seven years of learning his habits and, I hate it, but, wanting to make sure he is fed. However much food I ever gave Gino, I would give myself half as much, and then usually give him half of that half when he had finished his. I did this not only for him, but also to control the amount I ended up eating. He started calling himself "The Portion Controller" after a while, because he was the only thing keeping me from weighing 200 pounds. If I was giving him half of my food, I wouldn't end up mindlessly eating it after I was already full. Unchecked, I can eat until I explode, which is why I started training myself to eat smaller amounts until I was satisfied with them. My friends pick on me, but I have a shitty metabolic rate and I have to do something to keep myself at a healthy weight.
When I called out to Gino to see if he wanted the other half of my turkey wrap, he answered, kind of rudely, "No."
It was just a no. Not a no, thank you, or a no, thanks, or anything close to it. I don't know why this bothered me so much, but it did. I suppose it is because I have been trying to rehabilitate him for years, deprogram him out of all the bad manners his family (sorry) taught him. Having bad manners doesn't make them bad people, of course, and this is a judgement on my part, but I have found that it is harder to get people to take you seriously if you skip the pleasantries. Good manners were drilled into my head from a young age, and I would never respond to a kind gesture with anything less than a "no, thank you". My mother was just as blunt and matter-of-fact as Gino's mother is, but she at least taught me how to be polite. What really bothered me must have been that, even after trying, for seven years, to force a little more politeness and consideration into Gino's personality, he's the same. I wasn't trying to change him, exactly, just smooth him over, make him a little more presentable, but he remains just as rough as he always was.
Shauna and I were in charge of counting up the guest's chips and announcing the winners at the end, and then ended up being each other's New Year's hug when midnight struck. Before Gino left, I snuck through the crowd to give him a quick hug and wish him Happy New Year, finding him near the door to the lobby, talking to a guy that works for another department. Gino did something he tends to do when I speak to him in front of someone we work with- he acted like he didn't want to talk to me. When it is just us, of course, he is fully engaged and I actually believe that we are friends. When we are around other people, he acts like King Shit and I am the pain-in-the-ass ex-wife who won't stop hanging off his dick. I should just not play into it at all, or just not let it bother me, but it's a little immature for a 31-year-old to act this way. We aren't in high school. We were married, and now we're something else, and he doesn't have to pretend he wants nothing to do with me anymore just because we are no longer a couple.
I guess I just expect more from him than I really should, given his history. I never learn. I keep wanting Gino to surprise me, show me that he learned anything during our time together, but he hasn't. It's stupid for me to expect it, or even hope for it, because I wasn't his educator, I was his wife. I have to let him be who he is, because that's fine for him to be that way. He might not get very far with his interesting pronunciation and his inability to use common courtesies, but he might not want or need to. My tendency to correct his grammar and try to force him to be more considerate are not things that he probably looks back on fondly. They are just more examples of me being a pain in the ass and not letting him do what he wants. Maybe he will get lucky and meet someone who does not care about any of it, or better yet, has even worse manners than he does. Either way.
I finally got home from work at around 1 AM, so tired I forgot how to go to bed. I sat on my couch, counted up the things I learned this year, weighed them against my mistakes, and figured I broke even on all of it. Then, I did what I usually do, and had a glass of whiskey and finally dragged myself to bed. I don't have a big, concluding statement for this year, because I still haven't figured it out. Then again, just because it's the end of the year, that doesn't automatically endow a person with all manner of sagelike wisdom. I'm closer to figuring out what I need to do to make myself happier, though, so that's something.
As for Gino, I did get irritated with him for, of course, being himself. He was working New Year's as well, dealing poker, and when he showed up, he immediately started complaining about being hungry because he didn't eat enough that day. Not my problem, I thought to myself, although I have an inability to shut off the side of me that always ends up taking care of this man. Luckily, I didn't have to do much because one of the dining room employees brought out some leftover wraps that were going to be thrown out if we didn't eat them. I called Gino over and pointed them out, and he took one, with a look on his face that made it seem like I had just offered him a big bag of garbage. "These are the only ones they have?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, "But if you're hungry enough, it shouldn't matter."
He took one, still looking unhappy, but he ate it. I finished off half of mine and, trying to be nice and make sure Gino had enough, offered him the other half. This is an old, dying reflex, left over from seven years of learning his habits and, I hate it, but, wanting to make sure he is fed. However much food I ever gave Gino, I would give myself half as much, and then usually give him half of that half when he had finished his. I did this not only for him, but also to control the amount I ended up eating. He started calling himself "The Portion Controller" after a while, because he was the only thing keeping me from weighing 200 pounds. If I was giving him half of my food, I wouldn't end up mindlessly eating it after I was already full. Unchecked, I can eat until I explode, which is why I started training myself to eat smaller amounts until I was satisfied with them. My friends pick on me, but I have a shitty metabolic rate and I have to do something to keep myself at a healthy weight.
When I called out to Gino to see if he wanted the other half of my turkey wrap, he answered, kind of rudely, "No."
It was just a no. Not a no, thank you, or a no, thanks, or anything close to it. I don't know why this bothered me so much, but it did. I suppose it is because I have been trying to rehabilitate him for years, deprogram him out of all the bad manners his family (sorry) taught him. Having bad manners doesn't make them bad people, of course, and this is a judgement on my part, but I have found that it is harder to get people to take you seriously if you skip the pleasantries. Good manners were drilled into my head from a young age, and I would never respond to a kind gesture with anything less than a "no, thank you". My mother was just as blunt and matter-of-fact as Gino's mother is, but she at least taught me how to be polite. What really bothered me must have been that, even after trying, for seven years, to force a little more politeness and consideration into Gino's personality, he's the same. I wasn't trying to change him, exactly, just smooth him over, make him a little more presentable, but he remains just as rough as he always was.
Shauna and I were in charge of counting up the guest's chips and announcing the winners at the end, and then ended up being each other's New Year's hug when midnight struck. Before Gino left, I snuck through the crowd to give him a quick hug and wish him Happy New Year, finding him near the door to the lobby, talking to a guy that works for another department. Gino did something he tends to do when I speak to him in front of someone we work with- he acted like he didn't want to talk to me. When it is just us, of course, he is fully engaged and I actually believe that we are friends. When we are around other people, he acts like King Shit and I am the pain-in-the-ass ex-wife who won't stop hanging off his dick. I should just not play into it at all, or just not let it bother me, but it's a little immature for a 31-year-old to act this way. We aren't in high school. We were married, and now we're something else, and he doesn't have to pretend he wants nothing to do with me anymore just because we are no longer a couple.
I guess I just expect more from him than I really should, given his history. I never learn. I keep wanting Gino to surprise me, show me that he learned anything during our time together, but he hasn't. It's stupid for me to expect it, or even hope for it, because I wasn't his educator, I was his wife. I have to let him be who he is, because that's fine for him to be that way. He might not get very far with his interesting pronunciation and his inability to use common courtesies, but he might not want or need to. My tendency to correct his grammar and try to force him to be more considerate are not things that he probably looks back on fondly. They are just more examples of me being a pain in the ass and not letting him do what he wants. Maybe he will get lucky and meet someone who does not care about any of it, or better yet, has even worse manners than he does. Either way.
I finally got home from work at around 1 AM, so tired I forgot how to go to bed. I sat on my couch, counted up the things I learned this year, weighed them against my mistakes, and figured I broke even on all of it. Then, I did what I usually do, and had a glass of whiskey and finally dragged myself to bed. I don't have a big, concluding statement for this year, because I still haven't figured it out. Then again, just because it's the end of the year, that doesn't automatically endow a person with all manner of sagelike wisdom. I'm closer to figuring out what I need to do to make myself happier, though, so that's something.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Happy Effing Holiday
I can't help but allow the holidays to make me a little bit maudlin this year. It was inevitable. I had a rough year, and I knew it would only get worse around this time, when not only are the days colder, darker, and shorter, but also there is all of this forced sincerity in the air, the idea that we are supposed to be thankful. I am thankful, of course, but I don't need to be reminded to be thankful. I have a slightly harder time being thankful, however, when I feel like I am trying harder than someone else is. This Christmas is the hardest one I have been through since I was thirteen, eight months after my mother died. The difference between that one and this one is, of course, I can still call my ex-husband to wish him Merry Christmas, which I could not do with my mother, and also when I was thirteen, my parents overcompensated for all of that grief by giving my sister and I far too many presents to open with our sad little hands. This year, my parents got me a really weird-looking nutcracker/Santa Claus and a book on how to knit fruit.
I have this feeling, every once in a while, that my parents are spread too thin. There are seven children between them, counting my two half-siblings and my three step-siblings, my sister and I, and sometimes, I just don't feel like they have enough time, love, and energy to go around. Someone always gets pushed to the front, in terms of who they are thinking about and trying to help, and so someone inevitably gets pushed to the back. Right now, even though I am having a hard time and going through a divorce, I feel like I am getting pushed to the back. I don't depend on my parents for anything, because even though I do need help, I know it is wrong to ask it of them. My father offered to help me out with some bills I was having trouble paying, but they ended up not being financially able right now, and I felt guilty even accepting it when he offered. My sister needs a little more than me, and has a hard time making everything work for herself at all times, that they sometimes just don't have it in them. The heart is not capable of producing that much love, because my sister seems to need more no matter how much they give. I have lost my temper with my sister a number of times over this, because even with all they have done for her, she still finds a way to demonize my stepmother, imply that Debbie has not done enough for her. On Thanksgiving, I lost my shit on her for saying something immature about one of our other siblings, and pretended my anger was solely about that, but what I really wanted to say was, "They have spent every ounce of their energy on you, and you still want more? Give me a fucking break!"
Anyone with a sibling who is constantly in peril, or has severe medical or mental issues, or suffers from addiction knows what I am getting at. You care, you worry for them, and sometimes you get frustrated with them for not being able to just fucking take care of their own self. The anger can also extend to your parents, for their constant devotion to them. It is a form of jealousy that is ingrained into most of us, and it doesn't end when we become grown-ups. I wish I was above it, that I did not need my parents for anything and could just give them a break for once, but I am not that solitary of a person. I don't need their support financially, as I have found a way to make it work, but I do need their support emotionally. I have found myself almost having to remind my father that everything I have been through this year, with breaking up with Gino and starting over on my own, is really hard. He has been through two divorces, both of them far more acrimonious than mine, but he has moved past them, and occasionally, he just doesn't seem to get why I am sad, not angry. Explaining to your father that you miss someone he never really thought of as anything special, or good enough for his daughter, is a fool's errand. He was stupid in love with my mother and was devastated over their divorce, but he doesn't remember that now, because it probably hurts too much. He has Debbie now, and that is all that matters to him, so the pain of the past doesn't make sense in his mind.
I love my parents, but every once in a while, I have a hard time thinking like them. There are things from the past, that they did, that I try not to ever think about, because I just end up getting pissed off and thinking that now would be a really great time to demand an apology from them. It's a stupid thought, not to mention hypocritical, because I am always preaching about how important it is to let go of grudges and not suffer the past, but when I am in just the right frame of mind, my parent's past behavior can really get under my skin. There was the time, when I was fourteen, that my therapist called them in for a family meeting to tell them how much it would help me to get a companion animal as a therapeutic device, because I was so depressed and anxious. My parents were opposed to the idea, naturally, and they called my therapist later that night to scream at her for ganging up on them. They also accused me of engineering the meeting, of conning my therapist into making the argument that I couldn't make myself. I try not to bring things like that up with them because to this day, I cannot argue with my parents. It is best to just move on, carry the fact that they have been jerks a few times with me and never try to get an apology from them because they can justify doing just about anything.
I realize, of course, in my ruminations about the past, that I have been even more of a jerk to both of them. The difference is, I have apologized a million times over for, say, being a cutter, or just for being so depressed as a teenager. I still feel guilty for this, for being such a hard child to raise, and I let them know how sorry I still am just about every time I think about it. They never demanded an apology, but I thought they could use one, plus an additional expression of my gratitude just to make it stick. The years of terror I put them through because of my emotional problems when I was younger will never go away for them, no matter how much they tell me they don't even think about it.
My parents love me, and they did a fine job of raising me, but being the youngest out of so many children I did feel like I was made to pay the price for the mistakes my older siblings made. I was certainly treated with more caution, with more limitations on what I could and could not do in direct relation to how much my sister acted out. My sister drank and smoked and was kind of promiscuous- all of her rebelling was big and showy. My rebelling was quiet, barely detectable. I took out all of my anger on myself. I did feel, due to how much trouble my sister, and my stepsister, got into before I even had the inclination to do so, that there was a general atmosphere of mistrust permeating my entire home. I only remember telling one big lie, when I was maybe thirteen or fourteen, and once I realized I was caught I told the truth. My sister snuck out to be with her boyfriend and told me to lie to our parents about where she was, and when my dad figured it out, I told them the truth, even though I was getting myself and Sarah into trouble. I remember Debbie's response, even after I told her everything, as, "I still don't believe you."
My stepmother had been through so much abuse, first from her own daughter and then from my sister, that her response to anything I told her was that she didn't believe me. She raised one wild girl, who snuck out in the middle of the night and ended up getting into a terrible car accident, and then got stuck with another wild girl who hid vodka in her room. It was a learned pattern of behavior, but it had nothing to do with me, and I can't say it was easy to live with.There has really only been one time that I have confronted my father about this as an adult, and it went nowhere. He was visiting for my parent's annual summertime breeze-though, where they see as much family as they can cram into a week, plus go to Tanglewood. We were having an iced coffee at Dunkin' Donuts (hazelnut-flavored iced coffee being something my father only enjoyed up North because down south, they have no flavored coffee, only flavor shots). I was trying to explain something to him, about how hard it was being raised in a home where it was assumed, before I had even done anything, that I was always lying. "But when you have had that experience," my father said, "Of getting a phone call from the police in the middle of the night that your daughter is near death, you want to prevent it from happening again."
"But, Daddy," I said, trying to be as gentle and casual about it as I could, "Jenny's actions had nothing to do with me. Neither did Sarah's, but I somehow ended up paying for both of them."
"Yeah, because when you have had that experience," he said, putting even more emphasis on the word, "You learn that you can't trust, you can't leave it up to chance."
"Yes, and I understand where she was coming from, but couldn't she, or you even, have given me the benefit of the doubt?" I asked.
My dad started doing that Italian-American thing where his hands just fly all over the place because he is not making his point clear. "No, no, there was no benefit of the doubt to give, for her," he said, "And when you have lived through that experience of getting a call in the middle of the night that your daughter-"
"Okay, okay, I get it," I said, cutting him off, because I knew I would never get him to see things from my perspective.
Even if you really love someone, the way I love my parents, you occasionally want to give them the finger. I know my parents have also wanted to tell me to fuck off plenty of times, even if they deny it, because I have too much self-awareness to think I was a perfect child. I did the best I could, though, given the circumstances. They also did the best they could, and none of us are perfect. I am thankful, and I appreciate everything they do for me, but I wish I didn't feel like I have to work so hard to remind them that I am here, and that sometimes, I need them. I am glad that Christmas is over, and that my aunt and uncle actually got me gifts I can use, like a memory foam pad for my mattress because I mentioned that my bedsprings were poking me. They have limitless amounts of love, because they have no children. They can remember a tiny thing like that, which means so much to me because I know it means they paid attention to something I said. My parents can't remember half of what I tell them, because they have to keep track of the comings and goings of six other people in our immediate, blended family. I kind of haven't gotten over the murdery-looking nutcracker that they sent me, though.
I have this feeling, every once in a while, that my parents are spread too thin. There are seven children between them, counting my two half-siblings and my three step-siblings, my sister and I, and sometimes, I just don't feel like they have enough time, love, and energy to go around. Someone always gets pushed to the front, in terms of who they are thinking about and trying to help, and so someone inevitably gets pushed to the back. Right now, even though I am having a hard time and going through a divorce, I feel like I am getting pushed to the back. I don't depend on my parents for anything, because even though I do need help, I know it is wrong to ask it of them. My father offered to help me out with some bills I was having trouble paying, but they ended up not being financially able right now, and I felt guilty even accepting it when he offered. My sister needs a little more than me, and has a hard time making everything work for herself at all times, that they sometimes just don't have it in them. The heart is not capable of producing that much love, because my sister seems to need more no matter how much they give. I have lost my temper with my sister a number of times over this, because even with all they have done for her, she still finds a way to demonize my stepmother, imply that Debbie has not done enough for her. On Thanksgiving, I lost my shit on her for saying something immature about one of our other siblings, and pretended my anger was solely about that, but what I really wanted to say was, "They have spent every ounce of their energy on you, and you still want more? Give me a fucking break!"
Anyone with a sibling who is constantly in peril, or has severe medical or mental issues, or suffers from addiction knows what I am getting at. You care, you worry for them, and sometimes you get frustrated with them for not being able to just fucking take care of their own self. The anger can also extend to your parents, for their constant devotion to them. It is a form of jealousy that is ingrained into most of us, and it doesn't end when we become grown-ups. I wish I was above it, that I did not need my parents for anything and could just give them a break for once, but I am not that solitary of a person. I don't need their support financially, as I have found a way to make it work, but I do need their support emotionally. I have found myself almost having to remind my father that everything I have been through this year, with breaking up with Gino and starting over on my own, is really hard. He has been through two divorces, both of them far more acrimonious than mine, but he has moved past them, and occasionally, he just doesn't seem to get why I am sad, not angry. Explaining to your father that you miss someone he never really thought of as anything special, or good enough for his daughter, is a fool's errand. He was stupid in love with my mother and was devastated over their divorce, but he doesn't remember that now, because it probably hurts too much. He has Debbie now, and that is all that matters to him, so the pain of the past doesn't make sense in his mind.
I love my parents, but every once in a while, I have a hard time thinking like them. There are things from the past, that they did, that I try not to ever think about, because I just end up getting pissed off and thinking that now would be a really great time to demand an apology from them. It's a stupid thought, not to mention hypocritical, because I am always preaching about how important it is to let go of grudges and not suffer the past, but when I am in just the right frame of mind, my parent's past behavior can really get under my skin. There was the time, when I was fourteen, that my therapist called them in for a family meeting to tell them how much it would help me to get a companion animal as a therapeutic device, because I was so depressed and anxious. My parents were opposed to the idea, naturally, and they called my therapist later that night to scream at her for ganging up on them. They also accused me of engineering the meeting, of conning my therapist into making the argument that I couldn't make myself. I try not to bring things like that up with them because to this day, I cannot argue with my parents. It is best to just move on, carry the fact that they have been jerks a few times with me and never try to get an apology from them because they can justify doing just about anything.
I realize, of course, in my ruminations about the past, that I have been even more of a jerk to both of them. The difference is, I have apologized a million times over for, say, being a cutter, or just for being so depressed as a teenager. I still feel guilty for this, for being such a hard child to raise, and I let them know how sorry I still am just about every time I think about it. They never demanded an apology, but I thought they could use one, plus an additional expression of my gratitude just to make it stick. The years of terror I put them through because of my emotional problems when I was younger will never go away for them, no matter how much they tell me they don't even think about it.
My parents love me, and they did a fine job of raising me, but being the youngest out of so many children I did feel like I was made to pay the price for the mistakes my older siblings made. I was certainly treated with more caution, with more limitations on what I could and could not do in direct relation to how much my sister acted out. My sister drank and smoked and was kind of promiscuous- all of her rebelling was big and showy. My rebelling was quiet, barely detectable. I took out all of my anger on myself. I did feel, due to how much trouble my sister, and my stepsister, got into before I even had the inclination to do so, that there was a general atmosphere of mistrust permeating my entire home. I only remember telling one big lie, when I was maybe thirteen or fourteen, and once I realized I was caught I told the truth. My sister snuck out to be with her boyfriend and told me to lie to our parents about where she was, and when my dad figured it out, I told them the truth, even though I was getting myself and Sarah into trouble. I remember Debbie's response, even after I told her everything, as, "I still don't believe you."
My stepmother had been through so much abuse, first from her own daughter and then from my sister, that her response to anything I told her was that she didn't believe me. She raised one wild girl, who snuck out in the middle of the night and ended up getting into a terrible car accident, and then got stuck with another wild girl who hid vodka in her room. It was a learned pattern of behavior, but it had nothing to do with me, and I can't say it was easy to live with.There has really only been one time that I have confronted my father about this as an adult, and it went nowhere. He was visiting for my parent's annual summertime breeze-though, where they see as much family as they can cram into a week, plus go to Tanglewood. We were having an iced coffee at Dunkin' Donuts (hazelnut-flavored iced coffee being something my father only enjoyed up North because down south, they have no flavored coffee, only flavor shots). I was trying to explain something to him, about how hard it was being raised in a home where it was assumed, before I had even done anything, that I was always lying. "But when you have had that experience," my father said, "Of getting a phone call from the police in the middle of the night that your daughter is near death, you want to prevent it from happening again."
"But, Daddy," I said, trying to be as gentle and casual about it as I could, "Jenny's actions had nothing to do with me. Neither did Sarah's, but I somehow ended up paying for both of them."
"Yeah, because when you have had that experience," he said, putting even more emphasis on the word, "You learn that you can't trust, you can't leave it up to chance."
"Yes, and I understand where she was coming from, but couldn't she, or you even, have given me the benefit of the doubt?" I asked.
My dad started doing that Italian-American thing where his hands just fly all over the place because he is not making his point clear. "No, no, there was no benefit of the doubt to give, for her," he said, "And when you have lived through that experience of getting a call in the middle of the night that your daughter-"
"Okay, okay, I get it," I said, cutting him off, because I knew I would never get him to see things from my perspective.
Even if you really love someone, the way I love my parents, you occasionally want to give them the finger. I know my parents have also wanted to tell me to fuck off plenty of times, even if they deny it, because I have too much self-awareness to think I was a perfect child. I did the best I could, though, given the circumstances. They also did the best they could, and none of us are perfect. I am thankful, and I appreciate everything they do for me, but I wish I didn't feel like I have to work so hard to remind them that I am here, and that sometimes, I need them. I am glad that Christmas is over, and that my aunt and uncle actually got me gifts I can use, like a memory foam pad for my mattress because I mentioned that my bedsprings were poking me. They have limitless amounts of love, because they have no children. They can remember a tiny thing like that, which means so much to me because I know it means they paid attention to something I said. My parents can't remember half of what I tell them, because they have to keep track of the comings and goings of six other people in our immediate, blended family. I kind of haven't gotten over the murdery-looking nutcracker that they sent me, though.
Friday, December 21, 2012
How Am I Not Myself
I met up with my dear friend Kit on Saturday, just to catch up, and I realized I had not told her about any of the high drama that went on from September through October. Last time I saw her, she fed me crepes at her apartment and I told her I was just a little worried about why my cycle was running so far behind. That was October. She told me she had assumed nothing happened because I never mentioned it again, and I told her that was mostly right. "I had a false positive on a pee test," I told her, "And I can't say Mike was really nice about it when I told him."
"What did he say?" she asked.
I outlined it for her, not in explicit detail, just the broadstrokes about how he had so indelicately implied that I was lying to get him to talk to me again. "I think," I said to Kit, "He gets me confused with my sister sometimes, because that is something she might do."
Kit looked aghast. "I'm sorry, but how dare he?" she asked.
I was surprised by how strong her reaction was, mostly because even though I had brought it up, I'm really kind of over being offended about anything Mike said. There is no point. I'll never get an apology from him for that because he doesn't think he did anything wrong, and that is his right. Plus, I still have not convinced myself that I am not getting exactly what I deserve when someone treats me that way. One side of my brain is telling me to stand up for myself and the other side is telling me to just accept my punishment because I don't deserve to be loved or treated well anyway. "He's just a boy," I said, "And I did catch him off-guard. It was my fault. I panicked."
"No," Kit said, "How dare he get you confused with your sister? I love her, but you are nothing like her. I can't believe he did that."
I thought about that for a minute, and I remembered just how many times Mike brought Sarah into the conversation, made me answer for dumb shit she did when she was harboring a weird crush on him. Moreover, the way he was with me, how he chased me like I was the Beatles and then, as soon as I was actually available, he couldn't be bothered with me, made me think even harder about how large my sister had loomed over that whole time. My appeal came from how off-limits he thought I was, as Sarah's sister, and as a wounded divorcee, and as somebody who made out with his friend in parking lots. Once he realized that those limitations didn't exist, and that I was just a girl who wanted to spend time with him and there was nothing forbidden about it, he was done. His response after that had to be that here was something wrong with me, and to treat me as such. He made me into just another crazy bitch who went all crazy on him. I will take a lot of shit, but I just refuse to swallow that any longer, because I am many things, but I am not crazy.
I love my sister, and I admire her, and I also know that she has emotional issues that run deep, that I cannot just reach in and fix. I have my own issues, of course, and I deal with them and know what I need to do to stay in control. I am not entirely confident, however, that what I see in her won't one day present in me. When most of your first cousins have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, you start to lose faith in your own mental stability and wonder if it doesn't just run in the family. One of Sarah's problems, and this is something I have said to her directly, is that she loves too much. She becomes convinced that she will die if this person, who she loves more than anyone has ever loved anyone, disappears or leaves her. The problem with that is, she becomes attached on this level with everyone, even to men who are already in relationships or that she barely knows or who clearly tell her that they are not interested. In her mind, she had a claim on Mike, and part of him still belonged to her just because she said so. She feels this way because she believes it, and I am always afraid that her delusions are contagious, that I will lose what little perspective I have and start looking at the world the same way.
I am always afraid of letting go of the restraint I have developed, that I will lose myself in another person exactly the way Sarah has lost herself in any number of men. I don't look down on her for this, but I see how much it hurts, every time she gets her heart broken, and I don't want any part in it. That is what made so much of this, with Mike, so humiliating: I got suckered in by one of Sarah's "guys", a man she had idealized, and convinced herself she loved, and who maybe strung her along and messed with her head a little. I have always thought that I was smarter than her when it came to men, but I guess we all turn into idiots for the wrong person.
I did turn into a mush-brained idiot for Gino when I met him, but that was not something that made me worry for my mental health. He was just as stupid for me as I was for him, so neither one of us looked foolish, standing there while the other person turned away. I just told Gino the other day, "This is hard. Things were never this hard with you because you always told me exactly what you were thinking and it wasn't this big guessing game."
The fact that everything feels forced and confusing and not at all like the dependable, reassuring love I had for years with Gino makes me point the finger of blame at myself, try to figure out what is wrong with me and wonder if maybe I have the same problem I see in Sarah. I keep telling myself that thinking that way is unfair, both to me and to my sister, because all she really did to him was like him a little too much. If dude can't handle women liking him, he should just not talk to them and stop queening out if one of them likes him back. He was full of charm with me, and then tried to make me feel guilty for responding to it. I still feel that way. I was thinking about this last night, wondering what, exactly, he wanted to happen, since apparently I fucked it all up by responding the way I did. He must have wanted me to reject him, make it into a game for him, but that's not something I even know how to do.
I will always romanticize the period where I met and fell in love with Gino because it was so simple, and there was no push-and-pull to it. A relationship that starts out as a negotiation, with so much complicating it, just doesn't feel worth having. Even if I had played it exactly the way The Rules or whatever book women are reading now says I should have, I have a feeling I would have ended up in exactly the same place. What bothers me is how much I still think about it at all. This thing with Mike is turning into my borg, the sentient automaton that I can't kill because I don't know where it draws its power from. If I can figure out what is still feeding it, why I can't just let it go, I can move on. People tell me to stop thinking about it, but that is the least helpful advice ever because it is not a possibility for me. I don't really believe that it is possible for anyone, actually. I can go about my day and pretend something isn't bothering me, or focus on something else when I start to think about the forbidden topic, but I can't just stop thinking about it. I think what people actually mean when they say, "Don't think about it," is, "Don't talk to me about it".
I understand why someone would want me to shut up about this big bag of bullshit, and in fact, I said it myself when I was out with Kit. We were talking about another friend of ours, who kept going back to the same worthless dude, and I said, "I just look at girls like her and want to tell them that they can do so much better, and that this just isn't worth their time."
I said it, hearing myself, and realized that Kit was smirking at me because I was saying exactly what she was thinking about me. I can see these things about other people, but not myself. Still, who wants to talk to someone who is totally pleased with theirself, and never doubts their own decisions or actions? Too much confidence can be just as dangerous as too little can be. My confidence has definitely taken a hit, but I am trying to listen to my friends who are trying to rebuild it, and remind me that though she is a lovely person, my sister and I are nothing alike.
"What did he say?" she asked.
I outlined it for her, not in explicit detail, just the broadstrokes about how he had so indelicately implied that I was lying to get him to talk to me again. "I think," I said to Kit, "He gets me confused with my sister sometimes, because that is something she might do."
Kit looked aghast. "I'm sorry, but how dare he?" she asked.
I was surprised by how strong her reaction was, mostly because even though I had brought it up, I'm really kind of over being offended about anything Mike said. There is no point. I'll never get an apology from him for that because he doesn't think he did anything wrong, and that is his right. Plus, I still have not convinced myself that I am not getting exactly what I deserve when someone treats me that way. One side of my brain is telling me to stand up for myself and the other side is telling me to just accept my punishment because I don't deserve to be loved or treated well anyway. "He's just a boy," I said, "And I did catch him off-guard. It was my fault. I panicked."
"No," Kit said, "How dare he get you confused with your sister? I love her, but you are nothing like her. I can't believe he did that."
I thought about that for a minute, and I remembered just how many times Mike brought Sarah into the conversation, made me answer for dumb shit she did when she was harboring a weird crush on him. Moreover, the way he was with me, how he chased me like I was the Beatles and then, as soon as I was actually available, he couldn't be bothered with me, made me think even harder about how large my sister had loomed over that whole time. My appeal came from how off-limits he thought I was, as Sarah's sister, and as a wounded divorcee, and as somebody who made out with his friend in parking lots. Once he realized that those limitations didn't exist, and that I was just a girl who wanted to spend time with him and there was nothing forbidden about it, he was done. His response after that had to be that here was something wrong with me, and to treat me as such. He made me into just another crazy bitch who went all crazy on him. I will take a lot of shit, but I just refuse to swallow that any longer, because I am many things, but I am not crazy.
I love my sister, and I admire her, and I also know that she has emotional issues that run deep, that I cannot just reach in and fix. I have my own issues, of course, and I deal with them and know what I need to do to stay in control. I am not entirely confident, however, that what I see in her won't one day present in me. When most of your first cousins have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, you start to lose faith in your own mental stability and wonder if it doesn't just run in the family. One of Sarah's problems, and this is something I have said to her directly, is that she loves too much. She becomes convinced that she will die if this person, who she loves more than anyone has ever loved anyone, disappears or leaves her. The problem with that is, she becomes attached on this level with everyone, even to men who are already in relationships or that she barely knows or who clearly tell her that they are not interested. In her mind, she had a claim on Mike, and part of him still belonged to her just because she said so. She feels this way because she believes it, and I am always afraid that her delusions are contagious, that I will lose what little perspective I have and start looking at the world the same way.
I am always afraid of letting go of the restraint I have developed, that I will lose myself in another person exactly the way Sarah has lost herself in any number of men. I don't look down on her for this, but I see how much it hurts, every time she gets her heart broken, and I don't want any part in it. That is what made so much of this, with Mike, so humiliating: I got suckered in by one of Sarah's "guys", a man she had idealized, and convinced herself she loved, and who maybe strung her along and messed with her head a little. I have always thought that I was smarter than her when it came to men, but I guess we all turn into idiots for the wrong person.
I did turn into a mush-brained idiot for Gino when I met him, but that was not something that made me worry for my mental health. He was just as stupid for me as I was for him, so neither one of us looked foolish, standing there while the other person turned away. I just told Gino the other day, "This is hard. Things were never this hard with you because you always told me exactly what you were thinking and it wasn't this big guessing game."
The fact that everything feels forced and confusing and not at all like the dependable, reassuring love I had for years with Gino makes me point the finger of blame at myself, try to figure out what is wrong with me and wonder if maybe I have the same problem I see in Sarah. I keep telling myself that thinking that way is unfair, both to me and to my sister, because all she really did to him was like him a little too much. If dude can't handle women liking him, he should just not talk to them and stop queening out if one of them likes him back. He was full of charm with me, and then tried to make me feel guilty for responding to it. I still feel that way. I was thinking about this last night, wondering what, exactly, he wanted to happen, since apparently I fucked it all up by responding the way I did. He must have wanted me to reject him, make it into a game for him, but that's not something I even know how to do.
I will always romanticize the period where I met and fell in love with Gino because it was so simple, and there was no push-and-pull to it. A relationship that starts out as a negotiation, with so much complicating it, just doesn't feel worth having. Even if I had played it exactly the way The Rules or whatever book women are reading now says I should have, I have a feeling I would have ended up in exactly the same place. What bothers me is how much I still think about it at all. This thing with Mike is turning into my borg, the sentient automaton that I can't kill because I don't know where it draws its power from. If I can figure out what is still feeding it, why I can't just let it go, I can move on. People tell me to stop thinking about it, but that is the least helpful advice ever because it is not a possibility for me. I don't really believe that it is possible for anyone, actually. I can go about my day and pretend something isn't bothering me, or focus on something else when I start to think about the forbidden topic, but I can't just stop thinking about it. I think what people actually mean when they say, "Don't think about it," is, "Don't talk to me about it".
I understand why someone would want me to shut up about this big bag of bullshit, and in fact, I said it myself when I was out with Kit. We were talking about another friend of ours, who kept going back to the same worthless dude, and I said, "I just look at girls like her and want to tell them that they can do so much better, and that this just isn't worth their time."
I said it, hearing myself, and realized that Kit was smirking at me because I was saying exactly what she was thinking about me. I can see these things about other people, but not myself. Still, who wants to talk to someone who is totally pleased with theirself, and never doubts their own decisions or actions? Too much confidence can be just as dangerous as too little can be. My confidence has definitely taken a hit, but I am trying to listen to my friends who are trying to rebuild it, and remind me that though she is a lovely person, my sister and I are nothing alike.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
When I Grow Up
I held off on posting for a few days, and was actually about to publish this post on Friday, but then I read about the school shooting and thought that it was kind of inapporopriate to publish another one of my dum-dum stories on the same day as something so immeasurably terrible. I'm alive, I am healthy, and that is all that matters. I went out to dinner with my favorite aunt and uncle, and I hate to sound cliched, but I felt truly thankful, and not just because they paid. I have so much, and even though I give myself a lot of shit, I didn't start this blog to complain about how terrible this divorce is. I started it, and continue it, as a tool for figuring things out. I don't have many things to complain about, really, but I still have a few things to figure out, so I decided to publish this post, held over from Friday, and I hope it is free of whininess. Enjoy another one of my dum-dum stories.
Another week, and another "meaningful" conversation with Gino has taken place. This has become the thing that we do in place of having weird, unmarried sex with each other. I go to the house, bust his balls about one thing or another, we watch American Horror Story and then at some point, he asks me if I'm okay. I always tell him that I am doing alright, but I am really tempted to throw him off one of these times and wail, "Noooooo! I'm not! And it's your fault! And I had sex with a guy who doesn't like me anymore! And that's your fault, too!", but I don't, because that would be stupid.
I am fine, most of the time, so that's not a lie, and I can't even find it in me to blame Gino for the times when I am decidedly not fine. I definitely cannot hold him accountable for anything that happens with my personal life. Screaming at him would be, at this point, nonsensical. It would be funny, but I would much rather just have a conversation with him. The conversations we have are all kind of similar to each other, in terms of content and the reassurances we lay on for one another. It's a bit like therapy, because I usually leave feeling better, but not like I have really made any real progress. We both say the same things, to and for and about each other, and resolve nothing, but it feels comforting. The one big change from the way we are with each other is, we actually listen when the other person is speaking. We stopped listening to each other when we were still enduring this dead end street of a marriage, waiting for the other person to finish just so we would get our turn. Now that we only see each other, at most, once a week, we give each other more room to talk and it is pretty nice. We're not just talking at each other, although Gino does still have the attention span of a poodle, but only when he is on his computer. I could be juggling flaming batons and I wouldn't be able to tear his focus away from a story on the CNN website or Star Trek Online.
Gino told me he is thinking of asking someone out, and I told him that I thought it was a fine idea, he should start dating because I am tired of hearing about how horny he is. I wasn't surprised to learn that the girl he has been thinking of approaching is the same girl he told me he liked, weeks ago when we nearly got into a huge argument about his preference for brunettes over blondes. I'm a blonde, this girl is a blonde, but Gino claims he doesn't like blondes. Whatever. I had checked out her picture, in the employee database, just to see what she looked like, and I was a little surprised with myself, that I didn't immediately start picking her apart, the way that I had with other women Gino had pointed out. I told Gino that I had seen her picture, that I agreed that she was cute, then went into a story about showing it to two of my co-workers and how they instantly turned into drag queens about it and proceeded to read the shit out of her photo. I didn't agree with them at all, and, exasperated, asked them, "Can't we just be nice to this girl? I'm sure she is a lovely person."
"She looks like she's crazy," Peg said.
"No, she doesn't," I answered back, "Isn't it a good sign that I want my ex-husband to get laid?"
Apparently, it's not a good sign. I feel like my lack of anger and pettiness are not what people want to hear from me. Everyone wants me to wish pain and suffering upon Gino, but I'm kind of over that. I just want the motherfucker to be happy and stop moping around, and the only way that will happen is if he has sex with someone he was never married to. Peg, and my aunts, and my parents, and anyone else who has ever been divorced, cannot wrap their heads around my lack of malice. Still, I already went through the daydreaming about dismembering Gino's corpse thing, and now I'm just happy to see him, and I am also happy that he's interested in someone who is not eleven years younger than him.
He did, of course, nearly fuck it all up by casting aspersions on Mike, AGAIN. Something seems to stick in his craw about that whole situation, and though I kind of understand it, I don't appreciate it. He told me that I can do better, that Mike isn't that good-looking, and I had to change the subject because it was getting on my nerves. I was tempted to point out to him that Mike has a body like the Lord Christ Himself, and that I found him plenty attractive, and that no, actually, I can't do better. I can't even do that well. Of course, if I had gone there, I would have had to assure Gino that even though Mike has a good body, his body is even better, and that he is probably also taller, and funnier, just so he didn't get upset that I was talking about another man favorably. I changed the conversation because even though I am capable of telling Gino these things, I don't feel that I should. I need to let him know that it isn't my job anymore, although I do appreciate him trying to build up my confidence some. I just wish he could do so without talking smack about the guys I get involved with. I also could have said that it's none of his business, but when you've invested a significant amount of time in someone, you do feel that who they associate with is your business. I understand the inclination and I have indulged in it myself. I totally gave the 20-year-old Gino was interested in the full Paris Is Burning treatment because I thought she was ridiculous and didn't understand why he thought she was so great. The difference between that and Gino continuously pointing out that I can do better is that Gino had a hard-on for this bitch while we were still married, and I know that because he told me about it all the time. We aren't together anymore, I am free to do whatever (and whomever) I want, but he still feels the need to pick apart the only man I've had sex with since our separation. What he seems to be saying, to me, is, "You are bad at this and you must do better."
I am bad at this. I am bad at meeting new people, I am bad at putting myself out there, I am bad at not sharing every single thing that enters my mind. I am bad at letting go, especially. One good thing that came out of my heart-to-heart with Gino was that I got down to what I can't let go of about Mike. It's not that I think we could have had this big, significant love for each other or that he would have made a really stellar boyfriend, or that I even wanted a boyfriend right at the moment. What it comes down to is that my feelings are hurt. My feelings are hurt that I didn't get picked, the same way they used to be hurt when I didn't get invited to someone's birthday party in second grade, and I am obsessing over it the same way I would have in second grade. Knowing what I am doing doesn't make it easy to not do it. I just have to wait it out, like a bad stomach flu or a sinus infection. It's a sickness, and it will pass, and I can wait it out like a grown-up. I just can't promise that I will act like a grown-up the entire time I am waiting it out.
Another week, and another "meaningful" conversation with Gino has taken place. This has become the thing that we do in place of having weird, unmarried sex with each other. I go to the house, bust his balls about one thing or another, we watch American Horror Story and then at some point, he asks me if I'm okay. I always tell him that I am doing alright, but I am really tempted to throw him off one of these times and wail, "Noooooo! I'm not! And it's your fault! And I had sex with a guy who doesn't like me anymore! And that's your fault, too!", but I don't, because that would be stupid.
I am fine, most of the time, so that's not a lie, and I can't even find it in me to blame Gino for the times when I am decidedly not fine. I definitely cannot hold him accountable for anything that happens with my personal life. Screaming at him would be, at this point, nonsensical. It would be funny, but I would much rather just have a conversation with him. The conversations we have are all kind of similar to each other, in terms of content and the reassurances we lay on for one another. It's a bit like therapy, because I usually leave feeling better, but not like I have really made any real progress. We both say the same things, to and for and about each other, and resolve nothing, but it feels comforting. The one big change from the way we are with each other is, we actually listen when the other person is speaking. We stopped listening to each other when we were still enduring this dead end street of a marriage, waiting for the other person to finish just so we would get our turn. Now that we only see each other, at most, once a week, we give each other more room to talk and it is pretty nice. We're not just talking at each other, although Gino does still have the attention span of a poodle, but only when he is on his computer. I could be juggling flaming batons and I wouldn't be able to tear his focus away from a story on the CNN website or Star Trek Online.
Gino told me he is thinking of asking someone out, and I told him that I thought it was a fine idea, he should start dating because I am tired of hearing about how horny he is. I wasn't surprised to learn that the girl he has been thinking of approaching is the same girl he told me he liked, weeks ago when we nearly got into a huge argument about his preference for brunettes over blondes. I'm a blonde, this girl is a blonde, but Gino claims he doesn't like blondes. Whatever. I had checked out her picture, in the employee database, just to see what she looked like, and I was a little surprised with myself, that I didn't immediately start picking her apart, the way that I had with other women Gino had pointed out. I told Gino that I had seen her picture, that I agreed that she was cute, then went into a story about showing it to two of my co-workers and how they instantly turned into drag queens about it and proceeded to read the shit out of her photo. I didn't agree with them at all, and, exasperated, asked them, "Can't we just be nice to this girl? I'm sure she is a lovely person."
"She looks like she's crazy," Peg said.
"No, she doesn't," I answered back, "Isn't it a good sign that I want my ex-husband to get laid?"
Apparently, it's not a good sign. I feel like my lack of anger and pettiness are not what people want to hear from me. Everyone wants me to wish pain and suffering upon Gino, but I'm kind of over that. I just want the motherfucker to be happy and stop moping around, and the only way that will happen is if he has sex with someone he was never married to. Peg, and my aunts, and my parents, and anyone else who has ever been divorced, cannot wrap their heads around my lack of malice. Still, I already went through the daydreaming about dismembering Gino's corpse thing, and now I'm just happy to see him, and I am also happy that he's interested in someone who is not eleven years younger than him.
He did, of course, nearly fuck it all up by casting aspersions on Mike, AGAIN. Something seems to stick in his craw about that whole situation, and though I kind of understand it, I don't appreciate it. He told me that I can do better, that Mike isn't that good-looking, and I had to change the subject because it was getting on my nerves. I was tempted to point out to him that Mike has a body like the Lord Christ Himself, and that I found him plenty attractive, and that no, actually, I can't do better. I can't even do that well. Of course, if I had gone there, I would have had to assure Gino that even though Mike has a good body, his body is even better, and that he is probably also taller, and funnier, just so he didn't get upset that I was talking about another man favorably. I changed the conversation because even though I am capable of telling Gino these things, I don't feel that I should. I need to let him know that it isn't my job anymore, although I do appreciate him trying to build up my confidence some. I just wish he could do so without talking smack about the guys I get involved with. I also could have said that it's none of his business, but when you've invested a significant amount of time in someone, you do feel that who they associate with is your business. I understand the inclination and I have indulged in it myself. I totally gave the 20-year-old Gino was interested in the full Paris Is Burning treatment because I thought she was ridiculous and didn't understand why he thought she was so great. The difference between that and Gino continuously pointing out that I can do better is that Gino had a hard-on for this bitch while we were still married, and I know that because he told me about it all the time. We aren't together anymore, I am free to do whatever (and whomever) I want, but he still feels the need to pick apart the only man I've had sex with since our separation. What he seems to be saying, to me, is, "You are bad at this and you must do better."
I am bad at this. I am bad at meeting new people, I am bad at putting myself out there, I am bad at not sharing every single thing that enters my mind. I am bad at letting go, especially. One good thing that came out of my heart-to-heart with Gino was that I got down to what I can't let go of about Mike. It's not that I think we could have had this big, significant love for each other or that he would have made a really stellar boyfriend, or that I even wanted a boyfriend right at the moment. What it comes down to is that my feelings are hurt. My feelings are hurt that I didn't get picked, the same way they used to be hurt when I didn't get invited to someone's birthday party in second grade, and I am obsessing over it the same way I would have in second grade. Knowing what I am doing doesn't make it easy to not do it. I just have to wait it out, like a bad stomach flu or a sinus infection. It's a sickness, and it will pass, and I can wait it out like a grown-up. I just can't promise that I will act like a grown-up the entire time I am waiting it out.
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