I ended up having the same conversation I have all the time the other night with a guy I work with. I still go to my former place of work twice a week to teach knitting, and every once in a while, I run into this guy. He's at least twenty years older than me, and must be doing that swing-for-the-fences thing that older single guys do because he cannot stop hitting on me. He was watching me set up the needles and yarn for my knitting class, talking about how Gino is such an idiot for breaking up with me. "I told him, I said, 'Gino, you're a fuckin' idiot for letting her go, you have no idea'"
I kind of tried laughing it off, but that bothered me. I don't want everyone shitting on my ex-husband. I'm over that stage of grief. I no longer want to hear that people are criticizing him just for doing what he thinks is right for him. I also didn't feel like it was coming from someplace genuine. This guy, who is way too old and way too boring for me, only told Gino that so he could tell me about it, probably. Does he think that insulting my ex will be his in? That I'll be so overtaken with gratitude for pointing out what a dumb move that was that I will repay it in blowjobs, or whatever 50-something-year-old guys like. I don't know what they do.
"You always had this, I don't know, unconditional love for him," Tim remarked.
"Yeah," I agreed, trying to cast stitches on at double-speed just to get away, "For him, specifically."
He then started listing off my "qualities" in a way that made me feel even more uncomfortable. "So, you're young, talented, attractive, with domestic inclinations," he said, "Just the type of girl I've been looking for."
I didn't even look at him when I answered, "Tim, I'm the girl every guy is looking for."
He laughed and tried to say something about how I'm sassy, too, and I chuckled, hoping he would just leave me alone so I could just relax and do my job. I like attention just as much as the next girl, but duh, Tim. Of course every guy in the world is looking for a woman who can knit them a sweater and cook them arancini di riso on a weekday night. And who is short enough to make them feel tall and has a weird figure that looks like it was put together by Russ Meyer. That's pretty much a gimme. I know what my good attributes are, and I don't need a maintenance man in his fifties to tell me what they are. I might sound like I'm full of myself, but until someone else is at least partially full of me, I'll continue to toot my own horn, and then I'll say something shitty about myself to negate it.
I could look at it from the point of view that he was just trying to be nice, but I know better. He's been hitting on me since I started working with him, when I was still happily married. And, when I was married, I did all of the things I did for Gino because I loved him, not because it's just what I would do for any man. Tim doesn't know anything about what my marriage was really like. I might know what my good features are, like my ability to appreciate a joke and my big, fat ass, but I also know what my bad attributes are. I have a temper, and I'm irresponsible with money, I tend to tune out when I become disinterested in a conversation topic, and for years, before I learned to tone it down, I was exhausting with all of my hard opinions on things. I didn't recognize all of the things about me that suck until I became single. Along the way, though, I also figured out what is awesome about myself all on my own.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Sick In The Head
I had a head cold this week, a sinuses-full-of-concrete, sneezing non-stop, half-tempted to take a power drill to my own nostrils head cold. No cough, no chest congestion, everything in my head. "It's all in my head", I though at one point, and then I laughed that weird, raspy, sick laugh that comes from drinking NyQuil well before bedtime and finding everything suddenly hilarious and kind of squishy around the edges. I was more miserable than I've been in a long time because for one, I haven't had a cold for at least a year and a half, and for another thing, this is the first time I've been sick since I started living alone.
Gino was not perfect, nor was I, but we took care of each other when we were sick. It wasn't a rule we announced or anything, it just kind of became the law between us after a few years. I remember one time, feeling really awful with some kind of stomach bug. Gino was about to leave to go see his best friend, but when he saw me looking so gross, calling to tell him, "Yeah, I can't come over, Liza's sick. She told me I could leave but she just made an adorable sicky noise, so I can't go," and then asked me if I needed more ginger ale.
Most people probably read that and think, "...and?"
The fact that anyone would take care of me, other than my parents who, let's face it, kind of had to, is still amazing to me. It's what I miss. That's what you do when you have made a commitment. It's not just in sickness and in health, it's in accepting the person you love while they look disgusting, while they are vomiting convulsively right in front of you, and not letting them know just how grossed out you are. It's committing to staying home instead of going out while they are passed out in bed, exhausted from being sick as fuck, just in case they need anything from you. Being sick when you're single, even with something that passes pretty quickly, like a cold, is the worst. It's like Valentine's Day had an illegitimate love-child with a wedding you don't have a date for. It makes you feel more alone than anything else, when you have no one around who feels obligated to get you hot water with lemon and put a cold compress on your forehead and tell you to feel better. As I tried to clear my sinuses for the third day in a row with a Neti pot I was convinced had it in for me, I imagined I would give up all of my stupid ideals if anyone was willing to take care of me at that moment. I told myself I would put up with a guy who lied, never picked up after himself and was really, really boring if that person was willing to go to another pharmacy and get me more tissues and then put VapoRub on my back. It was mostly exhaustion talking, but Jesus Christ, it's hard being sick when you are single and have to do these things for yourself. I did an okay job, making myself chicken-coconut soup and ginger tea and all the dumb bullshit I always think I need when I'm ill, but I annoyed myself a lot. I was passing myself tissues and measuring out decongestants for myself, thinking, "Uhh, get over it, you bitch, it's just a cold."
This is just another example of how with others, I am a good caretaker, but I suck when it comes to taking care of myself. This is why I still give Gino so much credit for taking care of me when I was sick for all of the years we were together: Healthy Eliza is annoying enough. Sick Eliza is so fucking emotional and whiny it's amazing my parents didn't drop me down a well and leave me there. I think being sick just made me appreciate my parents and my ex-husband that much more, because if I was this bad just with a cold, imagine how awful I was when I was a little kid, getting strep throat twice a year, every year? Or when I would get a cluster headache at least once a week and Gino couldn't watch hockey at top volume because I could literally see my own brain throbbing? In the future, if I ever do meet someone, I will probably just quarantine myself so they don't have to deal with me when I get sick or have a migraine. It's just safer that way.
Gino was not perfect, nor was I, but we took care of each other when we were sick. It wasn't a rule we announced or anything, it just kind of became the law between us after a few years. I remember one time, feeling really awful with some kind of stomach bug. Gino was about to leave to go see his best friend, but when he saw me looking so gross, calling to tell him, "Yeah, I can't come over, Liza's sick. She told me I could leave but she just made an adorable sicky noise, so I can't go," and then asked me if I needed more ginger ale.
Most people probably read that and think, "...and?"
The fact that anyone would take care of me, other than my parents who, let's face it, kind of had to, is still amazing to me. It's what I miss. That's what you do when you have made a commitment. It's not just in sickness and in health, it's in accepting the person you love while they look disgusting, while they are vomiting convulsively right in front of you, and not letting them know just how grossed out you are. It's committing to staying home instead of going out while they are passed out in bed, exhausted from being sick as fuck, just in case they need anything from you. Being sick when you're single, even with something that passes pretty quickly, like a cold, is the worst. It's like Valentine's Day had an illegitimate love-child with a wedding you don't have a date for. It makes you feel more alone than anything else, when you have no one around who feels obligated to get you hot water with lemon and put a cold compress on your forehead and tell you to feel better. As I tried to clear my sinuses for the third day in a row with a Neti pot I was convinced had it in for me, I imagined I would give up all of my stupid ideals if anyone was willing to take care of me at that moment. I told myself I would put up with a guy who lied, never picked up after himself and was really, really boring if that person was willing to go to another pharmacy and get me more tissues and then put VapoRub on my back. It was mostly exhaustion talking, but Jesus Christ, it's hard being sick when you are single and have to do these things for yourself. I did an okay job, making myself chicken-coconut soup and ginger tea and all the dumb bullshit I always think I need when I'm ill, but I annoyed myself a lot. I was passing myself tissues and measuring out decongestants for myself, thinking, "Uhh, get over it, you bitch, it's just a cold."
This is just another example of how with others, I am a good caretaker, but I suck when it comes to taking care of myself. This is why I still give Gino so much credit for taking care of me when I was sick for all of the years we were together: Healthy Eliza is annoying enough. Sick Eliza is so fucking emotional and whiny it's amazing my parents didn't drop me down a well and leave me there. I think being sick just made me appreciate my parents and my ex-husband that much more, because if I was this bad just with a cold, imagine how awful I was when I was a little kid, getting strep throat twice a year, every year? Or when I would get a cluster headache at least once a week and Gino couldn't watch hockey at top volume because I could literally see my own brain throbbing? In the future, if I ever do meet someone, I will probably just quarantine myself so they don't have to deal with me when I get sick or have a migraine. It's just safer that way.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Disapproval Rating
My parents shocked the hell out of me this week by calling me en route from Florida to let me know they would be in town for a little while. They shocked me even moreso when they told me the reason: my stepsister, Jenny, is in the hospital after a head-on collision. She is doing better, but is still recovering from surgery. I am happy to see my parents, always, but I hate that in order for me to see them, they have to be going through this. I am also worried for Jenny, despite the fact that we, truth be told, don't know each other very well. She is family, though, and of course I was concerned not only for her, but for her children, who are my niece and nephews, and for my stepmom, who had to deal with seeing her daughter in the hospital again.
My reaction to any crisis is, of course, to just be a goofball and keep them from thinking about it, tell them stories about my dumb life, and show them my tattoo so they can disapprove of it. They did not disappoint. "Why did you DO IT?!" my stepmom asked, looking completely aghast.
"Because I'm a grown-up," I had to remind them, "And because I can. And I wanted it."
My father was, as usual, silent, which is his usual state when faced with an uncomfortable moment. I had to remind them that I had wanted to get another tattoo for a while, and that I felt a great deal stronger after getting it. My arguments were valid despite there being no reason for them, or for my parents disapproving of what I do with my 29-year-old body. They just went into a story about my niece's boyfriend getting a really bad tattoo and having to spend $400 getting it covered up. I can't help but feel a little crestfallen that they didn't like it. They weren't even impressed when I told them that it took four hours, and that I sat quietly the entire time and never made a sound. My ability to withstand pain does not impress them. I don't usually quote Will Smith, but he had it right in 1988: Parents Just Don't Understand.
I had a similar feeling a few months ago, when my stepmom expressed some motherly disapproval over this blog. "I just don't understand," she said, "Why you wouldn't just write your feelings down in a journal if you have something to say. If you're worried about people reading it-"
"I'm not worried," I told her at the time, "I want people to read it."
She took that in and responded with, "Maybe it's a generational thing."
"Well, yeah," I said, "I don't see the point in writing something that no one is going to see. It keeps me honest- if I'm just writing for myself, I can tell myself anything."
She sounded like that confused her even more, but she didn't say it. I wanted to say that I'm doing this for myself! I'm putting all of my pain out there! Someone called me the female Hank Moody! But, I didn't say it. I knew I wouldn't get her to agree with my reasons for doing it. When Debbie got divorced, there was no blogging. There was therapy, and Snackwells, and there were her three children to take care of. We come from different worlds, and that is fine. I know my parents might disapprove of most of what I do with my new-found freedom. It's not their deal. They want the best for me, even if what they want me to do isn't what I want. They're smarter than me, and they want me to just go through life without all of this struggle, without the fallout from, say, my sister reading my blog or having to wear a cardigan even in summer to cover up my new tattoo when I file something to court for my boss. They want me to take it easy, give myself a break, tell a trained professional my thoughts and not put them online for anyone to read. They want me to make smarter decisions, but I want to take risks. I realize my risk-taking may cause even more head-scratching on their part. I'm going to keep sharing with them, keep being a goofus and waiting for them to scratch their heads in response. It's my role, and it's one I don't mind playing. Despite their disapproval, they have never influenced me to be anyone other than who I am, and I know they only react that way because they love me. They are the only parents I have, and I wouldn't change them even if I could.
My reaction to any crisis is, of course, to just be a goofball and keep them from thinking about it, tell them stories about my dumb life, and show them my tattoo so they can disapprove of it. They did not disappoint. "Why did you DO IT?!" my stepmom asked, looking completely aghast.
"Because I'm a grown-up," I had to remind them, "And because I can. And I wanted it."
My father was, as usual, silent, which is his usual state when faced with an uncomfortable moment. I had to remind them that I had wanted to get another tattoo for a while, and that I felt a great deal stronger after getting it. My arguments were valid despite there being no reason for them, or for my parents disapproving of what I do with my 29-year-old body. They just went into a story about my niece's boyfriend getting a really bad tattoo and having to spend $400 getting it covered up. I can't help but feel a little crestfallen that they didn't like it. They weren't even impressed when I told them that it took four hours, and that I sat quietly the entire time and never made a sound. My ability to withstand pain does not impress them. I don't usually quote Will Smith, but he had it right in 1988: Parents Just Don't Understand.
I had a similar feeling a few months ago, when my stepmom expressed some motherly disapproval over this blog. "I just don't understand," she said, "Why you wouldn't just write your feelings down in a journal if you have something to say. If you're worried about people reading it-"
"I'm not worried," I told her at the time, "I want people to read it."
She took that in and responded with, "Maybe it's a generational thing."
"Well, yeah," I said, "I don't see the point in writing something that no one is going to see. It keeps me honest- if I'm just writing for myself, I can tell myself anything."
She sounded like that confused her even more, but she didn't say it. I wanted to say that I'm doing this for myself! I'm putting all of my pain out there! Someone called me the female Hank Moody! But, I didn't say it. I knew I wouldn't get her to agree with my reasons for doing it. When Debbie got divorced, there was no blogging. There was therapy, and Snackwells, and there were her three children to take care of. We come from different worlds, and that is fine. I know my parents might disapprove of most of what I do with my new-found freedom. It's not their deal. They want the best for me, even if what they want me to do isn't what I want. They're smarter than me, and they want me to just go through life without all of this struggle, without the fallout from, say, my sister reading my blog or having to wear a cardigan even in summer to cover up my new tattoo when I file something to court for my boss. They want me to take it easy, give myself a break, tell a trained professional my thoughts and not put them online for anyone to read. They want me to make smarter decisions, but I want to take risks. I realize my risk-taking may cause even more head-scratching on their part. I'm going to keep sharing with them, keep being a goofus and waiting for them to scratch their heads in response. It's my role, and it's one I don't mind playing. Despite their disapproval, they have never influenced me to be anyone other than who I am, and I know they only react that way because they love me. They are the only parents I have, and I wouldn't change them even if I could.
Monday, February 25, 2013
If Your Nose Hurts, It's Because I Broke It
I received a text from my dear friend Kit the other night informing me that she was watching Mike make out with a girl we know, and all I could think to respond with was, "Oooookay."
Good for him, I thought, because she's cute. I kind of feel bad for her, though. She probably spent her weekend feeling hopeful, which is the worst state of mind to be in when it comes to Mike. He inspires a lot of hope with no follow-through. He says really nice things and then realizes what effect they are having and changes them into really mean things. I surprised myself because at another point in my life, I might have thought, "What a slut. Hope he likes herpes," but my first thought was more along the lines of, "Oh, poor her. Hope she likes getting jerked around."
Still, part of me kind of hoped that maybe she was going to be the one to jerk him around. Each girl I hear about him fucking around with as he Big Daddy Roths it through the female populace, I hold a little burning hope that maybe he'll be the one to get his sternum caved in this time. This is the reason why I know that whatever I felt for Mike, it wasn't even close to love. When I love someone, really love them, the way I, for example, loved Gino, I want them to be happy even if it means getting the hell away from me. I don't want Mike to be happy. I want him to be miserable. I want him to be stomach full of stinging nettles miserable. I want him to suffer. I have a lot of mean thoughts.
I don't think I even liked him that much. That's why I'm still thinking about it, still trying to figure out what the hell happened there. I went from really liking him to really hating him so quickly, my timeline is fucked up. I think what I really liked was being able to have sex that didn't make me sad, and that's it. My problem is, I still do not know how to separate sex and those pesky emotions that cooler people can ignore. Sex was how Gino and I said a lot of things. It was how we said, "I love you" and also, "I hate you." It gets especially confusing when the hate-sex feels just as good as love-sex. Love can hurt, and hate can feel good- like the adrenaline rush from a punch to the jaw.
I was so busy riding that high I got from the validation, the way he made the first move, that I never even stopped to think about it. It was the flattery of it that fucked with my head, made me think I had emotional attachments growing when really, all I had was a physical itch being scratched. I don't know how to tell the difference, it turns out, between, "I really like you," and ,"I really like the way your tongue feels in my pussy".
Mike happened because I let him, and also because he was there. I am getting closer to being honest with myself and admitting that I just wanted to have sex, and I might have ended up having sex with just about anyone at that point. I kept pushing it with him for longer than I should have because it was easier than finding someone new to think about. It's similar to why I kept insisting my marriage was stable even long after it was clear to everyone that it was crumbling. It was easier to just deny what was obvious and keep going.
Gino said something interesting the other night about this, though, when I referred to my laziness with men. "I don't think you're lazy," he said, "You're just impatient."
Holy shit, I thought, Gino really does know me better than just about anyone, even if he spent that whole nugget of wisdom eye-fucking another woman's cleavage. I wanted to think I could keep it casual, just enjoy myself with Mike and have fun, but I was always several steps ahead. I knew what we were doing, but I was so determined to make it into something else. I was full of hope, even if I didn't like him all that much. I just wanted to be loved again after being run over so harshly by Gino telling me he didn't love me anymore. I was willing to settle for someone, anyone, who would pay attention to me, and I refused to believe that someone could say something and not mean it. It says something about me, I guess, that I made a slight fool of myself just because for once, I met a guy who put so much effort into getting me to come. I really liked the orgasms, not the person, and I didn't figure it out until it was over. At least I did figure it out. Maybe a little late, but eventually.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Galentine's Day
I'm not as cynical about Valentine's Day as I used to be. Maybe I'm just picking my battles a little more carefully, or maybe I'm just getting to that age where I'd rather take a nap than stew about how IN LOOOOVE everyone is. I'm single. The pressure I used to apply to my ex-husband is off. I can just relax instead of waiting for him to not live up to what he is "supposed" to do for me. It's, frankly, a relief. Plus, I was too excited about Galentine's Day to even think about Valentine's Day. Galentine's rules, and Valentines can suck it.
Galentine's Day was perfect, of course. It was the perfect group lady-date. You can't really go wrong with the group of girls (and one dude) who were there, especially when your group activity is eating waffles and drinking Bud Light. The other thing that made it great was that it was a pretty even split between single people and people who are in a relationship. This is just more proof that Hollywood always gets it wrong when they portray what it is like to be single in this day and age. In the rom-com version of my life, I would have spent my first Valentine's Day post-separation crying, maybe looking through my wedding album and chugging white wine like a doctor is on his way to saw my legs off. Instead, I spent the 13th pounding waffles and beer (which is, real talk, an underrated combination) and the 14th going to see The Silver Linings Playbook. The only time I cried was during the movie, and I blame Robert DeNiro for that. This Valentine's season left me feeling more loved and cared about than the past five have. Who gives a shit, right? I love movies and I love my girlfriends. If this stupid holiday is about love, then I spent the night before with a bunch of people I love and the evening of doing what I love. I crushed Valentine's Day.
I spent the morning of Valentine's Day, ironically, texting with Gino. He posted something that confused me on Facebook, I asked him what his post meant, and then started texting me from his brand-new Android phone either because he misses me a little or because he has no one else to text. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
After he explained what he meant (and I explained to him what Instagram is, a.k.a. the Magical Place Where Happiness Lives) we both suggested that we should hang out soon. We went back and forth on when and where and what we could do together, and I got a little jolt of deja-vu. It felt like, even though it definitely isn't, we were setting up a date. Here I am, finally feeling comfortably blase about Valentine's Day, and I'm setting up a pseudo-date with my ex.
We met for a beer that quickly turned into him updating me on the girls he is attempting to date. One is a single mom who seems kind of out of his league, if I'm honest, and the other is a girl I think might be a little too young for him. Still, I reserved my opinion and told him to go for it with either of them because, despite the little cramp I get in my gut over it, I really just want him to find someone. More than that, I want him to find someone who is better for him than I was. I was a good wife, but not what he needs. I let him get away with so much, let him coast because I didn't want to be hard on him. That's how I know how much I love him, still, even when I want to strangle him because he is barely paying attention to what I am talking about because he is so distracted by the huge set of jugs standing to my right. I kind of love him for that, too. He can do whatever he wants now, after all, and so can I.
Galentine's Day was perfect, of course. It was the perfect group lady-date. You can't really go wrong with the group of girls (and one dude) who were there, especially when your group activity is eating waffles and drinking Bud Light. The other thing that made it great was that it was a pretty even split between single people and people who are in a relationship. This is just more proof that Hollywood always gets it wrong when they portray what it is like to be single in this day and age. In the rom-com version of my life, I would have spent my first Valentine's Day post-separation crying, maybe looking through my wedding album and chugging white wine like a doctor is on his way to saw my legs off. Instead, I spent the 13th pounding waffles and beer (which is, real talk, an underrated combination) and the 14th going to see The Silver Linings Playbook. The only time I cried was during the movie, and I blame Robert DeNiro for that. This Valentine's season left me feeling more loved and cared about than the past five have. Who gives a shit, right? I love movies and I love my girlfriends. If this stupid holiday is about love, then I spent the night before with a bunch of people I love and the evening of doing what I love. I crushed Valentine's Day.
I spent the morning of Valentine's Day, ironically, texting with Gino. He posted something that confused me on Facebook, I asked him what his post meant, and then started texting me from his brand-new Android phone either because he misses me a little or because he has no one else to text. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
After he explained what he meant (and I explained to him what Instagram is, a.k.a. the Magical Place Where Happiness Lives) we both suggested that we should hang out soon. We went back and forth on when and where and what we could do together, and I got a little jolt of deja-vu. It felt like, even though it definitely isn't, we were setting up a date. Here I am, finally feeling comfortably blase about Valentine's Day, and I'm setting up a pseudo-date with my ex.
We met for a beer that quickly turned into him updating me on the girls he is attempting to date. One is a single mom who seems kind of out of his league, if I'm honest, and the other is a girl I think might be a little too young for him. Still, I reserved my opinion and told him to go for it with either of them because, despite the little cramp I get in my gut over it, I really just want him to find someone. More than that, I want him to find someone who is better for him than I was. I was a good wife, but not what he needs. I let him get away with so much, let him coast because I didn't want to be hard on him. That's how I know how much I love him, still, even when I want to strangle him because he is barely paying attention to what I am talking about because he is so distracted by the huge set of jugs standing to my right. I kind of love him for that, too. He can do whatever he wants now, after all, and so can I.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Lady Dates
I've been busy this week with planning some "lady dates", which are much more fun and less fraught with anxiety than actual dates where I might have a good time and/or sex. For a lady date, I still put just as much effort into the fun part, getting dressed up and making sure I smell nice, but I don't have to deal with
the part that bums me the fuck out, i.e. when the guy is going to start talking about his ex or try to choke me. Or both.
I met up with my good friend, Libby, this week since she was visiting from Albuquerque. I wanted to see her, but felt a bit conflicted about it, since my sister told me that she and Libby had recently had a fight and weren't friends anymore. I find myself in this position often, having to choose between being loyal to my sister and doing what I actually want to do. It kept me from seeing the not so subtle, ham-fisted flirting Mike was throwing at me (which actually might have been a good thing, come to think of it) because Sarah forbid me from hooking up with him. I've lost other friends because of one thing out another that Sarah did. To be fair, a friend who can't separate me from my sisters actions is not one I really needed, but it still stings. All I need to remember to get over my guilt, of course, is that Sarah has done worse. She went behind my back to a former friend, a person I refuse to associate with to this day because he is a garbage person who told everyone I was in rehab for an imaginary drug addiction when I was actually in a psych ward for behavioral issues. Sarah and I ended up at the same party as this bitch, and Sarah cornered me and told me that I needed to get over it and be friends with him again, because I was "being immature". Yeah, I needed to be friends with him because Sarah probably needed something from him. Sometimes, that's how she operates. I love her, but I don't always trust her.
Regardless of my misgivings, I enjoyed spending time catching up with Libby. We had some wine and I did ask her what the fight with Sarah was about. Her version of events was, of course, totally different from Sarah's. Not really a shocker, because I'm used to that. I heard Libby out and then just had a fun time, caught her up on what I've been doing and felt happy at the end of the evening that I had gone on my lady date with her.
I started trying to interest my friends into the ultimate lady date- Galentine's Day. I stole the idea from Parks and Recreation, but who cares? It's a great idea. Valentines is a shitty holiday. If you're single, it makes you feel, somehow, even more single. If you're in a relationship, even if it is with someone you really love, often you either fail them or they fail you. Or, you try to surprise them with flowers and discover that your wife is allergic to baby's breath. That happened to me one of the only times Gino made an effort.
Last Valentines was the worst. I had to bully Gino into taking me out for a hot chocolate and a fucking macaron at Chocolate Springs, and he was sulky and bored. He was even more sulky when I brought up the fact that we never talked about the future any more, and that I wanted to talk about moving out of his parent's house, and maybe starting a family soon. It was a conversation about a future conversation I was hoping to have, but it was still too much for him. I always wondered why it was so hard to get him to do something nice for me. It didn't come naturally to him, especially last Valentine's Day, when he had already stopped loving me that way.
Focusing on lady dates feels like the best thing for me. I need my friendships more than ever, because I can feel myself turning, little by little, into a spiteful bitch. I don't like it. I saw that Mike put a poem by Charles Bukowski on his Facebook page, and I grumbled about it all night. I mean, Charles Bukowski? What the ass? That's like when Gino quotes Albert Einstein- it's absurd. I'm not even sure what bothered me about out so much. Maybe it was the fact that he even put a whole verse of any poem on his page, as if he is so emotional and deep, he has to borrow the words, but maybe it was the poem he chose, as if he knows what it feels like to have a bluebird in your heart. To have a bluebird in your heart, first you need to have a heart, you fuck stick, I wanted to say. I didn't say it, because it's not my place to say what someone can quote on Facebook, nor is it really my place to call him a fuck stick. I'll leave that to others. But I still think he's a fuck stick.
the part that bums me the fuck out, i.e. when the guy is going to start talking about his ex or try to choke me. Or both.
I met up with my good friend, Libby, this week since she was visiting from Albuquerque. I wanted to see her, but felt a bit conflicted about it, since my sister told me that she and Libby had recently had a fight and weren't friends anymore. I find myself in this position often, having to choose between being loyal to my sister and doing what I actually want to do. It kept me from seeing the not so subtle, ham-fisted flirting Mike was throwing at me (which actually might have been a good thing, come to think of it) because Sarah forbid me from hooking up with him. I've lost other friends because of one thing out another that Sarah did. To be fair, a friend who can't separate me from my sisters actions is not one I really needed, but it still stings. All I need to remember to get over my guilt, of course, is that Sarah has done worse. She went behind my back to a former friend, a person I refuse to associate with to this day because he is a garbage person who told everyone I was in rehab for an imaginary drug addiction when I was actually in a psych ward for behavioral issues. Sarah and I ended up at the same party as this bitch, and Sarah cornered me and told me that I needed to get over it and be friends with him again, because I was "being immature". Yeah, I needed to be friends with him because Sarah probably needed something from him. Sometimes, that's how she operates. I love her, but I don't always trust her.
Regardless of my misgivings, I enjoyed spending time catching up with Libby. We had some wine and I did ask her what the fight with Sarah was about. Her version of events was, of course, totally different from Sarah's. Not really a shocker, because I'm used to that. I heard Libby out and then just had a fun time, caught her up on what I've been doing and felt happy at the end of the evening that I had gone on my lady date with her.
I started trying to interest my friends into the ultimate lady date- Galentine's Day. I stole the idea from Parks and Recreation, but who cares? It's a great idea. Valentines is a shitty holiday. If you're single, it makes you feel, somehow, even more single. If you're in a relationship, even if it is with someone you really love, often you either fail them or they fail you. Or, you try to surprise them with flowers and discover that your wife is allergic to baby's breath. That happened to me one of the only times Gino made an effort.
Last Valentines was the worst. I had to bully Gino into taking me out for a hot chocolate and a fucking macaron at Chocolate Springs, and he was sulky and bored. He was even more sulky when I brought up the fact that we never talked about the future any more, and that I wanted to talk about moving out of his parent's house, and maybe starting a family soon. It was a conversation about a future conversation I was hoping to have, but it was still too much for him. I always wondered why it was so hard to get him to do something nice for me. It didn't come naturally to him, especially last Valentine's Day, when he had already stopped loving me that way.
Focusing on lady dates feels like the best thing for me. I need my friendships more than ever, because I can feel myself turning, little by little, into a spiteful bitch. I don't like it. I saw that Mike put a poem by Charles Bukowski on his Facebook page, and I grumbled about it all night. I mean, Charles Bukowski? What the ass? That's like when Gino quotes Albert Einstein- it's absurd. I'm not even sure what bothered me about out so much. Maybe it was the fact that he even put a whole verse of any poem on his page, as if he is so emotional and deep, he has to borrow the words, but maybe it was the poem he chose, as if he knows what it feels like to have a bluebird in your heart. To have a bluebird in your heart, first you need to have a heart, you fuck stick, I wanted to say. I didn't say it, because it's not my place to say what someone can quote on Facebook, nor is it really my place to call him a fuck stick. I'll leave that to others. But I still think he's a fuck stick.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
The Place Where Things Happen
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.
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.
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