When a joke needs to be explained, it loses the punch that made it funny in the first place. The same can be said for blog entries, the funny kind or otherwise. For the first time since I started this blog, I'm starting to feel sort of misunderstood. It recently dawned on me that putting my thoughts on the web in a public forum leaves them open for any number of interpretations. For the most part those interpretations have been correct, but on an occassion or two what I meant wasn't what was perceived. If it's a joke involving myself that someone takes a bit too seriously, then I could really care less. But more often than not, I am not the only person who is featured in my posts. To be fair, I wouldn't want to misrepresent any person or situation in order to tug at reader's emotions. Unfortunately, without my intention, the previous post Savior did just that.
While my blog definitely chronicles my life as I know it and everything I write is true, all that I write is not necessarily an indication of current feelings. Sometimes a song, conversation, or something I've read reminds me of my past. All of the memories turn into words that beg to be written. So I write them and post them here, not necessarily because I'm still a wreck about the situation, but because I just need to get the thoughts out of my head and into something concrete. I try to preface these stories with words like, "I used to," or "A few years back," or even "Once upon a time." But often times the past tense gets lost in translation. Trust me when I say that I am not as depressed as my blog reads.
Other times I choose to use my own experience to make a point regarding a larger idea. That's what I was trying to do in Savior. I meant the last line to be ironic and funny, to sum up the moral of the story in a tidy little package. Instead, it made me seem bitter and covetous, which I am not. I really don't feel like going into the whole story, but I would like it to be known it wasn't selfless benevolence, but a calculated strategy to worm my way into his life and eventually his heart. I convinced myself that if he saw that I was the one who cared the most, one day he would care the same way. Yes, he upset me more times than I can count. Yes, we had a tumultuous dynamic for over two years. No, we were never romantically involved. And yep, I did take a load of emotional crap from him without even a hint of interest on his part. Give me a break, I was 18 years old and stupid enough to try and use the friendship to relationship route that has been used on me time and again. Over time, my feelings for him took a backseat to our friendship. I pined, but didn't say a word about it for fear that it would send him running. I realized that even if I couldn't be with him, I still wanted to be his friend. True, he was a difficult friend to have at that time, but I was convinced that I could fix all the things that were broken in him. Eventually, with the help of others, I did and he finally became a human being. I got over it on my own, after a very busy Spring 01 semester, the details of which cannot be devulged (FLS, you know what I'm talking about). By the time he was involved with his now fiancee, I was over him and we had finally settled into a healthy friendship that exists to this day. I will be at his wedding with bells on and if asked, I would even be the flower girl.
Chesty LaRue and I constantly joke about this situation whenever we talk about wanting to change or save a man with whom we are involved. We remind ourselves how well that savior mentality served us in college. That was my point in writing Savior. I wanted to show that it's hard work to be someone's life raft. And even if you can get them to shore, they're probably just going to run down the beach to play with someone else. So don't bother.
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Monday, May 15, 2006
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Savior
They're drowning. Drowning in fear, apathy, distrust, or their preferred method of self destructive behavior. You see them struggling, flailing, fighting for their next breath. Something in you won't let them go under permanently. You gather your strength, gird your stamina, and race into the choppy waters, determined to save them. Just reaching them seems impossible. The closer you get, the further away they drift. Your lungs burn, ready to burst from exertion. Your limbs ache, unable to carry you much further. You begin to wonder if you should turn back, if they are too far gone. But then you look for them, and see they are within your grasp, so you press on, knowing that if you can just get to them everything will be okay. And just as they are about to slip beneath the surface for the last time, you reach out and touch them, telling them to hold tight as you help them back to safety. If they don't let go and just keep kicking, they'll make it. But when they hold on to you, their grip is like a noose, choking the life from you. And while straining towards the shore, you realize they're content to float where they are, a blob of dead weight. You start to ask yourself what exactly is the point in this rescue mission. Through it all, you persevere with the conviction you will be richly rewarded in the end.
Once upon a time, I thought I could save him from himself. I could get him to trust, to open up, to see the good in people. He was my mission. For over two years I twisted myself in knots, drowning while he used me for a life preserver. If I held on long enough, I could get him through the undertow and back on solid ground. I succeeded. And in return for all my hard work, I get an engraved invitation to see him marry the woman who reaped all the benefits.
Once upon a time, I thought I could save him from himself. I could get him to trust, to open up, to see the good in people. He was my mission. For over two years I twisted myself in knots, drowning while he used me for a life preserver. If I held on long enough, I could get him through the undertow and back on solid ground. I succeeded. And in return for all my hard work, I get an engraved invitation to see him marry the woman who reaped all the benefits.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
LITFA
Elusive and out of reach, it haunts. The need to know, really know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's finished. There is nothing left to feel, nothing left to do, nothing left to say, no more questions, nothing, nada, zilch. If there are remnants, it's unfinished, and if it's unfinished it can't be over, and if it's not over there's no moving on. Closure. That's what it's called. Pursued with relentless vigor, it slips and slides, evading our grasp.
I have a confession. Sometimes when I'm alone with nothing to do but think, I think of The Guy (the one who shouldn't make me cry). I think of all the things I want to tell him, things that he just has to know. How I felt, why I acted the way I did, why he was wrong, and various pieces of who what when where why and how. In my head, the conversation plays. What I will say, how he will respond. It unfolds beautifully, dramatically, complete with accusations, defenses, and heartfelt admissions, leaving me with an overwhelming urge to call him. I want to perform the script I've created. And at the end, it will all be out there, nothing left to disclose, and we can walk away either separately or together confident that we know all there is to know.
It's all pointless. If I call, he won't pick up the phone. And if he does pick up, I'll forget my lines, saying everything but what needs to be said. I'll talk around the issues, he'll be confused, I'll get frustrated, he'll have to go. Nothing will be solved, and on another day in another week I'll try to do it all over again with similar results. If there is one thing that three years of bullshit with the Idiot Who Made Me Cry taught me, it's that closure likes to be chased and rarely allows itself to be caught. Questions answered only lead to more questions to ask. Oftentimes, it's best to just Leave It The Fuck Alone.
I have a confession. Sometimes when I'm alone with nothing to do but think, I think of The Guy (the one who shouldn't make me cry). I think of all the things I want to tell him, things that he just has to know. How I felt, why I acted the way I did, why he was wrong, and various pieces of who what when where why and how. In my head, the conversation plays. What I will say, how he will respond. It unfolds beautifully, dramatically, complete with accusations, defenses, and heartfelt admissions, leaving me with an overwhelming urge to call him. I want to perform the script I've created. And at the end, it will all be out there, nothing left to disclose, and we can walk away either separately or together confident that we know all there is to know.
It's all pointless. If I call, he won't pick up the phone. And if he does pick up, I'll forget my lines, saying everything but what needs to be said. I'll talk around the issues, he'll be confused, I'll get frustrated, he'll have to go. Nothing will be solved, and on another day in another week I'll try to do it all over again with similar results. If there is one thing that three years of bullshit with the Idiot Who Made Me Cry taught me, it's that closure likes to be chased and rarely allows itself to be caught. Questions answered only lead to more questions to ask. Oftentimes, it's best to just Leave It The Fuck Alone.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Conspiracy Theory
I opened the door and flung myself into the passenger seat, slouching down as far as my long legs would allow. Without a word, I shook my head, then folded my arms across my chest, completely dejected.
"What happened?" my mother asked.
I didn't want to answer, preferring to let tears do the talking. But the tears wouldn't come. Shock coupled with disbelief and disappointment left me numb. It wasn't real, it couldn't be. I was in the middle of a bad dream and I would wake up to realize my day was only beginning, instead of wimpering to an end.
"Liz!"
"I didn't get it," I mumbled. I didn't want to offer any other details. Details would mean it actually happened.
We rode home in silence, interrupted by my mother's occassional listless attempts to cheer me up. "You can try again in a couple weeks," "It's not the end of the world," and blah blah blah.
I walked in the house and headed straight for my room, bypassing my father's reclining form planted on the sofa in front of the family room televsion. Hiding under my covers, I could hear my parents discussing me. The comforter covering my head wasn't enough to drown out their voices. Their voices kept me from convincing myself it was all a dream. And dreams overtook my addled brain when denial rocked me to sleep.
"Lizzie!!" my father bellowed. "Telephone."
My eyes opened to darkness and the familiar thunder of Daddy's voice. Comprehension came quickly and I staggered to the phone in my parent's bedroom.
"Hello," I croaked.
"Did you get it?" Jailbait asked, her tone breathless with anticipation.
"Nope."
"Are you kidding me?"
"Dead ass," I replied.
"What happened this time?" she inquired.
Coming to terms with the reality of the situation, I provided the details I had previously been unwilling to give. "Some crap about speeding in a school zone! I didn't even see a freakin school."
Laughter was her response. Uncontrollable, side splitting, hiccuping laughter.
"Oh shut up," I snapped.
"Umm, Liz how many times have you failed your road test now?"
"Only five, and one of them doesn't count," I said with as much dignity as I could muster.
While I was consistently ahead of the majority of my peers in the classroom, when it came to earning the right to operate a motor vehicle, I was quite remedial. Like every other teenager across the country, I looked forward to my 16th birthday, determined to head down to the DMV to take the first step towards vehicular independence. I counted the days and perused the drivers manual. Four way stops, first come first serve, unless there was a tie, then the car to the right has the right of way. Signal when changing lanes. Always wear a safety belt. I mastered the basics and prayed the test was multiple choice. Sweet sixteen arrived with moderate fanfare and I was all too happy to jump into Mommy's station wagon when she said, "I have some place to take you." To my dismay, instead of pulling into the DMV, she took me to the local McDonald's to fill out a job application. Happy fuckin birthday to me.
My learner's permit didn't come for another eight months. Armed with a not quite license to drive, I was ready to learn how to navigate the side streets, avenues, and highways. Unfortunately, my parents weren't quite ready to teach me. Too chicken shit to get behind the wheel with me, they insisted that I take driver's ed, like my older brother did before me. With an after school job and an overflowing activity calendar, driver's ed just wouldn't fit. Whenever I tried to explain to the parental units that building the perfect high school resume to get me into the perfect top tier school didn't leave time for driver's education, they told me I could wait until my summer vacation to take the course. That plan would have worked, if I didn't go away to an 8 week summer program two days after school was released.
The first day of 12th grade, it dawned on me that I was the only senior still riding the bus to school. I spent the entire year begging and bitching at my parents to teach me to drive. Over time they relented enough to sit white knuckled in the passenger seat as I drove their cars two miles down the road to my part time job at the local supermarket. It was difficult to learn with my mother gasping at every sign of acceleration and my father shouting whenever I hit the breaks. Changing lanes was never allowed.
I graduated high school with an honors diploma, but no driver's license. Hollow promises of driver's ed still sprung from my parents' mouths, even though I left for college the day after graduation. Two brutally sweltering months of trekking across a mountainous college campus strengthened my determination. As God as my witness I would never walk uphill again. I called home and convinced my parents I was ready to take the road test. The fact that I hadn't been behind the wheel in over 60 days wasn't an issue. I could signal, I could turn, I could start the car and stop it too. The only thing I couldn't do was parallel park, but after a conversation or two with my licensed friends I figured that was something I could learn to do 20 minutes before the test. Tired of the harassment, my parents relented and allowed me to schedule my test for early August, when I would be home for a break between summer session and the official first semester of freshman year.
Test day arrived. 30 minutes before my appointment, I had my father set up two garbage cans roughly 15 feet apart. I threw his car in reverse, backing up past the makeshift parking space, then tried to maneuver into the spot driving forward. Not quite parallel parking. On the third attempt I was ejected from the drivers seat when I tried to put the car in park without first coming to a complete stop. It was a sign of things to come.
The test began smoothly. I remembered to buckle my seat belt before I touched anything. I put the key in the ignition, made sure to check my blind spot, then pulled the car onto the road.
"Make a right turn here," the man instructed.
I turned on my blinker and easily turned the corner.
"Okay, stop here and make a left turn."
Left turn completed. Next.
"Alright, now you see that car up ahead. Parallel park behind it."
The moment of truth. I pulled up alongside the wide body GM car and shifted the gear to reverse. My foot eased off the brake, and the car rolled backwards.
"You didn't check over your shoulder for oncoming traffic," the man chided.
Strike one. I backed up past the parking space and tried to ease into a parallel position from drive.
"No, you have to back into the space. Try again."
Strike Two.
I sidled up next to the marker car again and reversed right past the parking space once again.
Strike Three.
"Okay, let's stop. You can drive back to the DMV now."
One left turn and a right turn later I was back where I started. I looked at the keeper of my fate expectantly.
"I'm sorry, but you didn't pass."
"But why?"
"You couldn't parallel park. You have to parallel park to pass," he explained.
Oh. Shit!
Over the next year and a half I trudged back to that DMV four more times with the same result. Parallel parking screwed me up during the second test too, but I'm not such a moron that I made the same mistake twice. I got into the parking spot just fine, but almost hit the car in front of me on the way out. That didn't piss the tester off nearly as much as missing a stop sign and almost hitting a pedestrian. I'd never seen anyone get out of a car so quickly. On my third attempt, I was sure I had passed. I parallel parked and avoided hitting anyone in a crosswalk. Unfortunately, two dangerous actions prevented the conferrance of a license upon me that day. I was positive the fourth time would be the charm, but I wasn't even allowed into the car that overcast day when it was brought to my attention that corrective lenses were required for me to even turn on the engine. Who actually looks at what's on the back of the permit, anyway? While I assured the nice man that I didn't really need glasses to drive, he proved me wrong when he stood 10 feet away from me with an eye chart and asked me to read the bottom row. Ummm, N D Q....is that an H or a W...uhhh T...yeah T. Or not.
It was at this point that I started to think that maybe there were forces beyond my control operating in a covert mission to keep me from getting a license. Whoever heard of a dangerous action anyways? And was it really possible to fail a test without even putting the key in the ignition. I didn't think so. And most of all, why the hell should I have to parallel park. I live in the suburbs and have a driveway, so was it really necessary in order for me to pass the test? Someone, somewhere didn't want me driving. Nothing anyone could say could make me believe I wasn't a good driver, so what was the hold up. I was rapidly approaching my 20th birthday and I was still dependent on mommy and daddy for a ride to the mall on Friday night. Hell, even 17 year old Jailbait had her own car and could drive after nine.
After the fifth failure, I was even more convinced that there was a statewide DMW conspiracy to keep me off the road. Maybe someone wanted to see how many times my name could come up on the test schedule, just to get their jollies. Or maybe someone was jealous of my stellar three point turns. There are some sick individuals in this world. But good always triumphs over evil and in May 2000, I finally got my due. Five points from a failing score, I got my license! Nobody could ever keep me from driving again. That is until I got a very official looking letter in the mail 90 days later informing me that my license was suspended for non payment of a speeding ticket. CONSPIRACY!!!!!
"What happened?" my mother asked.
I didn't want to answer, preferring to let tears do the talking. But the tears wouldn't come. Shock coupled with disbelief and disappointment left me numb. It wasn't real, it couldn't be. I was in the middle of a bad dream and I would wake up to realize my day was only beginning, instead of wimpering to an end.
"Liz!"
"I didn't get it," I mumbled. I didn't want to offer any other details. Details would mean it actually happened.
We rode home in silence, interrupted by my mother's occassional listless attempts to cheer me up. "You can try again in a couple weeks," "It's not the end of the world," and blah blah blah.
I walked in the house and headed straight for my room, bypassing my father's reclining form planted on the sofa in front of the family room televsion. Hiding under my covers, I could hear my parents discussing me. The comforter covering my head wasn't enough to drown out their voices. Their voices kept me from convincing myself it was all a dream. And dreams overtook my addled brain when denial rocked me to sleep.
"Lizzie!!" my father bellowed. "Telephone."
My eyes opened to darkness and the familiar thunder of Daddy's voice. Comprehension came quickly and I staggered to the phone in my parent's bedroom.
"Hello," I croaked.
"Did you get it?" Jailbait asked, her tone breathless with anticipation.
"Nope."
"Are you kidding me?"
"Dead ass," I replied.
"What happened this time?" she inquired.
Coming to terms with the reality of the situation, I provided the details I had previously been unwilling to give. "Some crap about speeding in a school zone! I didn't even see a freakin school."
Laughter was her response. Uncontrollable, side splitting, hiccuping laughter.
"Oh shut up," I snapped.
"Umm, Liz how many times have you failed your road test now?"
"Only five, and one of them doesn't count," I said with as much dignity as I could muster.
While I was consistently ahead of the majority of my peers in the classroom, when it came to earning the right to operate a motor vehicle, I was quite remedial. Like every other teenager across the country, I looked forward to my 16th birthday, determined to head down to the DMV to take the first step towards vehicular independence. I counted the days and perused the drivers manual. Four way stops, first come first serve, unless there was a tie, then the car to the right has the right of way. Signal when changing lanes. Always wear a safety belt. I mastered the basics and prayed the test was multiple choice. Sweet sixteen arrived with moderate fanfare and I was all too happy to jump into Mommy's station wagon when she said, "I have some place to take you." To my dismay, instead of pulling into the DMV, she took me to the local McDonald's to fill out a job application. Happy fuckin birthday to me.
My learner's permit didn't come for another eight months. Armed with a not quite license to drive, I was ready to learn how to navigate the side streets, avenues, and highways. Unfortunately, my parents weren't quite ready to teach me. Too chicken shit to get behind the wheel with me, they insisted that I take driver's ed, like my older brother did before me. With an after school job and an overflowing activity calendar, driver's ed just wouldn't fit. Whenever I tried to explain to the parental units that building the perfect high school resume to get me into the perfect top tier school didn't leave time for driver's education, they told me I could wait until my summer vacation to take the course. That plan would have worked, if I didn't go away to an 8 week summer program two days after school was released.
The first day of 12th grade, it dawned on me that I was the only senior still riding the bus to school. I spent the entire year begging and bitching at my parents to teach me to drive. Over time they relented enough to sit white knuckled in the passenger seat as I drove their cars two miles down the road to my part time job at the local supermarket. It was difficult to learn with my mother gasping at every sign of acceleration and my father shouting whenever I hit the breaks. Changing lanes was never allowed.
I graduated high school with an honors diploma, but no driver's license. Hollow promises of driver's ed still sprung from my parents' mouths, even though I left for college the day after graduation. Two brutally sweltering months of trekking across a mountainous college campus strengthened my determination. As God as my witness I would never walk uphill again. I called home and convinced my parents I was ready to take the road test. The fact that I hadn't been behind the wheel in over 60 days wasn't an issue. I could signal, I could turn, I could start the car and stop it too. The only thing I couldn't do was parallel park, but after a conversation or two with my licensed friends I figured that was something I could learn to do 20 minutes before the test. Tired of the harassment, my parents relented and allowed me to schedule my test for early August, when I would be home for a break between summer session and the official first semester of freshman year.
Test day arrived. 30 minutes before my appointment, I had my father set up two garbage cans roughly 15 feet apart. I threw his car in reverse, backing up past the makeshift parking space, then tried to maneuver into the spot driving forward. Not quite parallel parking. On the third attempt I was ejected from the drivers seat when I tried to put the car in park without first coming to a complete stop. It was a sign of things to come.
The test began smoothly. I remembered to buckle my seat belt before I touched anything. I put the key in the ignition, made sure to check my blind spot, then pulled the car onto the road.
"Make a right turn here," the man instructed.
I turned on my blinker and easily turned the corner.
"Okay, stop here and make a left turn."
Left turn completed. Next.
"Alright, now you see that car up ahead. Parallel park behind it."
The moment of truth. I pulled up alongside the wide body GM car and shifted the gear to reverse. My foot eased off the brake, and the car rolled backwards.
"You didn't check over your shoulder for oncoming traffic," the man chided.
Strike one. I backed up past the parking space and tried to ease into a parallel position from drive.
"No, you have to back into the space. Try again."
Strike Two.
I sidled up next to the marker car again and reversed right past the parking space once again.
Strike Three.
"Okay, let's stop. You can drive back to the DMV now."
One left turn and a right turn later I was back where I started. I looked at the keeper of my fate expectantly.
"I'm sorry, but you didn't pass."
"But why?"
"You couldn't parallel park. You have to parallel park to pass," he explained.
Oh. Shit!
Over the next year and a half I trudged back to that DMV four more times with the same result. Parallel parking screwed me up during the second test too, but I'm not such a moron that I made the same mistake twice. I got into the parking spot just fine, but almost hit the car in front of me on the way out. That didn't piss the tester off nearly as much as missing a stop sign and almost hitting a pedestrian. I'd never seen anyone get out of a car so quickly. On my third attempt, I was sure I had passed. I parallel parked and avoided hitting anyone in a crosswalk. Unfortunately, two dangerous actions prevented the conferrance of a license upon me that day. I was positive the fourth time would be the charm, but I wasn't even allowed into the car that overcast day when it was brought to my attention that corrective lenses were required for me to even turn on the engine. Who actually looks at what's on the back of the permit, anyway? While I assured the nice man that I didn't really need glasses to drive, he proved me wrong when he stood 10 feet away from me with an eye chart and asked me to read the bottom row. Ummm, N D Q....is that an H or a W...uhhh T...yeah T. Or not.
It was at this point that I started to think that maybe there were forces beyond my control operating in a covert mission to keep me from getting a license. Whoever heard of a dangerous action anyways? And was it really possible to fail a test without even putting the key in the ignition. I didn't think so. And most of all, why the hell should I have to parallel park. I live in the suburbs and have a driveway, so was it really necessary in order for me to pass the test? Someone, somewhere didn't want me driving. Nothing anyone could say could make me believe I wasn't a good driver, so what was the hold up. I was rapidly approaching my 20th birthday and I was still dependent on mommy and daddy for a ride to the mall on Friday night. Hell, even 17 year old Jailbait had her own car and could drive after nine.
After the fifth failure, I was even more convinced that there was a statewide DMW conspiracy to keep me off the road. Maybe someone wanted to see how many times my name could come up on the test schedule, just to get their jollies. Or maybe someone was jealous of my stellar three point turns. There are some sick individuals in this world. But good always triumphs over evil and in May 2000, I finally got my due. Five points from a failing score, I got my license! Nobody could ever keep me from driving again. That is until I got a very official looking letter in the mail 90 days later informing me that my license was suspended for non payment of a speeding ticket. CONSPIRACY!!!!!
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Memo
MEMO
____________________________________
____________________________________
To: All Employees
From: Not Quite Management
Subject: Telephone Policy
Date: 5/9/2006
This is a reminder to all coworkers, managers, and clients that work hours are from 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. Please confine all phone calls to these hours. Do not call outside of this time frame and expect me to be working. Since I have no motivation to go that "extra mile" in my job performance, I do not work before 8:30 a.m. or after 4:30 p.m. If that is actually expected, company business hours need to be adjusted accordingly and I will need an extra $1500 per half hour worked. While I do acknowledge that my home is also my office, do not assume that I am working just because I am home. Unlike you, I have a life. Even if I answer the phone at 7:30 a.m. and sound alert, I assure you, I was not engaged in any work related activity. It is simply a trained response to a ringing telephone, similar to Pavlov's dog's responese to a ringing bell. Just because you are productive at the butt crack of dawn does not mean that I am. Similarly, just because you work until 5:00 p.m. does not mean I will. Please note, you are trying to get ahead, while I am only trying to not get fired.
Effective immediately, in order to compensate for loss of sleep, leisure time, and the occassional bit of nookie, every minute spent on a business related call outside of business hours will result in 15 minutes of me bullshitting on company time. For example, a four minute call conducted from 8:15 a.m. to 8:19 a.m. will automatically lead to a 60 minute nap at 10:00 a.m. This is in addition to the one hour lunch break to which I am already entitled. If you insist on calling at 5:00 p.m. and not shutting up about product performance until 6:00 p.m., thus interrupting Judge Judy and Friends, you just earned me an entire week's worth of bullshitting time.
This policy is non negotiable and violators will be required to kiss my ass in perpetuity.
Subject: Telephone Policy
Date: 5/9/2006
This is a reminder to all coworkers, managers, and clients that work hours are from 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. Please confine all phone calls to these hours. Do not call outside of this time frame and expect me to be working. Since I have no motivation to go that "extra mile" in my job performance, I do not work before 8:30 a.m. or after 4:30 p.m. If that is actually expected, company business hours need to be adjusted accordingly and I will need an extra $1500 per half hour worked. While I do acknowledge that my home is also my office, do not assume that I am working just because I am home. Unlike you, I have a life. Even if I answer the phone at 7:30 a.m. and sound alert, I assure you, I was not engaged in any work related activity. It is simply a trained response to a ringing telephone, similar to Pavlov's dog's responese to a ringing bell. Just because you are productive at the butt crack of dawn does not mean that I am. Similarly, just because you work until 5:00 p.m. does not mean I will. Please note, you are trying to get ahead, while I am only trying to not get fired.
Effective immediately, in order to compensate for loss of sleep, leisure time, and the occassional bit of nookie, every minute spent on a business related call outside of business hours will result in 15 minutes of me bullshitting on company time. For example, a four minute call conducted from 8:15 a.m. to 8:19 a.m. will automatically lead to a 60 minute nap at 10:00 a.m. This is in addition to the one hour lunch break to which I am already entitled. If you insist on calling at 5:00 p.m. and not shutting up about product performance until 6:00 p.m., thus interrupting Judge Judy and Friends, you just earned me an entire week's worth of bullshitting time.
This policy is non negotiable and violators will be required to kiss my ass in perpetuity.
Thank You
Monday, May 08, 2006
Dear God
Heavenly Father*, first I just want to thank you for who you are and all you have done in my life. I know I don't deserve half of the blessings you've bestowed upon me, but you're merciful and faithful and love me inspite of myself. Thank you for that. I need that right now. And I'm sorry for all that I have done intentionally and unintentionally that displeased you. Please help me to walk closely to you, in the path you light so that I do not go astray.
Now Lord, you know what I'm going through right now, so I don't need to go into the details. You know how badly this hurts right now and how long it's been hurting. I've tried to make it go away, but it won't. It just keeps right on aching and I can't take it anymore. Please, I beg you to take it away. It's been months and he's still right here with me. When I wake up, he's there. When I hear that song, he's there. When I close my eyes he's there. But he's not here! He's not with me, not for real. And I can feel this pain, in every fiber of my body I feel it.
I know you couldn't possibly want me to be in this kind of agony. So I figure there are two options.
You could take all the feelings away. If I don't want him anymore, I won't care that we are no more. It won't matter that he no longer calls and that he's with someone else. It won't matter that he's just fine and I have to pick up the pieces. I won't miss him, I won't remember him, and I won't cry over him. Most of all, I won't need him back.
But honestly, from the look of things, I don't think this feeling is going away. So that makes me think it must be here for a reason. Maybe this is our trial or test before we can embark on forever. That's fine. I've learned all my lessons and won't make the same mistakes again. Since the hurt won't go away, please give me the cure...him. If I have him, everything will be better. I'll be better.
It doesn't really matter which option you give me, because either way, I won't be heartbroken anymore. I trust you, Lord, and know that you can make this all work out. Because that's what you said. You said that in all things you're working for the good of those who love you. I love you, so please, please, please find some way to make this heartbreak into something good. Amen.
*extremely past tense prayer. I am FINE now, I swear it.
Now Lord, you know what I'm going through right now, so I don't need to go into the details. You know how badly this hurts right now and how long it's been hurting. I've tried to make it go away, but it won't. It just keeps right on aching and I can't take it anymore. Please, I beg you to take it away. It's been months and he's still right here with me. When I wake up, he's there. When I hear that song, he's there. When I close my eyes he's there. But he's not here! He's not with me, not for real. And I can feel this pain, in every fiber of my body I feel it.
I know you couldn't possibly want me to be in this kind of agony. So I figure there are two options.
You could take all the feelings away. If I don't want him anymore, I won't care that we are no more. It won't matter that he no longer calls and that he's with someone else. It won't matter that he's just fine and I have to pick up the pieces. I won't miss him, I won't remember him, and I won't cry over him. Most of all, I won't need him back.
But honestly, from the look of things, I don't think this feeling is going away. So that makes me think it must be here for a reason. Maybe this is our trial or test before we can embark on forever. That's fine. I've learned all my lessons and won't make the same mistakes again. Since the hurt won't go away, please give me the cure...him. If I have him, everything will be better. I'll be better.
It doesn't really matter which option you give me, because either way, I won't be heartbroken anymore. I trust you, Lord, and know that you can make this all work out. Because that's what you said. You said that in all things you're working for the good of those who love you. I love you, so please, please, please find some way to make this heartbreak into something good. Amen.
*extremely past tense prayer. I am FINE now, I swear it.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Stranded
It was only supposed to be a weekend getaway, at least that's how I planned it. I would leave Grand Rapids early Friday afternoon to drive 10 hours nonstop to New York (not the city), then turn around and make the same nonstop drive around 8 p.m. Sunday evening, only missing a half day of work. In my head, it would work out perfectly. Even though nothing I planned to do in NY involved sleep, I was positive I would be well rested enough to drive through the wee hours of the night on Sunday and be productive at work on Monday. Aahhh, the best laid plans.
It is now 9 days later and I just stepped into my house a few short hours ago. First, let me just say that the unexpected week long vacation was NOT my fault. Everything started out just fine. I woke up early on Friday to get the day's work out of the way so I could get on the road by 2 p.m. The first order of business in any day's work is updating my blog. Unfortunately, brilliance takes longer than 20 minutes. In fact it took five freakin hours to pound out approximately 1000 words. Okay, I'll admit that those five freakin hours were laced with instant messaging, email, my space, soap operas, and other important activities, but that's neither here nor there. Because I spent my entire morning writing, I was forced to spend the entire afternoon working, which I really did NOT want to do. The 2 p.m. departure time was working on a four hour delay. Did I give in? Did I resolve to leave first thing in the morning? No! I persevered, forging ahead towards the Empire State.
The drive started smoothly enough. It took me less than 2.5 hours to hit Ohio. Traffic was non existent, I was driving away from the setting sun, and I had a stack of CDs. Plus there was my very willing phone companion to ensure that I handled my 85 mph speeding vehicle with one hand for at least 100 miles. I enjoyed the scenic cornfields that met me somewhere along I-90. Passing by one particularly impressive barn, I noticed that I was entering Sandusky County. Interestingly enough, when I was on Map Quest getting directions for my trip, I wondered if I would pass Sandusky, OH on my voyage. So imagine my surprise when I crossed the county line. Now normally, I wouldn't be on the lookout for an unknown town in a state I haven't thought about since 5th grade U.S. geography, but on a daily basis my sitemeter tells me that a visitor from Sandusky peruses my blog so it made me conjure this weird daydream about stopping off at her (I'm assuming I'm talking about a her) home for some milk and cookies. This line of thinking makes me think I might be becoming a bit obsessive with this whole blogging thing. But again, I digress. The highway became a bit hypnotizing, but a quick stop at Starbucks for a white chocolate mocha espresso fixed that problem. Onward I drove in a state of caffeine induced alertness.
Somewhere around Cleveland, the first mishap occurred. I have absolutely no idea how it happened, but all of a sudden an interstate that is supposed to span the country ended in a backwoods town. After a quick conversation with a dentally challenged gas station attendant, I learned that I was no longer on the interstate. I still have no clue how, but I inadvertantly got off I-90. So I backtracked, and 20 miles later found my way back to the interstate. That little detour added approximately 45 minutes to my trip.
I was back on the right path for no more than ten minutes when tragedy struck. An ambitious/stupid/dare devil raccoon sprinted across the highway. My headlights shone on his big furry body within seconds of him safely making it to the other side. I breathed a sigh of relief for not hitting him. Oh, but I breathed too soon. For reasons I have yet to comprehend he didn't stay on that side of the road. Maybe he felt life was complete after that first run, or maybe he wanted to show how big his balls were, or maybe he just had a personal problem with me, but whatever the reason he darted back onto the highway right in front of my left lane driving vehicle. I have to say the raccoon put up a good fight. There were several loud thumps, followed by a severe lurch. Lucky for me, my car made it. Unfortunately I can't say the same for the raccoon. In that moment, I felt remorse like I have never felt remorse before. Thanks to Walt Disney, roadkill isn't just a stupid animal that should've looked both ways. No, no! A deer on the side of the road is automatically Bambi's mother and that raccoon was Meeko of Pocahontas fame. All I could think about was his little raccoon family, huddled in a home made of twigs and leaves, hungrily awaiting the arrival of Papa with the evening's supper. Just thinking about it now makes me tear a bit. Damn you Disney!!!
The rest of the drive through Ohio was pretty uneventful. I made it to Pennsylvania, and then to New York without any further incidents. By this time it was almost 1 a.m. and I was still 3 hours from my destination. Over 8 hours of sleep the previous night paid off because I was nowhere near tired and positive that I would make it all the way to my alma mater without having to stop. But then, I looked at the gas gauge and realized that couldn't happen. With a little less than a quarter of a tank of gas, I began looking for a good exit to make a pit stop. I thought I found one several miles up the highway, until I got to the pump and realized the gas station wasn't handing out any fuel after midnight. Pulling out of the drive, I started to hear an interesting sound coming from my car. I ignored it and kept on driving. Interestingly enough, my gas levels started plummeting faster than Enron stock the second the gauge fell below a quarter of a tank. Within minutes, my gas light was on and there wasn't a living soul in sight. A few miles later I found another gas exit, with absolutely no gas. When I got out of my car to bang on the door of the still lit Mobile mart I noticed that several pieces of my front bumper were hanging on for dear life, thus explaining that weird noise I'd heard earlier. Plastic and metal scraping pavement is always a good sign.
Not wanting to take a chance with another gasless exit with less than 3o miles to go on the current tank, I decided to call it a night at a Days Inn less than a mile away. The room was pleasant, and I slept well. In the morning, I checked out of the hotel, put some gas in the car and got on the road again. I thought all my troubles were behind me. But I was wrong. Late that night, while driving on the back roads in upstate NY my car fell victim to several more potholes, causing the bumper to begin leaning at a 45 degree angle. Upon seeing the new damage, I determined that my car while driveable, was in no shape to make it back to Michigan. I decided that I would call my company's vehicle assistance hotline the very next day. Priorities are an interesting thing. I didn't get around to calling the hotline until after 9 p.m. the next day and was informed that I would need to have my car towed to a dealership in the morning as it was too late for them to do anything that evening. So much for emergency service. I can't say I was upset though. After staying up for nearly 24 hours the extra time to rest was more than welcomed. I called my boss who grudgingly accepted that I would not be at work on Monday, then crashed at a friend's house.
When the tow truck came to get my car at 8:30 a.m. I assumed I would have it back by 5 p.m. Once again, I was wrong. Turns out that cute not so little raccoon did over $1000 worth of damage to my car, creating a need for new parts and lots of labor. The bumper was cracked, fog lights damaged, and the undercarriage was dented and sprinkled with animal bits. I was soon informed that my car wouldn't be ready until Thursday at the earliest. I made the mechanic break the news to my boss thinking she would take it better from him. She didn't, and I'm convinced she spent the next 4 days conjuring ways to tell me, "You're fired."
At this point, I'd run out of clean clothes, so I was forced to resort to washing my three pairs of panties along with the matching bras and some deoderant stained T-shirts. To make matters worse, I started receiving threats against my life if I did not update the blog. Cece even tried to stage a coup and steal all of my readers. I was forced to acquiesce to the demands of a rabid militia, further adding to my stress. By Thursday afternoon I still didn't have my car, and was beyond tired of rewashing my Vickie's. So instead of doing another load of laundry, I hauled ass to the mall and took advantage of the 5 for $25 deal. I also picked up some pants and shirts to get me through Saturday. I knew I wasn't going to make it back to Michigan for work on Friday, so I figured, why not just stay an extra day or so. I stayed til 5 p.m. on Saturday.
First thing Friday morning, I picked up my injured car. The sun radiated off the freshly washed exterior, and there was no trace of the bird shit and dead bugs that previously decorated the hood. Even better, the interior had been thoroughly vacuumed for the first time since June 2005. My baby looked as good as new. But looks can be deceiving. "You're going to have to get your front tires changed cause they are nearly bald. And your back breaks are almost out," the mechanic said to me as he handed me the keys. I guess tires and brakes don't rate as high on the safety scale as a new bumper and fog lights. Assured that it would be safe to drive back to Michigan with faulty brakes and no tread on my tires, I pulled out of the dealership's lot.
When I departed New York on Saturday, I assumed I'd be driving straight through the night. That motivation left after I got a speeding ticket for going 84 in a 65. I tried to convince the officer that an urgent need to pee was causing me to speed, but that reason didn't wash when he pointed out that I just passed a rest exit no more than 100 feet behind me. Then I tried to leverage my Michigan license to convince him that I knew nothing about New York State driving laws and didn't realize the speed limit was 65. I fucked that up too when in the very next breath I claimed my alumni status at Cornell University. I guess after all of that I deserved my ticket. When I pulled back onto the interstate with a little piece of paper guaranteed to cost me at least $100 I decided to stop at the first hotel in Ohio and call it a night.
The Days Inn was clean and I clocked 8 hours of sleep. To avoid any more calamities I took my sweet ass time driving from Ohio to Michigan. I stopped at Cracker Barrell and dined on a yummy pancake breakfast that caused a bad case of sulfuric smelling gas to emanate from my ass for the next hour. But that was nothing compared to the stiff ache that began to creep up my neck as I drove through Detroit. I'm sure the ache was less a by product of the drive and moreso a result of sleeping on a love seat for the past week, with the exception of one night spent sharing a twin bed in a college dorm room (no college boys were molested during this trip). I arrived home around 6 p.m. this evening with the intention of immediately blogging about my adventures. However, hunger followed by a severe case of the itis (if you don't know what this is, ask a Negro) prevented that from happening. Please do me a favor, the next time I think I am capable of driving cross country and back in one weekend, remind me of everything that happened and talk me the hell out of it. Thanks much.
It is now 9 days later and I just stepped into my house a few short hours ago. First, let me just say that the unexpected week long vacation was NOT my fault. Everything started out just fine. I woke up early on Friday to get the day's work out of the way so I could get on the road by 2 p.m. The first order of business in any day's work is updating my blog. Unfortunately, brilliance takes longer than 20 minutes. In fact it took five freakin hours to pound out approximately 1000 words. Okay, I'll admit that those five freakin hours were laced with instant messaging, email, my space, soap operas, and other important activities, but that's neither here nor there. Because I spent my entire morning writing, I was forced to spend the entire afternoon working, which I really did NOT want to do. The 2 p.m. departure time was working on a four hour delay. Did I give in? Did I resolve to leave first thing in the morning? No! I persevered, forging ahead towards the Empire State.
The drive started smoothly enough. It took me less than 2.5 hours to hit Ohio. Traffic was non existent, I was driving away from the setting sun, and I had a stack of CDs. Plus there was my very willing phone companion to ensure that I handled my 85 mph speeding vehicle with one hand for at least 100 miles. I enjoyed the scenic cornfields that met me somewhere along I-90. Passing by one particularly impressive barn, I noticed that I was entering Sandusky County. Interestingly enough, when I was on Map Quest getting directions for my trip, I wondered if I would pass Sandusky, OH on my voyage. So imagine my surprise when I crossed the county line. Now normally, I wouldn't be on the lookout for an unknown town in a state I haven't thought about since 5th grade U.S. geography, but on a daily basis my sitemeter tells me that a visitor from Sandusky peruses my blog so it made me conjure this weird daydream about stopping off at her (I'm assuming I'm talking about a her) home for some milk and cookies. This line of thinking makes me think I might be becoming a bit obsessive with this whole blogging thing. But again, I digress. The highway became a bit hypnotizing, but a quick stop at Starbucks for a white chocolate mocha espresso fixed that problem. Onward I drove in a state of caffeine induced alertness.
Somewhere around Cleveland, the first mishap occurred. I have absolutely no idea how it happened, but all of a sudden an interstate that is supposed to span the country ended in a backwoods town. After a quick conversation with a dentally challenged gas station attendant, I learned that I was no longer on the interstate. I still have no clue how, but I inadvertantly got off I-90. So I backtracked, and 20 miles later found my way back to the interstate. That little detour added approximately 45 minutes to my trip.
I was back on the right path for no more than ten minutes when tragedy struck. An ambitious/stupid/dare devil raccoon sprinted across the highway. My headlights shone on his big furry body within seconds of him safely making it to the other side. I breathed a sigh of relief for not hitting him. Oh, but I breathed too soon. For reasons I have yet to comprehend he didn't stay on that side of the road. Maybe he felt life was complete after that first run, or maybe he wanted to show how big his balls were, or maybe he just had a personal problem with me, but whatever the reason he darted back onto the highway right in front of my left lane driving vehicle. I have to say the raccoon put up a good fight. There were several loud thumps, followed by a severe lurch. Lucky for me, my car made it. Unfortunately I can't say the same for the raccoon. In that moment, I felt remorse like I have never felt remorse before. Thanks to Walt Disney, roadkill isn't just a stupid animal that should've looked both ways. No, no! A deer on the side of the road is automatically Bambi's mother and that raccoon was Meeko of Pocahontas fame. All I could think about was his little raccoon family, huddled in a home made of twigs and leaves, hungrily awaiting the arrival of Papa with the evening's supper. Just thinking about it now makes me tear a bit. Damn you Disney!!!
The rest of the drive through Ohio was pretty uneventful. I made it to Pennsylvania, and then to New York without any further incidents. By this time it was almost 1 a.m. and I was still 3 hours from my destination. Over 8 hours of sleep the previous night paid off because I was nowhere near tired and positive that I would make it all the way to my alma mater without having to stop. But then, I looked at the gas gauge and realized that couldn't happen. With a little less than a quarter of a tank of gas, I began looking for a good exit to make a pit stop. I thought I found one several miles up the highway, until I got to the pump and realized the gas station wasn't handing out any fuel after midnight. Pulling out of the drive, I started to hear an interesting sound coming from my car. I ignored it and kept on driving. Interestingly enough, my gas levels started plummeting faster than Enron stock the second the gauge fell below a quarter of a tank. Within minutes, my gas light was on and there wasn't a living soul in sight. A few miles later I found another gas exit, with absolutely no gas. When I got out of my car to bang on the door of the still lit Mobile mart I noticed that several pieces of my front bumper were hanging on for dear life, thus explaining that weird noise I'd heard earlier. Plastic and metal scraping pavement is always a good sign.
Not wanting to take a chance with another gasless exit with less than 3o miles to go on the current tank, I decided to call it a night at a Days Inn less than a mile away. The room was pleasant, and I slept well. In the morning, I checked out of the hotel, put some gas in the car and got on the road again. I thought all my troubles were behind me. But I was wrong. Late that night, while driving on the back roads in upstate NY my car fell victim to several more potholes, causing the bumper to begin leaning at a 45 degree angle. Upon seeing the new damage, I determined that my car while driveable, was in no shape to make it back to Michigan. I decided that I would call my company's vehicle assistance hotline the very next day. Priorities are an interesting thing. I didn't get around to calling the hotline until after 9 p.m. the next day and was informed that I would need to have my car towed to a dealership in the morning as it was too late for them to do anything that evening. So much for emergency service. I can't say I was upset though. After staying up for nearly 24 hours the extra time to rest was more than welcomed. I called my boss who grudgingly accepted that I would not be at work on Monday, then crashed at a friend's house.
When the tow truck came to get my car at 8:30 a.m. I assumed I would have it back by 5 p.m. Once again, I was wrong. Turns out that cute not so little raccoon did over $1000 worth of damage to my car, creating a need for new parts and lots of labor. The bumper was cracked, fog lights damaged, and the undercarriage was dented and sprinkled with animal bits. I was soon informed that my car wouldn't be ready until Thursday at the earliest. I made the mechanic break the news to my boss thinking she would take it better from him. She didn't, and I'm convinced she spent the next 4 days conjuring ways to tell me, "You're fired."
At this point, I'd run out of clean clothes, so I was forced to resort to washing my three pairs of panties along with the matching bras and some deoderant stained T-shirts. To make matters worse, I started receiving threats against my life if I did not update the blog. Cece even tried to stage a coup and steal all of my readers. I was forced to acquiesce to the demands of a rabid militia, further adding to my stress. By Thursday afternoon I still didn't have my car, and was beyond tired of rewashing my Vickie's. So instead of doing another load of laundry, I hauled ass to the mall and took advantage of the 5 for $25 deal. I also picked up some pants and shirts to get me through Saturday. I knew I wasn't going to make it back to Michigan for work on Friday, so I figured, why not just stay an extra day or so. I stayed til 5 p.m. on Saturday.
First thing Friday morning, I picked up my injured car. The sun radiated off the freshly washed exterior, and there was no trace of the bird shit and dead bugs that previously decorated the hood. Even better, the interior had been thoroughly vacuumed for the first time since June 2005. My baby looked as good as new. But looks can be deceiving. "You're going to have to get your front tires changed cause they are nearly bald. And your back breaks are almost out," the mechanic said to me as he handed me the keys. I guess tires and brakes don't rate as high on the safety scale as a new bumper and fog lights. Assured that it would be safe to drive back to Michigan with faulty brakes and no tread on my tires, I pulled out of the dealership's lot.
When I departed New York on Saturday, I assumed I'd be driving straight through the night. That motivation left after I got a speeding ticket for going 84 in a 65. I tried to convince the officer that an urgent need to pee was causing me to speed, but that reason didn't wash when he pointed out that I just passed a rest exit no more than 100 feet behind me. Then I tried to leverage my Michigan license to convince him that I knew nothing about New York State driving laws and didn't realize the speed limit was 65. I fucked that up too when in the very next breath I claimed my alumni status at Cornell University. I guess after all of that I deserved my ticket. When I pulled back onto the interstate with a little piece of paper guaranteed to cost me at least $100 I decided to stop at the first hotel in Ohio and call it a night.
The Days Inn was clean and I clocked 8 hours of sleep. To avoid any more calamities I took my sweet ass time driving from Ohio to Michigan. I stopped at Cracker Barrell and dined on a yummy pancake breakfast that caused a bad case of sulfuric smelling gas to emanate from my ass for the next hour. But that was nothing compared to the stiff ache that began to creep up my neck as I drove through Detroit. I'm sure the ache was less a by product of the drive and moreso a result of sleeping on a love seat for the past week, with the exception of one night spent sharing a twin bed in a college dorm room (no college boys were molested during this trip). I arrived home around 6 p.m. this evening with the intention of immediately blogging about my adventures. However, hunger followed by a severe case of the itis (if you don't know what this is, ask a Negro) prevented that from happening. Please do me a favor, the next time I think I am capable of driving cross country and back in one weekend, remind me of everything that happened and talk me the hell out of it. Thanks much.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
HIStory
We were talking about men. The ones from who we couldn't quite free ourselves, the ones we kept running towards inspite of everything, including common sense. She confided in me, and I told her the story, the same story I always tell. The one about him and what he did and continued to do for three years. I was the innocent victim, the one he fooled, misled, and strung along. The drama never ceased, building upon itself year after year. And I told it all, not leaving out a single feeling, misunderstanding, or disappointment. And she understood, seeing her pain in mine.
Too many people have heard the story, but he never has. Why would he need to? He was there for it. But sometimes I wonder what he would say if he ever did hear me tell the story. Would he stand beside me, arms folded, nodding his head in agreement as if to say, "Yes, I did all of that. And it really was as bad as she's saying." Or maybe he would shout, "I object," when I describe how he made me believe we had a chance. Would he claim no guilt beyond the initial transgression or admit to his role in keeping this thing going long after it ran its course? Or maybe, just maybe he would tell HIStory, how everything happened from start to not quite finished. Would HIStory sound like mine?
Would he admit that he was the one who started it all? That I was so reluctant that I tried to sneak out of his apartment at the first rays of daylight the morning after our first night. Would he describe how he coaxed me back to bed with promises of an extra hour of sleep that never happened. Maybe he would skip that part and go straight to the time he told me that he was in my best interest when I questioned if we should still pursue this "thing" with half the country between us. But probably, he would gloss over all of that and go straight for our first fight. The one where I let all my insecurities and immaturity show. He would probably tell how I got caught up in a game of he said/she said, believing everything I heard and nothing he had done. He would say that was the moment he realized he couldn't do it anymore. He would say that he was beyond theatrics and I was a one woman show.
But would he remember that he wasn't really done even after he said he was. Would he tell about the time he got jealous of my male friends. Would he recount how he questioned my actions even though he supposedly gave up that right. Maybe he would talk about how he would wake me up every night with a phone call, just so his voice could lull me back to sleep again. Would he mention that he said, "I'm coming to see you," and, "I've always wanted you." Would he acknowledge that we fixed what was broken.
And what about the voicemail. Would he tap dance around the fact that he went from, "I want you" to, "Don't call me anymore," in the span of 4 days. Would he cop to being a bitch and not saying it to me but rather to my recorded voice. Maybe he'd even talk about all the desperate phone calls from me that he ignored. I wonder what he will say about watching me, shocked, hurt, confused, afraid, and needing and refusing to make any of it go away with just a tiny explanation. Would he talk about the time he had his new girlfriend call me and say I was a stalker and he no longer wanted me after I had called to wish him a Happy New Year.
Would he talk about the first time we saw each other after ten months had passed. How I ignored his presence for hours, until he took me aside and finally gave me the talk that was almost a year overdue. Would he say that he conned my forgiveness, asked for my number again, then never called me because he was still with her. Or maybe he would skip ahead a year to our history repeating itself. Would he describe how I felt tucked securely in the space between his tattooed arm and broad chest. Would he say that all the old feelings rushed back in that moment. Probably not, because he didn't speak to me again until six months later.
And what of our friendship? Would he classify it as a constant push and pull, driven by a weird chemistry that won't seem to go away? Would he say that history always has the potential to repeat itself whenever we're alone. Would he tell it all, the way I do. Would it sound as intense? I don't think so. The one who felt more always remembers more. I doubt I'm the person he mentions when talking about the ones from who we couldn't quite free ourselves, the ones we kept running towards inspite of everything, including common sense. I know he comes to my mind exponentially more than I come to his. Do I cross his mind at all, except during flashes of boredom? Maybe it all meant so little to him, that there is no HIStory to tell.
Too many people have heard the story, but he never has. Why would he need to? He was there for it. But sometimes I wonder what he would say if he ever did hear me tell the story. Would he stand beside me, arms folded, nodding his head in agreement as if to say, "Yes, I did all of that. And it really was as bad as she's saying." Or maybe he would shout, "I object," when I describe how he made me believe we had a chance. Would he claim no guilt beyond the initial transgression or admit to his role in keeping this thing going long after it ran its course? Or maybe, just maybe he would tell HIStory, how everything happened from start to not quite finished. Would HIStory sound like mine?
Would he admit that he was the one who started it all? That I was so reluctant that I tried to sneak out of his apartment at the first rays of daylight the morning after our first night. Would he describe how he coaxed me back to bed with promises of an extra hour of sleep that never happened. Maybe he would skip that part and go straight to the time he told me that he was in my best interest when I questioned if we should still pursue this "thing" with half the country between us. But probably, he would gloss over all of that and go straight for our first fight. The one where I let all my insecurities and immaturity show. He would probably tell how I got caught up in a game of he said/she said, believing everything I heard and nothing he had done. He would say that was the moment he realized he couldn't do it anymore. He would say that he was beyond theatrics and I was a one woman show.
But would he remember that he wasn't really done even after he said he was. Would he tell about the time he got jealous of my male friends. Would he recount how he questioned my actions even though he supposedly gave up that right. Maybe he would talk about how he would wake me up every night with a phone call, just so his voice could lull me back to sleep again. Would he mention that he said, "I'm coming to see you," and, "I've always wanted you." Would he acknowledge that we fixed what was broken.
And what about the voicemail. Would he tap dance around the fact that he went from, "I want you" to, "Don't call me anymore," in the span of 4 days. Would he cop to being a bitch and not saying it to me but rather to my recorded voice. Maybe he'd even talk about all the desperate phone calls from me that he ignored. I wonder what he will say about watching me, shocked, hurt, confused, afraid, and needing and refusing to make any of it go away with just a tiny explanation. Would he talk about the time he had his new girlfriend call me and say I was a stalker and he no longer wanted me after I had called to wish him a Happy New Year.
Would he talk about the first time we saw each other after ten months had passed. How I ignored his presence for hours, until he took me aside and finally gave me the talk that was almost a year overdue. Would he say that he conned my forgiveness, asked for my number again, then never called me because he was still with her. Or maybe he would skip ahead a year to our history repeating itself. Would he describe how I felt tucked securely in the space between his tattooed arm and broad chest. Would he say that all the old feelings rushed back in that moment. Probably not, because he didn't speak to me again until six months later.
And what of our friendship? Would he classify it as a constant push and pull, driven by a weird chemistry that won't seem to go away? Would he say that history always has the potential to repeat itself whenever we're alone. Would he tell it all, the way I do. Would it sound as intense? I don't think so. The one who felt more always remembers more. I doubt I'm the person he mentions when talking about the ones from who we couldn't quite free ourselves, the ones we kept running towards inspite of everything, including common sense. I know he comes to my mind exponentially more than I come to his. Do I cross his mind at all, except during flashes of boredom? Maybe it all meant so little to him, that there is no HIStory to tell.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Signs
I was the one who ended it. I didn't want to, but it had to be done. I stopped believing him. There were no lies or manipulation or deceit. I trusted him, but I couldn't bring myself to let that trust lead to belief. No matter what he said, I didn't believe that he wanted us. Oh, he might have thought that he did, but I knew better. I could see what he had yet to admit to himself. He said, "I'm in this," but all the signs said, "I'm about to bail out." I wasn't going to be the girl I'd been in the past. The one who sees the STOP sign but keeps going anyway. I wasn't going to be the girl who believed, even in the absence of trust, only to be let down by what was so plain to see. This time I paid attention to the warning signs and bailed on him before he could bail on me. I filled the void he left with affirmations that I had done the right thing. I read the writing on the wall and acted accordingly. But the day I got a glimpse of his turmoil I realized I had read everything all wrong.
The beginning was perfection. Playful flirting under the guise of friendship blossomed into something much more. Long nights, lazy days, and an unquenchable craving for one another. "I'm not a phone person," he would say three hours into a call. But he became one for me, because that's what I needed. He wanted me happy, and I just wanted him. It was good, so good I had to keep making sure he was real. "Are you sure?" I would ask him. He said he was. His word wasn't enough. I had learned that saying something doesn't make it true. I watched, and waited for his actions to stop matching his words. It's impossible to be happy when you're constantly on the lookout for something that will make you miserable. Then, it happened. One day he told me he was too busy to see me. I had heard that before in a different time with a different person. When R was too busy to see me it was because he was seeing someone else. Now that is what "busy" meant to me. Another day he said, "I'll be back to see you later." J said he'd see me later, right before he left forever. To me, see you later meant see you never. Over time my three hour conversations turned into ten minute check ins. K checked in daily, then weekly, then monthly, then not at all. I saw all of the signs flashing in front of my eyes and they all said the same thing "IT'S OVER!" The fact that the shift in his behavior coincided with an increasingly demanding work schedule, an unexpected financial mishap, and a series of family crises was irrelevant. Prior experience taught me that a change in behavior always meant a change in feelings. I didn't want to be stupid and think he could be an exception.
Signs are meant to be heeded, warning of us of danger ahead. When Terry McMillan faced her gay ex husband on national television, Oprah asked the famous author, "Didn't you see the signs?" Obviously she didn't, but I guarantee she will from now on. In fact she will look for them. She'll be smarter, more aware, more observant, ready to catch anything that is remotely suspicious. She won't let what happened before happen again. Neither will anyone. Everyone from Dr. Phil to Tyra Banks tells us to look for the signs. The signs that he's cheating, that he's lying, that he's fallen out of love. Books like He's Just Not That Into You offer a step by step guide to identifying disinterest. We're told to learn from the past so we don't repeat our mistakes. We're supposed to protect ourselves, be on alert lest we get our hearts broken once again. We begin to think that actions always speak louder than words and certain actions can only mean one thing no matter what the situation. We forget that in order to interpret, we must first know the context. Signs can't exist by themselves and most definitely cannot define a relationship.
Dating is like walking through a dark jungle. There are lions, and tigers, and bears (oh my) ready to pounce at every turn, leaving carnage in their wake. For protection we teach ourselves how to recognize their approach and watch for them coming around the bend. And when we sense the danger is sneaking up on us, we defend ourselves. Thrashing, kicking, wailing, and beating until it's destroyed. And it's not until we step back from the melee and behold what we've killed that we see that the beast was really a bunny and we were never in any danger in the first place.
The beginning was perfection. Playful flirting under the guise of friendship blossomed into something much more. Long nights, lazy days, and an unquenchable craving for one another. "I'm not a phone person," he would say three hours into a call. But he became one for me, because that's what I needed. He wanted me happy, and I just wanted him. It was good, so good I had to keep making sure he was real. "Are you sure?" I would ask him. He said he was. His word wasn't enough. I had learned that saying something doesn't make it true. I watched, and waited for his actions to stop matching his words. It's impossible to be happy when you're constantly on the lookout for something that will make you miserable. Then, it happened. One day he told me he was too busy to see me. I had heard that before in a different time with a different person. When R was too busy to see me it was because he was seeing someone else. Now that is what "busy" meant to me. Another day he said, "I'll be back to see you later." J said he'd see me later, right before he left forever. To me, see you later meant see you never. Over time my three hour conversations turned into ten minute check ins. K checked in daily, then weekly, then monthly, then not at all. I saw all of the signs flashing in front of my eyes and they all said the same thing "IT'S OVER!" The fact that the shift in his behavior coincided with an increasingly demanding work schedule, an unexpected financial mishap, and a series of family crises was irrelevant. Prior experience taught me that a change in behavior always meant a change in feelings. I didn't want to be stupid and think he could be an exception.
Signs are meant to be heeded, warning of us of danger ahead. When Terry McMillan faced her gay ex husband on national television, Oprah asked the famous author, "Didn't you see the signs?" Obviously she didn't, but I guarantee she will from now on. In fact she will look for them. She'll be smarter, more aware, more observant, ready to catch anything that is remotely suspicious. She won't let what happened before happen again. Neither will anyone. Everyone from Dr. Phil to Tyra Banks tells us to look for the signs. The signs that he's cheating, that he's lying, that he's fallen out of love. Books like He's Just Not That Into You offer a step by step guide to identifying disinterest. We're told to learn from the past so we don't repeat our mistakes. We're supposed to protect ourselves, be on alert lest we get our hearts broken once again. We begin to think that actions always speak louder than words and certain actions can only mean one thing no matter what the situation. We forget that in order to interpret, we must first know the context. Signs can't exist by themselves and most definitely cannot define a relationship.
Dating is like walking through a dark jungle. There are lions, and tigers, and bears (oh my) ready to pounce at every turn, leaving carnage in their wake. For protection we teach ourselves how to recognize their approach and watch for them coming around the bend. And when we sense the danger is sneaking up on us, we defend ourselves. Thrashing, kicking, wailing, and beating until it's destroyed. And it's not until we step back from the melee and behold what we've killed that we see that the beast was really a bunny and we were never in any danger in the first place.
Friday, April 28, 2006
O-R-E-O
In the fifth grade my mother, society dame that she is, decided that I should be a junior debutante in her sorority's cotillion. From January to June, I spent two weekends a month learning a dreadfully boring dance routine of the step together clap variety, set to John Lennon's "Imagine." Along with approximately fifteen other elementary school age girls from various schools around the Albany area, I prepared to twirl and prance for the delight of the community's finest. Practice would last for two hours or as long as our young attention spans could handle, then we would be released to play amongst ourselves as the debutantes practiced their dying swan courtsies under the critical eye of the drill sargeant choreographer. Play time was always when the drama started. Putting fifteen girls in one room and telling them to play nicely is like putting a guppy in a shark tank and telling them to sing "Under The Sea." It ain't gonna happen. Games of hide and seek, innocent at first, always devolved into shouting matches and insults hurled faster than a major league pitch. And what would always begin as an evenly matched fight, always evolved into a fourteen on one gang up. And without fail, the one would always be me. Because despite all of their differences, the other girls could always agree on one thing, I wasn't like them. My speech was a bit too proper and peppered with a few too many "awesomes" and "likes" and "totallys." My school had a name, not just a number. I listened to Bon Jovi instead of Slick Rick and couldn't quite do the Roger Rabbitt. So one afternoon, after a particularly heated confrontation the oldest girl in the bunch looked me in the eyes, pointed a finger in my face and said, "You ain't nothing but an Oreo." It wasn't an accusation, it was a verdict. My skin may be the color of mocha, but I was as white as the cookie's cream filled middle. In a desperate attempt to defend my blackness, I rattled off random facts about Garrett A. Morgan, Marcus Garvey, Josephine Baker, and any other significant figure in black history. Needless to say, I was less than convincing.
Even though my mom was born in Harlem, raised in the Bronx, and spent the majority of her career teaching in inner city schools, when it came to raising her own children, it was suburbs all the way baby! I grew up with green grass, trees, and quiet streets. The night sky was so clear the stars looked close enough to touch. Deer sometimes trekked through the woods behind my family's four bedroom, two and a half bathroom, two car garage home. I grew up in the bosom of suburbia surrounded by Beckys and Suzies and Mollys, not a Shaniqua, LaTonya, or Dawnisha in sight. Becky and Suzie played jump rope, not double dutch. Becky and Suzie had posters of Dylan McKay on their walls, not K-Ci and JoJo. Becky and Suzie watched Dance Party USA, not Soul Train. I was a quintessential product of my environment. My parents did their best to expose me to as much black culture as possible. They set up play dates with other black children, forced me and my brothers to enter the annual Black History Month Essay Contest (I won three times in a row), sent me to African dance class at a ghetto community center, and even joined Jack and Jill to widen our network of black friends. I grudgingly participated. I never felt comfortable around other black children, often being ostracized for the music I listened to and the ability to properly conjugate my verbs. The junior debutantes were a lot nicer about it than the girl who pushed me on the sidewalk and mashed my face into the dirt. I may not have looked like Becky and Suzie, but I was most at ease in their presence. With them, I didn't have to try to talk differently or be someone I wasn't. It wasn't that I didn't realize that I was black. From an early age, I knew that my hair didn't blow in the wind and my skin didn't turn red and peel on a blistering July day. Plus, there was always some obnoxious kid in my class to call me Cocoa Puff or Tar Baby, in case I forgot that I was many shades darker than everyone else. But, my personality and interests always fit better in the lily white suburbs than they did in any urban setting.
As I got older, things slowly changed. In junior high school, all of the black students peppered throughout the district converged in one building. Instead of being the only, I was now one of thirty, which was an exponential increase. I built tentative friendships and added some color to the mix. I was introduced to the beauty of Yo MTV raps and Cross Colors clothing. I may not have been able to use "wack" in a sentence, but I knew all the words to "Ain't Nothing But G Thang." Scarred from prior experience, I was still hesitant when meeting other black teenagers, but for the first time I felt like one of them.
By the time I reached high school, my friends were an even mix. I spent just as much time with the AquaNet Addict (white girl) as I did with Stumpy (black girl). The objects of my affection were equally diverse ranging from a Kurt Cobain (I really loved him) look alike to a Larenz Tate knock off. Gradually, the scales began to tip and by 12th grade I was gravitating towards all things black. The ease with which I once related to white people shifted, and I found myself more at ease roaming city streets than I was walking through the halls of my school. I craved contact with people who looked like me. Bit by bit, the creamy white filling in the Oreo was vanishing. And I did whatever it took to downplay the little that remained. On three way phone call hook ups, Jailbait would tell disbelieving guys, "Liz is definitely black. She only sounds white." I did my best to back up her claims.
When it was time to go to college, I made the choice to continue my foray into blackness and applied to the Ujamaa Residential College, basically the black dorm. I thought the transition was complete, until I called my soon to be roommate and had to inform her that I was indeed black. Under the watchful tutelage of Chesty LaRue and our suitemates, I learned how to wrap my hair, bought my first bubble coat, got acclimated to the South Bronx, and perfected a believeable black-cent. I was a far cry from my suburban beginnings and loving it. I consciously carved out a distinctly black existence for myself. I pledged a black sorority and moved within black social circles. After growing up in a predominantly white enviroment, I no longer felt as though I could relate to Becky and Suzie in any way, shape, or form.
One of my biggest issues with moving to Grand Rapids was the lack of diversity (i.e. black folks). I assumed that without a sizeable black population, I couldn't find friends, a hairdresser, and a decent place to hang out. Somewhere along the way, I forgot where I was from. I'm the girl who watched Kids Inc. every Saturday and thought Madonna hung the moon. Zack Slater was the love of my life at one point, until Luke Perry took his place. I pinch rolled my jeans and thought Beverly Hills 90210 was totally awesome. It's like there are two sides of me and until now, I never thought they could meet. It was either/or, never both. But now I'm starting to wonder why. Contrary to what I've told myself, I still have a lot in common with Becky and Suzie. Just as much as I do with Shaniquah and Dawnisha. For the first time in years there are white people in my life who are more than classmates and coworkers. They are friends and confidantes. I'm once again cool with being the only black chick in the crowd and blasting The Dixie Chicks from my car's speakers. Because of where I grew up, I can navigate through two worlds that rarely ever meet. I've finally learned that I can still be a black woman through and through, even with all of my white girl tendencies.
Even though my mom was born in Harlem, raised in the Bronx, and spent the majority of her career teaching in inner city schools, when it came to raising her own children, it was suburbs all the way baby! I grew up with green grass, trees, and quiet streets. The night sky was so clear the stars looked close enough to touch. Deer sometimes trekked through the woods behind my family's four bedroom, two and a half bathroom, two car garage home. I grew up in the bosom of suburbia surrounded by Beckys and Suzies and Mollys, not a Shaniqua, LaTonya, or Dawnisha in sight. Becky and Suzie played jump rope, not double dutch. Becky and Suzie had posters of Dylan McKay on their walls, not K-Ci and JoJo. Becky and Suzie watched Dance Party USA, not Soul Train. I was a quintessential product of my environment. My parents did their best to expose me to as much black culture as possible. They set up play dates with other black children, forced me and my brothers to enter the annual Black History Month Essay Contest (I won three times in a row), sent me to African dance class at a ghetto community center, and even joined Jack and Jill to widen our network of black friends. I grudgingly participated. I never felt comfortable around other black children, often being ostracized for the music I listened to and the ability to properly conjugate my verbs. The junior debutantes were a lot nicer about it than the girl who pushed me on the sidewalk and mashed my face into the dirt. I may not have looked like Becky and Suzie, but I was most at ease in their presence. With them, I didn't have to try to talk differently or be someone I wasn't. It wasn't that I didn't realize that I was black. From an early age, I knew that my hair didn't blow in the wind and my skin didn't turn red and peel on a blistering July day. Plus, there was always some obnoxious kid in my class to call me Cocoa Puff or Tar Baby, in case I forgot that I was many shades darker than everyone else. But, my personality and interests always fit better in the lily white suburbs than they did in any urban setting.
As I got older, things slowly changed. In junior high school, all of the black students peppered throughout the district converged in one building. Instead of being the only, I was now one of thirty, which was an exponential increase. I built tentative friendships and added some color to the mix. I was introduced to the beauty of Yo MTV raps and Cross Colors clothing. I may not have been able to use "wack" in a sentence, but I knew all the words to "Ain't Nothing But G Thang." Scarred from prior experience, I was still hesitant when meeting other black teenagers, but for the first time I felt like one of them.
By the time I reached high school, my friends were an even mix. I spent just as much time with the AquaNet Addict (white girl) as I did with Stumpy (black girl). The objects of my affection were equally diverse ranging from a Kurt Cobain (I really loved him) look alike to a Larenz Tate knock off. Gradually, the scales began to tip and by 12th grade I was gravitating towards all things black. The ease with which I once related to white people shifted, and I found myself more at ease roaming city streets than I was walking through the halls of my school. I craved contact with people who looked like me. Bit by bit, the creamy white filling in the Oreo was vanishing. And I did whatever it took to downplay the little that remained. On three way phone call hook ups, Jailbait would tell disbelieving guys, "Liz is definitely black. She only sounds white." I did my best to back up her claims.
When it was time to go to college, I made the choice to continue my foray into blackness and applied to the Ujamaa Residential College, basically the black dorm. I thought the transition was complete, until I called my soon to be roommate and had to inform her that I was indeed black. Under the watchful tutelage of Chesty LaRue and our suitemates, I learned how to wrap my hair, bought my first bubble coat, got acclimated to the South Bronx, and perfected a believeable black-cent. I was a far cry from my suburban beginnings and loving it. I consciously carved out a distinctly black existence for myself. I pledged a black sorority and moved within black social circles. After growing up in a predominantly white enviroment, I no longer felt as though I could relate to Becky and Suzie in any way, shape, or form.
One of my biggest issues with moving to Grand Rapids was the lack of diversity (i.e. black folks). I assumed that without a sizeable black population, I couldn't find friends, a hairdresser, and a decent place to hang out. Somewhere along the way, I forgot where I was from. I'm the girl who watched Kids Inc. every Saturday and thought Madonna hung the moon. Zack Slater was the love of my life at one point, until Luke Perry took his place. I pinch rolled my jeans and thought Beverly Hills 90210 was totally awesome. It's like there are two sides of me and until now, I never thought they could meet. It was either/or, never both. But now I'm starting to wonder why. Contrary to what I've told myself, I still have a lot in common with Becky and Suzie. Just as much as I do with Shaniquah and Dawnisha. For the first time in years there are white people in my life who are more than classmates and coworkers. They are friends and confidantes. I'm once again cool with being the only black chick in the crowd and blasting The Dixie Chicks from my car's speakers. Because of where I grew up, I can navigate through two worlds that rarely ever meet. I've finally learned that I can still be a black woman through and through, even with all of my white girl tendencies.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Homecoming
In the Dr. Seuss classic Green Eggs and Ham a never named character resembling a camel/bird/dog hybrid repeatedly tells Sam I Am, "I do not like green eggs and ham." He doesn't like them in a box, he doesn't like them with a fox. He does not like them in a house, he doesn't like them with a mouse. He does not like them here or there, he doesn't like them anywhere. That is of course until he tries them. Turns out, he does like green eggs and ham, he really likes them, Sam I Am.
When you've been saying the same thing for so long, it's hard to know whether you say it because it's true or because it's what you've always said. For almost four years, I have been telling anyone who will listen that my life is in New York. My friends, my family, my favorite places, my heart, my very being, everything resides in the Big Apple. It's the rationale I give when begging my employer for a transfer and the answer I feed recruiters who look at my Michigan address and ask why New York. However, I'm starting to wonder if it's still true after searching in vain for that life the last time I was home. I looked, but it was nowhere to be found.
When I moved to the Midwest in 2002 to start my post collegiate life, I left behind my best friends, family, a nonstop social life, and a budding romance with the Idiot, before he made me cry. From the moment I stepped on the plane, I wanted to turn and run back. I wanted to dine at Dallas BBQs on 72nd Street with Chesty LaRue, or dance on a boat sailing through the Hudson with Flatty Girl, or catch a comedy show in the Village with Jailbait. I wanted my grandmother to give me twenty bucks for a Metro Card and an extra fifty just because. Most of all I wanted to be anywhere with the Idiot, to be with him in the city that I loved. I came home as often as possible, so as not to miss a moment of the life that I still considered to be mine. The thought of a birthday party, graduation, family gathering and the daily comings and goings occurring without me was almost unbearable. I thought I could hold all the moving parts together over hundreds of miles, until I came back to reclaim what was mine. I guess I stayed away too long. As much as I hate to admit that it's possible, life went on without me. People got older, grew up, and moved on, completely rearranging life as I knew it.
As I prepare to finally make the move back to New York, I'm struck by the fact that I won't be returning to the place I left. The landscape has changed dramatically. It started when I lost the Idiot three months after I moved. For a long time, that loss only fueled my need to come home. I was positive the distance tore us apart and convinced myself that moving back would put us back together again. It took me a long time to realize that while we probably ended prematurely, we would've ended regardless. Less than a year later, Chesty LaRue packed up and headed south of the Mason Dixon line, leaving me without one of the essential partners to my many crimes. Next, Mr. Wonderful moved across the Atlantic, leaving me without a convenient location to crash. Then Jailbait decided she was going to be all that she could be in the army just as she finally came of age to really enjoy the city with me. My living arrangements are one thing that haven’t changed. I can always go back to grandma’s house. Unfortunately, as of June 2005, I no longer have a grandmother to come home to. My beloved New York existence is slipping from my grasp piece by piece, replaced by unfamiliar people and places.
At 19 years old I started a love affair with New York City that rages to this day. The second I set foot in the city, all is right in my world. I am home. That feeling of home is one of the biggest reasons I want get a U-Haul and just go. Every other time I have moved, I’ve always had to start from scratch. New friends, new church, new places, new life. But NYC was supposed to be different. I always thought I could pick up right where I left off upon my return. That somehow someone had held my spot, and I could slip right back into my space. But that’s not reality. Reality is, I got up and lost my seat and when I do finally come back I will need to find a new one. The remaining vestiges of my New York life are quickly disappearing. College friends are heading out of state for grad school and even Flatty Girl is looking to make a transition. The Idiot is right where I left him, but it’s best to just leave him there once and for all.
New York City will always be the happiest place on earth in my eyes, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s still my home. Is force of habit keeping me attached to a city that’s no longer mine? If the New York City I knew and loved is vanishing before my eyes, what am I coming back to?
Monday, April 24, 2006
Murphy's Law
Everything was going too well. I lost 11 pounds. My bank account was resucitated. My vacation was wonderful. I found the perfect white purse and even more perfect white sandals. Life was humming along nicely. I even came home from Miami to an unexpected refund check. Maybe that check was the straw that broke the camel's back. Maybe it tipped the scales too far, and balance needed to be restored. Whatever the reason, ever since 6:30 p.m. on Sunday, everything that can go wrong, has gone wrong and worse.
It all started with the funny smell that pummeled my olfactory nerve the second I lugged my suitcase in the house. The scent of wet dog and garbage converged on my poor nasal passages alerting me to the fact that something was wrong. I checked the kitchen and the sink was empty and the garbage had been taken out. I had no idea what could be wrong, so I left the windows open and hoped the aroma was the remnants of a rotting meal that had since been brought outside. But like my parents often did when I was a child, I was pointing the finger in the wrong direction. When my roommates (just got a new one) arrived home, they showed me the real culprit. The basement was drowning in an inch of water, lovely stagnant, bubbling, brown tinged water. I attributed the problem to the ever problematic roots that like to grow into my main pipes and called Mr. Rooter to fix the problem. After wasting enough water to hydrate the Sahara, Mr. Rooter determined that my pipes were A-Okay and charged me $24 just for showing up and doing no work (which makes me wonder how I can find such a gig).
First thing the next morning, I called the city in an attempt to blame the problem on a sewer back up. Unfortunately, the sewer wasn't to blame either. Turns out, my trusty water heater decided to overheat then throw up all over my basement. FUCK!!!
Knowing the source of the problem was a good thing, learning about the remedy has sent me into a tailspin. Replacing the water heater was damn near $600 bucks. But then there's the clean up. Since the water had been sitting in my basement for approximately 72 hours, I now have millions of microorganisms as pets. Yippee! I hope there's enough kibble in the cabinets to feed them all. Fortunately, I found out that home owner's insurance will cover the damage. Unfortunately, there's a $1000 deductible. FUCK!! Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck!!!
It's not that I don't have the money. I've been saving for a rainy day, and it fucking poured. The thing is, I don't want to spend over $1500 on home repairs. That's $1500 that I can't put towards a car, or moving expenses, or a yacht party with strippers. What the hell am I going to do with a water heater? Cold showers would probably do me some good.
On top of this calamity, I got a heartfelt "thanks but not thanks" letter about a job, I was just sure would get me back to civilization. It's back to the drawing board, searching job postings, submitting resumes, interviewing, ass kissing, and so on and so forth. I hate this process. To add insult to injury, several hours of searching monster.com have shown me that even with a B.S. degree from an Ivy League school and 3+ years of work experience I'm not even qualified to be a junior administrative assistant. FUCK ME!! Please.
It all started with the funny smell that pummeled my olfactory nerve the second I lugged my suitcase in the house. The scent of wet dog and garbage converged on my poor nasal passages alerting me to the fact that something was wrong. I checked the kitchen and the sink was empty and the garbage had been taken out. I had no idea what could be wrong, so I left the windows open and hoped the aroma was the remnants of a rotting meal that had since been brought outside. But like my parents often did when I was a child, I was pointing the finger in the wrong direction. When my roommates (just got a new one) arrived home, they showed me the real culprit. The basement was drowning in an inch of water, lovely stagnant, bubbling, brown tinged water. I attributed the problem to the ever problematic roots that like to grow into my main pipes and called Mr. Rooter to fix the problem. After wasting enough water to hydrate the Sahara, Mr. Rooter determined that my pipes were A-Okay and charged me $24 just for showing up and doing no work (which makes me wonder how I can find such a gig).
First thing the next morning, I called the city in an attempt to blame the problem on a sewer back up. Unfortunately, the sewer wasn't to blame either. Turns out, my trusty water heater decided to overheat then throw up all over my basement. FUCK!!!
Knowing the source of the problem was a good thing, learning about the remedy has sent me into a tailspin. Replacing the water heater was damn near $600 bucks. But then there's the clean up. Since the water had been sitting in my basement for approximately 72 hours, I now have millions of microorganisms as pets. Yippee! I hope there's enough kibble in the cabinets to feed them all. Fortunately, I found out that home owner's insurance will cover the damage. Unfortunately, there's a $1000 deductible. FUCK!! Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck!!!
It's not that I don't have the money. I've been saving for a rainy day, and it fucking poured. The thing is, I don't want to spend over $1500 on home repairs. That's $1500 that I can't put towards a car, or moving expenses, or a yacht party with strippers. What the hell am I going to do with a water heater? Cold showers would probably do me some good.
On top of this calamity, I got a heartfelt "thanks but not thanks" letter about a job, I was just sure would get me back to civilization. It's back to the drawing board, searching job postings, submitting resumes, interviewing, ass kissing, and so on and so forth. I hate this process. To add insult to injury, several hours of searching monster.com have shown me that even with a B.S. degree from an Ivy League school and 3+ years of work experience I'm not even qualified to be a junior administrative assistant. FUCK ME!! Please.
What am I Waiting For?
Having taken advanced classes during my first two years of high school, there was room in my 11th grade schedule for an elective. I decided to take Writer's Workshop, a class meant to tap into the creative genius in teenage minds. Under the tutelage of the wise Dr. Danaher, we crafted literary masterpieces filled with every writing device known to man.
A few days ago, while digging through my boxes, I found the 1997 volume of Visions, my high school's literary journal. Included in that year's edition are two pieces I wrote in that class. A short story and a poem. Now, I love to write, but I don't do poetry any longer. It's too much effort to be that creative and not have it sound like self conscious tripe. I stick to prose cause it's easier. This is the last poem I ever wrote. I loved it then, and I love it now. Moreso now, because I love to see where I was and compare it to where I am now. Some things changed, others didn't. But overall, it's still me. Present commentary is in parentheses. Enjoy!
Waiting
I am waiting for spring to come (it's here, thank God!)
so my feet can be warm (they're still cold)
I am waiting for "Tall Women's" jeans
to be tall enough for me (they hang in my closet now!)
I am waiting for this song to leave my head (oooooohhh baby when you talk like that, you make a woman go mad....)
so that another can take it's place (You've got, you've got, you've got what it takes to make me leave my man, it's hard to control myself, it's hard to control myself...)
I am waiting for the courage to say how I feel (I got that now!)
and for someone else to feel it too (my readers usually do)
And I am waiting for things to be the way they used to (they never will be)
For memories of "One Potata, Two Potata"
to once again be a reality
and for everything to be alright again.
I am waiting for my secrets to be discovered
and secretly hoping they will be. (not so much anymore. let's keep them hidden)
I am waiting for self confidence (got it)
and waiting to be free of fear (not there yet)
I am waiting to figure out what I want and when I do,
I will wait a little longer to go after it (I know what I want, and yep I'm waiting to do something about it)
I am waiting for the perfect day
and for forever at the same time. (still waiting)
I am waiting for salty streams to stain my face (they've left trails on my cheeks)
so I can be aware emotions (very aware now)
And I am waiting to understand
why three little words mean so much to so many (I know why now)
and waiting to see what they will mean to me (they can mean everything, and still not mean enough)
I am waiting for background music
to highlight every major moment in my life. (still waiting on this one, although I'm starting to think it's logistically impossible)
And I am waiting for him to ask for my number (he asked)
so I can laugh and say, "No!" (I said yes)
And I am waiting for the shouting to stop
and for listening to begin (hasn't happened)
For quiet calm to descend
and wrap the earth in its velvet embrace
And for anger to pass into the night
like a distant dream. (maybe someday)
A few days ago, while digging through my boxes, I found the 1997 volume of Visions, my high school's literary journal. Included in that year's edition are two pieces I wrote in that class. A short story and a poem. Now, I love to write, but I don't do poetry any longer. It's too much effort to be that creative and not have it sound like self conscious tripe. I stick to prose cause it's easier. This is the last poem I ever wrote. I loved it then, and I love it now. Moreso now, because I love to see where I was and compare it to where I am now. Some things changed, others didn't. But overall, it's still me. Present commentary is in parentheses. Enjoy!
Waiting
I am waiting for spring to come (it's here, thank God!)
so my feet can be warm (they're still cold)
I am waiting for "Tall Women's" jeans
to be tall enough for me (they hang in my closet now!)
I am waiting for this song to leave my head (oooooohhh baby when you talk like that, you make a woman go mad....)
so that another can take it's place (You've got, you've got, you've got what it takes to make me leave my man, it's hard to control myself, it's hard to control myself...)
I am waiting for the courage to say how I feel (I got that now!)
and for someone else to feel it too (my readers usually do)
And I am waiting for things to be the way they used to (they never will be)
For memories of "One Potata, Two Potata"
to once again be a reality
and for everything to be alright again.
I am waiting for my secrets to be discovered
and secretly hoping they will be. (not so much anymore. let's keep them hidden)
I am waiting for self confidence (got it)
and waiting to be free of fear (not there yet)
I am waiting to figure out what I want and when I do,
I will wait a little longer to go after it (I know what I want, and yep I'm waiting to do something about it)
I am waiting for the perfect day
and for forever at the same time. (still waiting)
I am waiting for salty streams to stain my face (they've left trails on my cheeks)
so I can be aware emotions (very aware now)
And I am waiting to understand
why three little words mean so much to so many (I know why now)
and waiting to see what they will mean to me (they can mean everything, and still not mean enough)
I am waiting for background music
to highlight every major moment in my life. (still waiting on this one, although I'm starting to think it's logistically impossible)
And I am waiting for him to ask for my number (he asked)
so I can laugh and say, "No!" (I said yes)
And I am waiting for the shouting to stop
and for listening to begin (hasn't happened)
For quiet calm to descend
and wrap the earth in its velvet embrace
And for anger to pass into the night
like a distant dream. (maybe someday)
Friday, April 21, 2006
On Vacation
Hey all!
I am on vacation for a few days of fun and sun in Miami. I had planned to leave four new entries (one for every day that I'll be gone. I was even going to make swear an oath to only read one per day.), but sleep superceded blogging. I should've known that I couldn't work, get a wax, go shopping, watch Top Model, do laundry, balance my checkbook (click here for that story) , write a committee report, pack, untwist my hair, and write four blogs in one evening. For some reason I keep imagining there is an "S" on my chest. Sorry to leave you hanging. I promise to make up for it with pictures and tales from South Beach upon my return. Feel free to enjoy the archives until then (no really, please read them. They're lonely). Thanks for stopping by!
Liz
P.S. My bank account survived the carnage and I'm back on a budget. Sort of.
I am on vacation for a few days of fun and sun in Miami. I had planned to leave four new entries (one for every day that I'll be gone. I was even going to make swear an oath to only read one per day.), but sleep superceded blogging. I should've known that I couldn't work, get a wax, go shopping, watch Top Model, do laundry, balance my checkbook (click here for that story) , write a committee report, pack, untwist my hair, and write four blogs in one evening. For some reason I keep imagining there is an "S" on my chest. Sorry to leave you hanging. I promise to make up for it with pictures and tales from South Beach upon my return. Feel free to enjoy the archives until then (no really, please read them. They're lonely). Thanks for stopping by!
Liz
P.S. My bank account survived the carnage and I'm back on a budget. Sort of.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Oh, To Feel That Way Again
When Dylan chose Kelly over longtime girlfriend Brenda on 90210, the woman scorned shut herself in her bedroom and put REM's "Losing My Religion" on repeat. Tired of hearing Michael Stipe's whining every minute of the day, Brenda's twin, Brandon asked his sister why she insisted on playing that particular song over and over and over again. Brenda explained to him that that was the song playing in Dylan's car the first time they broke up two summers ago. At the time, she thought nothing would ever hurt that badly. Unfortunately, this new pain cut deeper, burned hotter, and hurt a thousand times more. So she listened to that song hoping to feel the way she did back then, because that pain was more bearable than the one she currently felt. Damn, that Brenda was a GENIUS!
In high school, no one did unrequited love better than me. Hell, even Angela Chase managed to get her lips on Jordan Catalano a few times in the boiler room before he dumped her for not putting out then boned her best friend Rayanne Graff (FYI: I am still campaigning for the return of My So Called Life). But me, I never had that kind of luck. So I yearned and pined for boys who either didn't notice me or didn't want me. I built big dreams in my head and let my heart ache for them to come true. I vented, I stalked, I cried. Oh, it was all so deliciously dramatic. In high school, love is drama, evidenced by the proverbial lunch room break ups and school dance meltdowns complete with all the melodrama a teenager can muster. I figured if I couldn't be part of a real drama, I could always be the star of the theatrics in my head. And what a star I was! Sitting in my room, listening to a pathetic soundtrack that include such maudlin classics as "Glycerin," "You Were Meant For Me" and my absolute fave "How Do I Live," I swore that wanting someone who didn't want me back was the worst pain known to man.
Turns out, I was wrong. Wanting someone who used to want you back, but doesn't anymore is a thousand times worse. I've always said that finding someone you like at the same time they like you is almost an impossible feat. One party usually misses the boat. A few years ago, I thought I managed to accomplish this impossible task for the first time in my life. He liked me, I genuinely liked him. All was swell until he changed his mind. Words cannot describe how badly it hurt. For the first time in my life, tears weren't enough. My heart broke, and I felt it fall apart piece by painful piece. Confusion, lonliness, anger, and an overwhelming desire to forgive converged on me like a tidal wave and the only person who could stop the onslaught was the one who caused it in the first place. At that time, I wished I was still in high school. I wanted to trade the current anguish for the past drama. Compared to the new grief, high school's trials were easy and I desperately needed an easy way out.
It's been almost a decade since I've done the unrequited thing. I don't have the energy to sustain a one sided romance. I'm an adult and adult heartbreak involves real loss. Sometimes they don't love me anymore. Other times I don't love them anymore. And oftentimes love just isn't enough. I can't decide which is worse. But I do know that missing what I never had was more of a sweet agony. And when I'm missing something that I once had, all I want is to feel that way again.
In high school, no one did unrequited love better than me. Hell, even Angela Chase managed to get her lips on Jordan Catalano a few times in the boiler room before he dumped her for not putting out then boned her best friend Rayanne Graff (FYI: I am still campaigning for the return of My So Called Life). But me, I never had that kind of luck. So I yearned and pined for boys who either didn't notice me or didn't want me. I built big dreams in my head and let my heart ache for them to come true. I vented, I stalked, I cried. Oh, it was all so deliciously dramatic. In high school, love is drama, evidenced by the proverbial lunch room break ups and school dance meltdowns complete with all the melodrama a teenager can muster. I figured if I couldn't be part of a real drama, I could always be the star of the theatrics in my head. And what a star I was! Sitting in my room, listening to a pathetic soundtrack that include such maudlin classics as "Glycerin," "You Were Meant For Me" and my absolute fave "How Do I Live," I swore that wanting someone who didn't want me back was the worst pain known to man.
Turns out, I was wrong. Wanting someone who used to want you back, but doesn't anymore is a thousand times worse. I've always said that finding someone you like at the same time they like you is almost an impossible feat. One party usually misses the boat. A few years ago, I thought I managed to accomplish this impossible task for the first time in my life. He liked me, I genuinely liked him. All was swell until he changed his mind. Words cannot describe how badly it hurt. For the first time in my life, tears weren't enough. My heart broke, and I felt it fall apart piece by painful piece. Confusion, lonliness, anger, and an overwhelming desire to forgive converged on me like a tidal wave and the only person who could stop the onslaught was the one who caused it in the first place. At that time, I wished I was still in high school. I wanted to trade the current anguish for the past drama. Compared to the new grief, high school's trials were easy and I desperately needed an easy way out.
It's been almost a decade since I've done the unrequited thing. I don't have the energy to sustain a one sided romance. I'm an adult and adult heartbreak involves real loss. Sometimes they don't love me anymore. Other times I don't love them anymore. And oftentimes love just isn't enough. I can't decide which is worse. But I do know that missing what I never had was more of a sweet agony. And when I'm missing something that I once had, all I want is to feel that way again.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Before the Tears
I'm not a masochist. At least not anymore. I haven't been for a long time. I stopped believing that love has to hurt in order to be real sometime between my 20th and 22nd birthday. I don't want a guy who can be nice, I want a guy who really is nice - with a touch of sarcasm thrown in here and there for kicks. Assholes need not apply.
Since I graduated from college, I have done a lot of crying over men, with the majority dedicated to the Idiot Who Made Me Cry and The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry. I have wounds that have healed and some that probably never will. In spite of it all, I can still look at both of these men and honestly say that they are great guys. Huh? Great guys don't make girls cry. Oh really? Well think about it this way.
Before they made me cry, they made me smile all the time. Before the tears there was laughter, tons of it. The very thought of them sent my stomach into butterfly induced spasms. They called every night and talked to me until I fell asleep. And when we were together they never let me sleep outside the comfort of their arms. They indulged my whims and met my needs. They were my refuge and solace when being away from home was more than I could take. For a little while they were my home until it all burned to the ground.
Sometimes I still get homesick. Great guys screw up all the time and it hurts a hundred times more because when it's over you know exactly what it is you're missing. I don't miss being hurt, being ignored, being neglected or crying myself to sleep. I don't want any of that ever again. But everything that happened before the salty streams stained my face, all of that I would keep forever.
Since I graduated from college, I have done a lot of crying over men, with the majority dedicated to the Idiot Who Made Me Cry and The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry. I have wounds that have healed and some that probably never will. In spite of it all, I can still look at both of these men and honestly say that they are great guys. Huh? Great guys don't make girls cry. Oh really? Well think about it this way.
Before they made me cry, they made me smile all the time. Before the tears there was laughter, tons of it. The very thought of them sent my stomach into butterfly induced spasms. They called every night and talked to me until I fell asleep. And when we were together they never let me sleep outside the comfort of their arms. They indulged my whims and met my needs. They were my refuge and solace when being away from home was more than I could take. For a little while they were my home until it all burned to the ground.
Sometimes I still get homesick. Great guys screw up all the time and it hurts a hundred times more because when it's over you know exactly what it is you're missing. I don't miss being hurt, being ignored, being neglected or crying myself to sleep. I don't want any of that ever again. But everything that happened before the salty streams stained my face, all of that I would keep forever.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Scared To Look
There is something important I need to know. The information is at my fingertips, a mouse click away. Yet, I hesitate, apprehensive about what I will find. But I've been in the dark for weeks, and I can no longer function like this. Ignorance isn't bliss, it's total paranoia. The damage is done and I must now look at the carnage. I don't want to, but I have to check my online banking statement. Lord, help me.
Five months ago, I resolved to be more fiscally responsible after hearing a thought provoking sermon on money management. I wasn't a financial train wreck, but there was definitely room for improvement. Immediately, I cut out unnecessary expenses like my unused gym membership and premium digital cable. I siphoned more money into savings to cover any emergency expenses. Most importantly, I resolved to get rid of all credit card debt. On a Sunday in November, in front of the entire church congregation I cut up my platinum Visa card and my Macy's charge card (my other cards had been lost when I left my wallet in a NYC cab). Starting with the smallest debt and working my way up, I vanquished thousands of dollars in debt in less than five months. I made a commitment to only buy what I could afford outright. I was on my way to financial freedom and it felt great.
It's amazing how quickly things fall apart. In a mere three weeks I have undone almost all of my progress. Well, maybe it's not that bad, but it sure feels like it. It started with a $110 pair of Lacoste flats I bought in an emergency (my feet were killing me, I had no choice), and has since snowballed out of control. I have been operating as if I have no budget, padding my wardrobe, purchasing trips, and eating out at every turn. Buyer's remorse is prompting me to return some of my purchases, however the meals are a wash cause they're already in the can, literally. Completely clueless as to how much is actually left in my account, I have begun operating on the "hope this works" plan. I hand my check card to the cashier then hope it works. Thus far it has, but I fear my luck is running out. But even worse than all the spending was going back on my vow to live credit card free. In a moment of extreme weakness, unabashed love, and sheer stupidity I opened up a new credit card. Damn that 10% discount promotion!
Okay, I need to suck this up and balance my checkbook so I can begin to undo the damage that I've done. But I just can't bring myself to do it. I'm scared to look.
Five months ago, I resolved to be more fiscally responsible after hearing a thought provoking sermon on money management. I wasn't a financial train wreck, but there was definitely room for improvement. Immediately, I cut out unnecessary expenses like my unused gym membership and premium digital cable. I siphoned more money into savings to cover any emergency expenses. Most importantly, I resolved to get rid of all credit card debt. On a Sunday in November, in front of the entire church congregation I cut up my platinum Visa card and my Macy's charge card (my other cards had been lost when I left my wallet in a NYC cab). Starting with the smallest debt and working my way up, I vanquished thousands of dollars in debt in less than five months. I made a commitment to only buy what I could afford outright. I was on my way to financial freedom and it felt great.
It's amazing how quickly things fall apart. In a mere three weeks I have undone almost all of my progress. Well, maybe it's not that bad, but it sure feels like it. It started with a $110 pair of Lacoste flats I bought in an emergency (my feet were killing me, I had no choice), and has since snowballed out of control. I have been operating as if I have no budget, padding my wardrobe, purchasing trips, and eating out at every turn. Buyer's remorse is prompting me to return some of my purchases, however the meals are a wash cause they're already in the can, literally. Completely clueless as to how much is actually left in my account, I have begun operating on the "hope this works" plan. I hand my check card to the cashier then hope it works. Thus far it has, but I fear my luck is running out. But even worse than all the spending was going back on my vow to live credit card free. In a moment of extreme weakness, unabashed love, and sheer stupidity I opened up a new credit card. Damn that 10% discount promotion!
Okay, I need to suck this up and balance my checkbook so I can begin to undo the damage that I've done. But I just can't bring myself to do it. I'm scared to look.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Sweatin To the Oldies
I have been a lazy bum for the past 11 days. A bump on a log gets more physical activity than I have been getting lately. I have no motivation to let Billy Blanks torture me via Tae Bo Boot Camp and Carmen Electra's Strip Aerobics just isn't moving me. But, if I want to look more like Flipper and less like Shamu on Miami Beach next week, then I've got to do something. So tonight, I hopped in my car, and headed downtown for 80s night at The Drink to dance off all 800 calories I consumed today (this Passover diet is killing me. Why does yogurt contain yeast?) Yes, I have to work in the morning. Yes, cigarette smoke will cling to ever fiber of my being and I'll be too tired to scrub it out when I get home. But sleep deprivation and stage I lung cancer are worth it, just to spend the evening in the company of my dancing friends.
The minute I enter The Drink's smoky confines and hear "You Spin Me Round" blaring from the speakers, I know I am where I belong. It's almost midnight, but the dance floor is sparsely populated. Most patrons are still at the bar. The geeky skater boy with the buzz cut and glasses is jerking his lean body in time to the synthesizers. He won't leave the dancefloor the entire night and will dance all by himself until the lights flicker on. Standing at a nearby table is the 6'3" drag queen in the making who I see whenever I come out. He sashays through the club, looking less than comfortable in his hot pants and hooker boots. For some reason he feels the need to caress my midsection whenever we cross paths.
I immediately recognize a familiar face. I don't know her, but I know she sets the soundtrack to my Sunday nights at Billy's. Tonight I look at her, really look at her, for the first time. Her smile says her life is anything but mundance. She looks fascinating, like she has the most fabulous friends, endless dates, and little free time. She stands out in her little black dress with a neckline that takes a dangerous plunge. Her high heel sandals are the perfect complement. Raven hair contrasts her pale porcelain skin. I wonder if it's natural. Regardless, she is striking, even though her perfect features don't quite equal pretty.
The music changes. Everyone loves Duran Duran. I'm hungry like the wolf all over the dancefloor. Less than two feet from me is a man using his beer bottle like a mic. Our eyes meet and we serenade each other. This is our routine whenever we see one another. I keep trying to figure out if he's gay. He doesn't prance like the other gay guys, but he dances too well to be straight. His t-shirt is too tight to be straight, the jeans too loose to be gay. I decide he must be bi, then try to fend off the drunken Justin Timberlake lookalike who humps my left leg. He tries to palm my ass and for a split second I wonder if he's trying to pick my pocket. Oh well. Michael Jackson is playing and I'm a PYT.
Suddenly, an angel appears in the form of my favorite dance partner. Long, dark, and lanky his hips are liquid and our song is playing. I spin, I twist, I shimmy. Wham is everything I want. The heat is now palpable and I can feel every stitch of denim against my hips and thighs. I need to rest. I leave him to dance with her. She is blonde and slinky with an incredible ability to channel 1985 trends into 2006 style. Their limbs intertwine, but never tangle. She sways with him then away from him in perfect synchronicity. I wonder if they are choreographed.
My heart slows, my body cools, and I'm back in the middle of everything. Couples rotate around me. Boy and girl, boy and boy, girl and girl, they swap pairs on every beat. I'm dancing with myself, hands in the air, smile on my face, without a care in the world. This is the best calorie burn ever.
The minute I enter The Drink's smoky confines and hear "You Spin Me Round" blaring from the speakers, I know I am where I belong. It's almost midnight, but the dance floor is sparsely populated. Most patrons are still at the bar. The geeky skater boy with the buzz cut and glasses is jerking his lean body in time to the synthesizers. He won't leave the dancefloor the entire night and will dance all by himself until the lights flicker on. Standing at a nearby table is the 6'3" drag queen in the making who I see whenever I come out. He sashays through the club, looking less than comfortable in his hot pants and hooker boots. For some reason he feels the need to caress my midsection whenever we cross paths.
I immediately recognize a familiar face. I don't know her, but I know she sets the soundtrack to my Sunday nights at Billy's. Tonight I look at her, really look at her, for the first time. Her smile says her life is anything but mundance. She looks fascinating, like she has the most fabulous friends, endless dates, and little free time. She stands out in her little black dress with a neckline that takes a dangerous plunge. Her high heel sandals are the perfect complement. Raven hair contrasts her pale porcelain skin. I wonder if it's natural. Regardless, she is striking, even though her perfect features don't quite equal pretty.
The music changes. Everyone loves Duran Duran. I'm hungry like the wolf all over the dancefloor. Less than two feet from me is a man using his beer bottle like a mic. Our eyes meet and we serenade each other. This is our routine whenever we see one another. I keep trying to figure out if he's gay. He doesn't prance like the other gay guys, but he dances too well to be straight. His t-shirt is too tight to be straight, the jeans too loose to be gay. I decide he must be bi, then try to fend off the drunken Justin Timberlake lookalike who humps my left leg. He tries to palm my ass and for a split second I wonder if he's trying to pick my pocket. Oh well. Michael Jackson is playing and I'm a PYT.
Suddenly, an angel appears in the form of my favorite dance partner. Long, dark, and lanky his hips are liquid and our song is playing. I spin, I twist, I shimmy. Wham is everything I want. The heat is now palpable and I can feel every stitch of denim against my hips and thighs. I need to rest. I leave him to dance with her. She is blonde and slinky with an incredible ability to channel 1985 trends into 2006 style. Their limbs intertwine, but never tangle. She sways with him then away from him in perfect synchronicity. I wonder if they are choreographed.
My heart slows, my body cools, and I'm back in the middle of everything. Couples rotate around me. Boy and girl, boy and boy, girl and girl, they swap pairs on every beat. I'm dancing with myself, hands in the air, smile on my face, without a care in the world. This is the best calorie burn ever.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
The Replacement
It's common knowledge that the best way to get over one person is to start liking someone else. It worked pretty well in 8th grade when I didn't want to like the Juvenile Delinquent anymore and decided to aim my affections at his Scumbag Friend. I had a thing for white boys in flannel and Doc Martins (thank you Kurt Cobain). Replacement therapy worked pretty well, until I realized the Juvenile Delinquent was still my heart's desire. The only drama this change of heart created was the internal variety since neither party was interested. Over the years, I continued to implement the replacement strategy, with similar results.
Freshman year of college, my first (and only) official boyfriend (I like to stick to gray area "quasi-relationships" because they make it easier to star in my own personal soap opera) was a replacement. After months of futility spent trying to work my way from being Jockboy's friend/sidekick/personal lackey to being his girlfriend, I met the sweetest guy in the world. Sweetheart adored me in a way no one had adored me before, so I was more than happy to be his one and only. So I did what any girlfriend does, I spent hours tying up my dormroom phone whispering sweet nothings in his ear. I told him I loved him and did naughty things to him in his bedroom while his mother watched TV downstairs. This guy made me feel wanted, secure, pretty, and all types of wonderful. Who cared if he he wasn't in college, didn't play football, wasn't 6'1", and didn't drive a white Ford Explorer? I guess I cared a whole lot, because I still thought about Jockboy. CONSTANTLY.
The problem with replacements, is that more often than not they fail and you're left right back at Phase I mooning over someone who's probably not mooning over you. Replacements don't push the old feelings away, they only cover them with contrived feelings that you convince yourself are real. What I've come to realize is that I'm never looking for just a replacement. What I really want is an upgrade. Someone who is bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, sexier, richer and better than what I'm desperate to leave behind. I didn't find that freshman year. When I measured what I had against what I wanted, it didn't compare. I'm ashamed to say this now, but the fact that one man treated me better, didn't compensate for the other being better looking and more high profile. Actually, that's the reason none of the replacements ever really replaced anything. They weren't better than the original.
A few years ago, I found what I thought would be the perfect replacement for the Idiot. The Upgrade was taller, just as good looking, made more money, had a bigger apartment, drove a nice car, was smart, funny, got into all the good parties, called when he said he would, and best of all was interested in me. I thought I hit the jackpot. But lying in bed with him one night, I started staring at him as he slept. It wasn't there. I couldn't see all the grand possibilities that I saw whenever I looked at the Idiot. I came to realize that even though The Upgrade went beyond my standards, the Idiot set those standards in the first place. The Upgrade couldn't compare. I didn't want an upgrade, I wanted the original basic model that I fell for in the first place. From that moment on, I would always gaze at The Upgrade and think to myself:
You're dark, like him
You're tall, like him
You dress better than him
You're in better shape than him
You don't make me cry, like him
You don't ignore my calls, like him
You don't look at me, like him
You don't see me, like him
You don't hold me, like him
I won't love you, like him
Freshman year of college, my first (and only) official boyfriend (I like to stick to gray area "quasi-relationships" because they make it easier to star in my own personal soap opera) was a replacement. After months of futility spent trying to work my way from being Jockboy's friend/sidekick/personal lackey to being his girlfriend, I met the sweetest guy in the world. Sweetheart adored me in a way no one had adored me before, so I was more than happy to be his one and only. So I did what any girlfriend does, I spent hours tying up my dormroom phone whispering sweet nothings in his ear. I told him I loved him and did naughty things to him in his bedroom while his mother watched TV downstairs. This guy made me feel wanted, secure, pretty, and all types of wonderful. Who cared if he he wasn't in college, didn't play football, wasn't 6'1", and didn't drive a white Ford Explorer? I guess I cared a whole lot, because I still thought about Jockboy. CONSTANTLY.
The problem with replacements, is that more often than not they fail and you're left right back at Phase I mooning over someone who's probably not mooning over you. Replacements don't push the old feelings away, they only cover them with contrived feelings that you convince yourself are real. What I've come to realize is that I'm never looking for just a replacement. What I really want is an upgrade. Someone who is bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, sexier, richer and better than what I'm desperate to leave behind. I didn't find that freshman year. When I measured what I had against what I wanted, it didn't compare. I'm ashamed to say this now, but the fact that one man treated me better, didn't compensate for the other being better looking and more high profile. Actually, that's the reason none of the replacements ever really replaced anything. They weren't better than the original.
A few years ago, I found what I thought would be the perfect replacement for the Idiot. The Upgrade was taller, just as good looking, made more money, had a bigger apartment, drove a nice car, was smart, funny, got into all the good parties, called when he said he would, and best of all was interested in me. I thought I hit the jackpot. But lying in bed with him one night, I started staring at him as he slept. It wasn't there. I couldn't see all the grand possibilities that I saw whenever I looked at the Idiot. I came to realize that even though The Upgrade went beyond my standards, the Idiot set those standards in the first place. The Upgrade couldn't compare. I didn't want an upgrade, I wanted the original basic model that I fell for in the first place. From that moment on, I would always gaze at The Upgrade and think to myself:
You're dark, like him
You're tall, like him
You dress better than him
You're in better shape than him
You don't make me cry, like him
You don't ignore my calls, like him
You don't look at me, like him
You don't see me, like him
You don't hold me, like him
I won't love you, like him
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
This Was No Accident
Love isn't an accident. Love doesn't just happen. Love doesn't work itself out. Love takes work. Love takes time. Love takes a conscientous effort. I absolutely hate it when someone says, "You can't help who you love," or even worse, "You can't control feelings." That's bullshit. A cop out people use when they realize they've fallen in love with the wrong person. I've made falling for the wrong person into an artform. No one says, "I knew better," more than I do. But never in all of my knowing better have I claimed that I just wound up head over heels one day, the result of a freak accident that occured while I slept. I can honestly say I never intended to fall, but it would be a lie if I said I didn't fall on purpose.
Don't get me wrong. I know that love can't be controlled, made to conform to what we want it to be. My heart has kept right on loving long after my head has told it to stop on more than a few occassions. But control was lost only after the decision was made to relinquish it. When I first started dealing with the Idiot, I remember the exact day I knew my feelings were involved. I remember sitting with Chesty LaRue in a restaurant in midtown Manhattan and realizing, "oh shit, I like this guy." I knew that there was about a snowball's chance in hell that it would work. But I chose to keep seeing him. I chose to indulge the way I felt. And when it blew up in my face, I wholeheartedly blamed him (righfully so) for being an asshole, but I never once blamed him for making me care for him in the first place. I did that all on my own.
Before you can fall in love, you have to have the "A-ha" moment. That moment where you realize "I might like this person." At that moment, you have a choice. You're standing at the edge of big a cliff, and you can either back away from it and stay on solid ground, or you can fling yourself off that precipice and pray to God that person catches you. Once you jump, there is no turning back, you're in a free fall where your emotions, happiness, and potential hearthache is in the hands of another person. But before the fall, there's always a choice to love or not. To keep going or turn around. Most times people barrell right over the edge head first, not giving it the least bit of consideration. It can make falling in love feel like something that just happened. But it didn't. There was a choice made, to not think and just feel. Sometimes that choice works, but more often than not it comes back to bite you on the ass. My cheeks are littered with teeth marks.
Some might say that when the "A-ha" happens that you have to follow your heart. Well, if your heart is anything like mine, it gets it wrong a whole lot more than it gets it right. Right now my heart is telling me to order a Pizza Hut Pan Pizza with extra cheese. I doubt my waist wants me to listen. Sometimes what we want isn't always good for us. That's why we need our heads to tell our hearts "no," before it's too late. Before our heart rules everything we do and we're trapped by all of its mistakes.
Yes, it sounds romantic to think that someone can't help but love me, crave me, need me. It's a rush to think that someone can't not love me. But when I really think about it, I don't want that. I don't want anyone to love me even when they don't want to. I want someone to put their heart in my hands, not just fling it in my direction. I want someone to say, "I'm choosing to love you."
Don't get me wrong. I know that love can't be controlled, made to conform to what we want it to be. My heart has kept right on loving long after my head has told it to stop on more than a few occassions. But control was lost only after the decision was made to relinquish it. When I first started dealing with the Idiot, I remember the exact day I knew my feelings were involved. I remember sitting with Chesty LaRue in a restaurant in midtown Manhattan and realizing, "oh shit, I like this guy." I knew that there was about a snowball's chance in hell that it would work. But I chose to keep seeing him. I chose to indulge the way I felt. And when it blew up in my face, I wholeheartedly blamed him (righfully so) for being an asshole, but I never once blamed him for making me care for him in the first place. I did that all on my own.
Before you can fall in love, you have to have the "A-ha" moment. That moment where you realize "I might like this person." At that moment, you have a choice. You're standing at the edge of big a cliff, and you can either back away from it and stay on solid ground, or you can fling yourself off that precipice and pray to God that person catches you. Once you jump, there is no turning back, you're in a free fall where your emotions, happiness, and potential hearthache is in the hands of another person. But before the fall, there's always a choice to love or not. To keep going or turn around. Most times people barrell right over the edge head first, not giving it the least bit of consideration. It can make falling in love feel like something that just happened. But it didn't. There was a choice made, to not think and just feel. Sometimes that choice works, but more often than not it comes back to bite you on the ass. My cheeks are littered with teeth marks.
Some might say that when the "A-ha" happens that you have to follow your heart. Well, if your heart is anything like mine, it gets it wrong a whole lot more than it gets it right. Right now my heart is telling me to order a Pizza Hut Pan Pizza with extra cheese. I doubt my waist wants me to listen. Sometimes what we want isn't always good for us. That's why we need our heads to tell our hearts "no," before it's too late. Before our heart rules everything we do and we're trapped by all of its mistakes.
Yes, it sounds romantic to think that someone can't help but love me, crave me, need me. It's a rush to think that someone can't not love me. But when I really think about it, I don't want that. I don't want anyone to love me even when they don't want to. I want someone to put their heart in my hands, not just fling it in my direction. I want someone to say, "I'm choosing to love you."
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