Dear Fake Boyfriend,
I don't know why it took me over 30 years to meet you but now that you are here giving me a graceful excuse to refuse the movie and dinner invitations from men older than my father, I'm not sure how I got along without you. My imagination loves fleshing you out to strangers, pretending that you live out of town or that you are ambivalent about dogs which is why I'm always walking alone. Today I hinted you might be making me an honest woman any day now and that we were really happy together. You are so much fun, thanks getting me out of jam once again.
Ava
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
How in the heck will I wash my neck
Man oh man. I just had an awesome experience. It was so much fun and so amazing I'm still smiling about it. I had been upstairs having a little happy hour with some girlfriends who were getting warmed up for a night of dancing. When we left, it was raining so I ran to my place to get an umbrella for them to use since I wasn't going out with them and didn't care if I got wet. When I went back for the umbrella, I decided to grab the dog so she could catch a little potty break. The girlfriends decided to go out another way where they would get less wet and the dog and I walked out the door into the rain which was a little heavier than I expected but wasn't too bad. What I didn't realize was the balcony above was shielding me from the biblical part of the rain.
Wow.
I was solid soaked, gasping for air between the wind and shock of the cold rain before I could even get through the gate of the complex. The dog was nothing short of hilarious. It was the very first time ever, EVER, that she turned back toward the house and absolutely wanted no parts of being outside. We've been caught in pretty intense storms and walked in torrential downpours, totally epic, the stuff of stories. She's actually been out during a hurricane and she wanted no parts of this downpour. When we got inside, I had to strip at the door. I was soaked through to my underwear in less than a minute. Awesome I tell you. I could not stop laughing. When we got inside, I took these pictures of my pissed off little dog. The camera phone did not do her killer glare justice in the second pic (one on the right). I think she's convinced that I'm insane.
Wow.
I was solid soaked, gasping for air between the wind and shock of the cold rain before I could even get through the gate of the complex. The dog was nothing short of hilarious. It was the very first time ever, EVER, that she turned back toward the house and absolutely wanted no parts of being outside. We've been caught in pretty intense storms and walked in torrential downpours, totally epic, the stuff of stories. She's actually been out during a hurricane and she wanted no parts of this downpour. When we got inside, I had to strip at the door. I was soaked through to my underwear in less than a minute. Awesome I tell you. I could not stop laughing. When we got inside, I took these pictures of my pissed off little dog. The camera phone did not do her killer glare justice in the second pic (one on the right). I think she's convinced that I'm insane.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Blech
Yep, I was right. The act of observing something does change it. If I were all alone in the space I would again lament whatever it is inside me that wants/needs an invitation to participate in life. It's coming up on a year here and I've been thinking that I need to mix it up a bit. I got a link from an aquaintance which sent me to a site about the dangers of cameras and sex and I thought, 'yea, I need to branch out.' Anyone who knows me even a little bit knows a website will not be the revelation or warning I need to realize that hooking up with random men and allowing them to tape us having sex is not a good idea. This year reminds me of the 8th grade. In the 7th grade, I thought sleeping together literally meant two people sleeping. In the 8th grade, in a class of 20 kids, people were having sex and pregnancy scares. I couldn't believe any of us were having sex and as an adult, thinking about that time, I'm even more horrified but that's neither here nor there. The point is, this last year, I got to meet a lot of people who have made this my 8th grade. I've never gone out with a bunch of girls who literally swivel around to check out guys and make bedroom preferences common knowledge among the group. I've never met real women who are so active yet so recognizably miserable in the same way about their unrequited search for whatever it is we are all looking for. I don't get any ribbons for sitting in my underwear on a Friday night typing about being lonely but they don't get any ribbons for being hyper-sexual as a saccharine substitute for the real sweetness we both crave.
What kicked this off (I think) or at least kicked me over the edge was walking past a gallery tonight while walking the dog and seeing a bunch of people mingling and talking. A group of black people. I was so excited to see so many in one place in this part of the city and I actually wondered where they all were going when they left. I'm outside all the time and never see any of these people. I told myself I should go back after our walk but I knew I wouldn't go back. It wasn't that it was far away, I was just nervous that nothing good would happen. I knew I would be nervous, I would be warm and probably sweat a lot but it's likely it would go unnoticed. I'm nervous a lot so I think I'm pretty good now at not appearing nervous or terrified of people. We all pick some facet of our personality to put out front and we are never as simple as those fronts suggest we are. Truth is though, I usually can't wait for most social interactions to be over. But like a good workout, it makes me stronger and I'm always glad I did it. I'll either meet someone nice or meet someone really weird and either way it's completely worth it.
But I chose underwear on couch, lonely sad girl instead. I AM sleepy, maybe it was just a better night to go to bed early.
What kicked this off (I think) or at least kicked me over the edge was walking past a gallery tonight while walking the dog and seeing a bunch of people mingling and talking. A group of black people. I was so excited to see so many in one place in this part of the city and I actually wondered where they all were going when they left. I'm outside all the time and never see any of these people. I told myself I should go back after our walk but I knew I wouldn't go back. It wasn't that it was far away, I was just nervous that nothing good would happen. I knew I would be nervous, I would be warm and probably sweat a lot but it's likely it would go unnoticed. I'm nervous a lot so I think I'm pretty good now at not appearing nervous or terrified of people. We all pick some facet of our personality to put out front and we are never as simple as those fronts suggest we are. Truth is though, I usually can't wait for most social interactions to be over. But like a good workout, it makes me stronger and I'm always glad I did it. I'll either meet someone nice or meet someone really weird and either way it's completely worth it.
But I chose underwear on couch, lonely sad girl instead. I AM sleepy, maybe it was just a better night to go to bed early.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Open Letters
Dear Route 48 bus,
Would it kill you to be even slightly more consistent with the schedule? Last week three Route 57 buses, two Route 5, and two Route 17 buses came and went before you arrived. I could have walked the few blocks to work several times over but it was hot 48. It was real hot. And I just wanted to arrive at work fresh, without sweat pooling at the small of my back and brimming on my upper lip. I just wanted a nice, cool, quick ride to work. It's not like you take me places for free. I'm totally going to hook you up with my token. Sometimes you're there as I round the corner, stopped at the light like you are waiting just for me. I love those mornings. I consider it a miracle that everything in my morning could have come together to find you at the corner as I arrive, especially since your actual schedule is a complete mystery. But that day 48, you just wouldn't come. You left me outside in the hot sun with a stout talkative blond woman who volunteered that she was going through menopause. She had a book with her but she didn't crack it open to pass the time in silence. She instead kept stepping out into the middle of the street and providing me breaking news on the non-48 vehicles approaching us. I was baking in my clothes, rivulets of sweat running down my back, black pants heating my ass. It was a delight 48. But seriously, plus or minus 2-5 minutes from the published schedule would be a staggering improvement. It would mean so much to me.
Ava
---
Dear creepy Italian guy at the panini place,
I love the chicken sandwiches you guys make there. Wanna know why I haven't brought any of my friends and don't come around that often? You're freaking creepy. You stand outside the door like a bouncer at a bar and hover over the people eating outside like they are furniture shopping. Relax. No one wants you to be part of their meal. We just want to eat. There are 10 tables in this place; 5 when the weather is bad. No one is suffering from lack of service or attention. We are not guests at your house. Please go in the back and balance the books or something. Seriously.
Ava
---
Dear whiny-ass guy at work,
Shut the fuck up. I had a dream last night that I arm-barred you across the neck and then left you handcuffed in the middle of our office floor. It was an awesome dream. I'm tired of your failure to accept responsibility for circumstances of your own invention. I'm tired of hearing your negativity. I'm tired of hearing you talk about everyone else when you haven't done shit. I'm tired of you deflecting attention from your own lack of performance by talking about others. I'm tired of hearing anecdotal accounts of former awesomeness and all the kick-ass stuff you plan to do. You can't back that up my friend and 99.99999% of people who tell stories like that about themselves are full of poo. Real kick-ass people are too busy kicking ass to tell stories about it. I'm tired of you telling me you want to help me with things like taking out the recycling. Don't tell me what you want to do bitch. Just do it. And it's not my job. You aren't helping me, you're just taking out the trash.
If you're wondering where this is coming from, you were irritating from Day 1. But because I was probably irritating when I first arrived, I willfully suspended judgement. When I started, I didn't know which end was up and asked a lot of questions and took a lot of other's time. I wanted to pay that kindness and understanding forward. I still kind of do, even though you are turning out to be a total douche. I think it might help with my black heart that longs for you to fail. It's going to get better because I'm going to be better about handling you. I'm going to start carrying my cuffs though, just in case I dream the future now. It would so be worth it to put a knee in your back and tweak that wrist to cuff you. You'd be my only mark on an otherwise pristine record. I might even get some time off and some free counseling. I probably need to stop mentally rehearsing how to quickly and safely take you down to cuff you.
Seriously man, please don't force me to tell you about yourself. If I have to make that much of an emotional investment in you, I will be off in your ass with both feet. Oh, and friend, know your audience. I know a lot of people. If you're going to talk about me behind my back like a 15 year old girl, you should probably figure out if I know any of those people. Chances are, if they do, they totally love me and not only will they now not like you, they are going to tell me. We're all too old for crap like that. Grow the fuck up.
Ava
Would it kill you to be even slightly more consistent with the schedule? Last week three Route 57 buses, two Route 5, and two Route 17 buses came and went before you arrived. I could have walked the few blocks to work several times over but it was hot 48. It was real hot. And I just wanted to arrive at work fresh, without sweat pooling at the small of my back and brimming on my upper lip. I just wanted a nice, cool, quick ride to work. It's not like you take me places for free. I'm totally going to hook you up with my token. Sometimes you're there as I round the corner, stopped at the light like you are waiting just for me. I love those mornings. I consider it a miracle that everything in my morning could have come together to find you at the corner as I arrive, especially since your actual schedule is a complete mystery. But that day 48, you just wouldn't come. You left me outside in the hot sun with a stout talkative blond woman who volunteered that she was going through menopause. She had a book with her but she didn't crack it open to pass the time in silence. She instead kept stepping out into the middle of the street and providing me breaking news on the non-48 vehicles approaching us. I was baking in my clothes, rivulets of sweat running down my back, black pants heating my ass. It was a delight 48. But seriously, plus or minus 2-5 minutes from the published schedule would be a staggering improvement. It would mean so much to me.
Ava
---
Dear creepy Italian guy at the panini place,
I love the chicken sandwiches you guys make there. Wanna know why I haven't brought any of my friends and don't come around that often? You're freaking creepy. You stand outside the door like a bouncer at a bar and hover over the people eating outside like they are furniture shopping. Relax. No one wants you to be part of their meal. We just want to eat. There are 10 tables in this place; 5 when the weather is bad. No one is suffering from lack of service or attention. We are not guests at your house. Please go in the back and balance the books or something. Seriously.
Ava
---
Dear whiny-ass guy at work,
Shut the fuck up. I had a dream last night that I arm-barred you across the neck and then left you handcuffed in the middle of our office floor. It was an awesome dream. I'm tired of your failure to accept responsibility for circumstances of your own invention. I'm tired of hearing your negativity. I'm tired of hearing you talk about everyone else when you haven't done shit. I'm tired of you deflecting attention from your own lack of performance by talking about others. I'm tired of hearing anecdotal accounts of former awesomeness and all the kick-ass stuff you plan to do. You can't back that up my friend and 99.99999% of people who tell stories like that about themselves are full of poo. Real kick-ass people are too busy kicking ass to tell stories about it. I'm tired of you telling me you want to help me with things like taking out the recycling. Don't tell me what you want to do bitch. Just do it. And it's not my job. You aren't helping me, you're just taking out the trash.
If you're wondering where this is coming from, you were irritating from Day 1. But because I was probably irritating when I first arrived, I willfully suspended judgement. When I started, I didn't know which end was up and asked a lot of questions and took a lot of other's time. I wanted to pay that kindness and understanding forward. I still kind of do, even though you are turning out to be a total douche. I think it might help with my black heart that longs for you to fail. It's going to get better because I'm going to be better about handling you. I'm going to start carrying my cuffs though, just in case I dream the future now. It would so be worth it to put a knee in your back and tweak that wrist to cuff you. You'd be my only mark on an otherwise pristine record. I might even get some time off and some free counseling. I probably need to stop mentally rehearsing how to quickly and safely take you down to cuff you.
Seriously man, please don't force me to tell you about yourself. If I have to make that much of an emotional investment in you, I will be off in your ass with both feet. Oh, and friend, know your audience. I know a lot of people. If you're going to talk about me behind my back like a 15 year old girl, you should probably figure out if I know any of those people. Chances are, if they do, they totally love me and not only will they now not like you, they are going to tell me. We're all too old for crap like that. Grow the fuck up.
Ava
Sunday, August 23, 2009
A long December
So I'm talking with a friend, a guy who I haven't known long but is always some kind of depressed about something. So much so that I feel like the lighthearted, carefree, and confident person in the relationship and I'm not usually that person. It kind of annoys me because he reminds me of me in a way(s) I'm not yet able to articulate. I also think he might be gay, not that there's anything wrong with that. I've just been the lady confidant for enough gay men warming up to accepting their sexuality and telling people. I'm kind of over it. Either way, something else is going on here and I'm a big enough person (and apparently a modest enough one too) to admit it might just be with me.
He asked me today when my last serious relationship was. His question kind of came out of nowhere and exercising the gay hypothesis, maybe he was trying to determine if my general obliviousness as it concerned men was evidence of my lack of interest in them. Answering the question surfaced 2 things; one, I tell the story of this guy like a guilty person describes a murder, very little emotion or inflection, kind of clinical. I'm not even sure it should count as a serious relationship but I don't know the governing body who validates the scale of relationships so until I get a letter or phone call telling me I can't count him, he's the story I'm going to trot out. The second thing that came out of answering that question is that it has been a LONG, LONG, time since Ava has participated in anything resembling a relationship. If it were an alumni group, we would be ramping up for our first reunion. Reunions usually don't start before 10 years. It's pretty bad.
I'm not sure how much of this is my own rain to make and how much of it you can't possibly contrive. I'd like to think that God's ability to connect me to someone I'm meant to spend my life with isn't limited by my choices but perhaps He's not really consumed with my relationship status. It's possible He's got bigger things going on. Before I moved here, a dear friend of mine told me she had a dream that I would meet my husband here and that she saw him in her dream wearing a brown sweater. When I first arrived here, I would literally consider men like a quality assurance inspector and if they weren't wearing a brown sweater, I just stopped looking at them. I did this reflexively, revealing I might be more susceptible to suggestion than I previously considered. Separately, her mother told her she had a very strong feeling that I would meet my husband that fall or in the fall. So I spent my first fall here scanning for brown sweaters and annoyed every single time I caught myself sorting guys into brown sweater-no brown sweater bins. By the way, brown sweaters aren't really that popular with guys and I'm honestly okay with that. I told my friend her suggestive psychic manipulation was really messing up my head. She insisted that in Spanish, "brown sweater" means pulse, personality, and penis. That widened the field considerably but so far only Batman and one initially promising lead that weirded me out quickly with his authorship of chick lit. Seeing the other side of dating through the girlfriends I have here (stories that truly deserve their own post) though leaves me content to remain receptive but not aggressive.
He asked me today when my last serious relationship was. His question kind of came out of nowhere and exercising the gay hypothesis, maybe he was trying to determine if my general obliviousness as it concerned men was evidence of my lack of interest in them. Answering the question surfaced 2 things; one, I tell the story of this guy like a guilty person describes a murder, very little emotion or inflection, kind of clinical. I'm not even sure it should count as a serious relationship but I don't know the governing body who validates the scale of relationships so until I get a letter or phone call telling me I can't count him, he's the story I'm going to trot out. The second thing that came out of answering that question is that it has been a LONG, LONG, time since Ava has participated in anything resembling a relationship. If it were an alumni group, we would be ramping up for our first reunion. Reunions usually don't start before 10 years. It's pretty bad.
I'm not sure how much of this is my own rain to make and how much of it you can't possibly contrive. I'd like to think that God's ability to connect me to someone I'm meant to spend my life with isn't limited by my choices but perhaps He's not really consumed with my relationship status. It's possible He's got bigger things going on. Before I moved here, a dear friend of mine told me she had a dream that I would meet my husband here and that she saw him in her dream wearing a brown sweater. When I first arrived here, I would literally consider men like a quality assurance inspector and if they weren't wearing a brown sweater, I just stopped looking at them. I did this reflexively, revealing I might be more susceptible to suggestion than I previously considered. Separately, her mother told her she had a very strong feeling that I would meet my husband that fall or in the fall. So I spent my first fall here scanning for brown sweaters and annoyed every single time I caught myself sorting guys into brown sweater-no brown sweater bins. By the way, brown sweaters aren't really that popular with guys and I'm honestly okay with that. I told my friend her suggestive psychic manipulation was really messing up my head. She insisted that in Spanish, "brown sweater" means pulse, personality, and penis. That widened the field considerably but so far only Batman and one initially promising lead that weirded me out quickly with his authorship of chick lit. Seeing the other side of dating through the girlfriends I have here (stories that truly deserve their own post) though leaves me content to remain receptive but not aggressive.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Summertime blues
I miss my old blog sometimes. I love having company but it ouches a little to discover a couple people have un-followed my blog.
Whatever haters.
I keed, I keed. At least two people seriously left though.
The summer has come and gone even faster than the one before. This time last year, I was already sleeping on an air mattress and frantically trying to get ready to move here. I was blogging about my pitiful attempt to throw a party and validation of my previous suspicion that having a party by Ava, even when you are literally letting people rummage through your property and take food, wine, and extra bookcases, does not pull a big crowd. Exactly four people were there and two of them were my mom and her friend. And they had not come for the party.
In a little over a week, I will have been here a year. My best friend's kids will turn 1 before the end of the year and I've never met them. I need to get my rear in gear, someone is holding the fast forward button on my life.
Whatever haters.
I keed, I keed. At least two people seriously left though.
The summer has come and gone even faster than the one before. This time last year, I was already sleeping on an air mattress and frantically trying to get ready to move here. I was blogging about my pitiful attempt to throw a party and validation of my previous suspicion that having a party by Ava, even when you are literally letting people rummage through your property and take food, wine, and extra bookcases, does not pull a big crowd. Exactly four people were there and two of them were my mom and her friend. And they had not come for the party.
In a little over a week, I will have been here a year. My best friend's kids will turn 1 before the end of the year and I've never met them. I need to get my rear in gear, someone is holding the fast forward button on my life.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Karma
I'm pretty sure I've addressed my theory on poo karma at some point in this highly intellectual blog. But for those who are new or simply have not committed my blog posts to memory (please work on that), poo karma is my theory that those who do not pick up their poop are destined to step in it. Because I have a persnickety dog, who won't go just anywhere, I am daily walking through the mine fields of grass and in all our years of walking, at least twice a day, everyday for 7 years, have rarely ruined a shoe. Yay for me but hardly the point.
I got a lovely card from my former neighbor and sometimes friend for my birthday that said we were indeed blessed to have stumbled upon eachother and then referred to karma, letting me know she was not referring to the poo kind. Which made me think perhaps it was karma. The reason I call her my former neighbor and sometimes friend is that she will completely dip out for months at a time. She won't return phone calls, respond to e-mails or text messages. You'll be dead to her. It hurts my feelings and kind of pisses me off. She used to do this when I still lived there too but because we could literally see eachother come and go if we were so inclined, the freeze outs would not last any longer than 3-4 weeks. The irony is that I've lived around her and had a chance to know her in person longer than any other friend I've had in my entire life. And she's done some tremendous things for me. But there's just something in her that is always avoiding me getting to know who she actually is.
Which brings me back to karma. Her card got me thinking about where I fit in the constellation of my friend's other friends. She's my bad friend; the one whose actions are not always congruent with how they say they feel about me. To gush about how much you miss me and how sad you are that I'm gone but still manage to average 3 months to return a phone call does not compute for me. Perhaps in the same way I can miss my best friend and honestly desire to see her and meet her children but have not yet done it. So perhaps it is karma, getting back some of the stuff others have put with from me. Either way, her card provoked me to consider how her friendship makes me feel sometimes and how I might be more sensitive to how I communicate with both my actions and words about how important my friends are are to me.
I got a lovely card from my former neighbor and sometimes friend for my birthday that said we were indeed blessed to have stumbled upon eachother and then referred to karma, letting me know she was not referring to the poo kind. Which made me think perhaps it was karma. The reason I call her my former neighbor and sometimes friend is that she will completely dip out for months at a time. She won't return phone calls, respond to e-mails or text messages. You'll be dead to her. It hurts my feelings and kind of pisses me off. She used to do this when I still lived there too but because we could literally see eachother come and go if we were so inclined, the freeze outs would not last any longer than 3-4 weeks. The irony is that I've lived around her and had a chance to know her in person longer than any other friend I've had in my entire life. And she's done some tremendous things for me. But there's just something in her that is always avoiding me getting to know who she actually is.
Which brings me back to karma. Her card got me thinking about where I fit in the constellation of my friend's other friends. She's my bad friend; the one whose actions are not always congruent with how they say they feel about me. To gush about how much you miss me and how sad you are that I'm gone but still manage to average 3 months to return a phone call does not compute for me. Perhaps in the same way I can miss my best friend and honestly desire to see her and meet her children but have not yet done it. So perhaps it is karma, getting back some of the stuff others have put with from me. Either way, her card provoked me to consider how her friendship makes me feel sometimes and how I might be more sensitive to how I communicate with both my actions and words about how important my friends are are to me.
Monday, August 17, 2009
!@*&
Fuck. I'm so mad at myself. Blogger autosaves but I had a craving for the familiar white on black background from my iWeb application so I started on what was shaping up to be a post I really liked. And then my mac froze for like the 2nd or third time ever. Had I saved it? Nope. Does it autosave? Nope. What program can you buy these days that does NOT have an autosave or recover feature? Probably just this one. Fudge nuggets. I'm friggin despondent over it. I couldn't even scroll up to write down what I had already written. Those words won't go back in that order ever again, the moment has passed and so is the headspace I was in to create it. Shit.
What the fuck ever.
So while I was reflective 5 minutes ago over the flurry of marriage, birth, and engagement announcements that have come over the last week, now I'm in the place I predicted I would be in the ghost post. I'm taking it as evidence of my inherent unlikability and resolving to engage in some really absorbing hobbies now to keep me company as I age. I swear that before that regrettable crash, I was reflective. I was walking the dog, absorbed in my new favorite song and confident it would all work out. I was insulated from the world and happy to be occupying the deserted street with the good company of my thoughts, wondering which one of them would grow into posts and which I would invariably keep to myself. It's been a weird time writing lately. I can't seem to string the words together into thoughts. I'm cutting patterns and finding the outfit not quite coming together. It's not draping well, the symmetry is off, it's just off enough to make me self conscious because I can't say what I mean, I don't mean what I say, it's not quite me. It's been a busy time in my soul but the synapse between my soul and my head isn't being bridged with words that I can convey here. It's like my soul has ADD. I am finding it hard to keep up.
Moving on to the song of the moment. Strange and Beautiful by Aqualung. Those who want to point it that the name of the group was first a song by Jethro Tull can save their breath. I know. I know because it came up on Google when I was looking for a clip to post here. My father thought I would like this song and I do. I have been trying to ration the amount of times I listen to it so I can always savor it.
What the fuck ever.
So while I was reflective 5 minutes ago over the flurry of marriage, birth, and engagement announcements that have come over the last week, now I'm in the place I predicted I would be in the ghost post. I'm taking it as evidence of my inherent unlikability and resolving to engage in some really absorbing hobbies now to keep me company as I age. I swear that before that regrettable crash, I was reflective. I was walking the dog, absorbed in my new favorite song and confident it would all work out. I was insulated from the world and happy to be occupying the deserted street with the good company of my thoughts, wondering which one of them would grow into posts and which I would invariably keep to myself. It's been a weird time writing lately. I can't seem to string the words together into thoughts. I'm cutting patterns and finding the outfit not quite coming together. It's not draping well, the symmetry is off, it's just off enough to make me self conscious because I can't say what I mean, I don't mean what I say, it's not quite me. It's been a busy time in my soul but the synapse between my soul and my head isn't being bridged with words that I can convey here. It's like my soul has ADD. I am finding it hard to keep up.
Moving on to the song of the moment. Strange and Beautiful by Aqualung. Those who want to point it that the name of the group was first a song by Jethro Tull can save their breath. I know. I know because it came up on Google when I was looking for a clip to post here. My father thought I would like this song and I do. I have been trying to ration the amount of times I listen to it so I can always savor it.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Sing
I'm living the dream right now, fulfilling part one of my birthday wish, sitting in my underwear. I'm not sure how I'll top this moment today. I have a little twinge of sadness remembering that Grandma Margaret won't be calling today as she had faithfully done every single year for as long as I can remember. My father regularly forgets how old I am-I'm starting to forget as well, but she always knew exactly how old I was. It's hard to get really pumped up about celebrating the number of years I've been on the planet but I do like celebrating that I even arrived. I like to think of the actual day I was born and what that must have been like for my young parents. It's likely that my friends are going to hear some baby stories today as my parents simply can not help telling them even though they are really only interesting to people you are related to. Perhaps they tell the stories because they can't believe they actually made a baby who turned into an adult and have to keep reminding me and themselves that I'm not just some woman they know.
Being solidly 30-something (the specifics not withheld for vanity but for security) got me thinking about that old show 30-something that was all the rage when I was no where near 30. All those people looked so old. I like studying the faces of old people and searching for the face of their youth and looking at little kids and imagining the adults they are going to become. I've got no wishes this year but this song was on my mind.
And this is just funny
Being solidly 30-something (the specifics not withheld for vanity but for security) got me thinking about that old show 30-something that was all the rage when I was no where near 30. All those people looked so old. I like studying the faces of old people and searching for the face of their youth and looking at little kids and imagining the adults they are going to become. I've got no wishes this year but this song was on my mind.
And this is just funny
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Birthday
I used to find the months, weeks, days, and hours before my birthday unbearable. It couldn't arrive quickly enough and ended far too soon. But that is how most kids are and that is part of the joyous torture of childhood. To say I find them unbearable as a full fledged adult would be a bit of hyperbole but I'm not terribly excited. I feel like they come too fast now, not because I'm down in the face about aging, I actually dig that part, but because I can't seem to find the time to spend the day in a way that feels celebratory. A day that doesn't place the burden on others to create happiness for me. I can't help myself but I always want something grand to happen on my birthday. I want some kind of unexpected loveliness, evidence of someone's planning and forethought to surprise me.
I e-mailed some friends at the next to the last minute and a few of them are going to join me for dinner with my parents in Virginia. Only now I don't really want to go anymore. I want to sit in my apartment in my underwear and work my way up to showering and running errands like getting a 40lb bag of dog food. I want to wander around alone, feel sorry for myself for about 30 seconds and then take myself and a good book somewhere for dinner that we haven't tried yet.
I know I'll have fun with my friends and it will be great to see them. But I really, really, really, REALLY don't want to drive down to VA and back. I'm over that trip completely, especially for an overnighter. I would take the train (and oh how I love the train) but my old neighbor and sometimes friend absolutely insisted I bring my dog with me if I came so her boys (also dogs) could see her because they miss her. There is drama in having Baloo stay with me at my parent's house that I'm just not willing to put up with on my birthday so I will leave her at my neighbor/friend's house and shuttle back and forth between the two houses to feed and walk my dog with her dogs. It's a lot for one night and I'm ready to skip it. It annoys the shit out of me that my dad's nose gets so out of joint over dog hair. I love him but he can be a jerk about some things. An unapologetic one at that. But it is his house so whatever. I just hate the look on my mom's face when I have to leave because my dog is being housed somewhere else, creating an obligation for me to spend time away from home, even if the purpose is to come visit them. And my dad realizes that he's being stupid about it but just keeps asking me if labradors can be shaved or he talks about inventing something that will statically charge Baloo's hair and then have her pass through some filter that snatches all the stray hairs from her coat. I should stop talking about it, it makes me even less enthused to drive 3 hours for a meal. I should have told the sometimes friend no. If she wants the boys to see Baloo, she can bring them up here. But now I'm too late to get a sitter so she's coming. So at least three trips back and forth to feed and walk her for barely an overnighter. I'm so annoyed with myself. No cards are going out on time, I haven't given myself the head space to consider what to do for others, and now I'm absolutely dreading both my birthday and the event I have created to celebrate it. Ugh.
I'm getting grumpier as I age. But I still like this song.
I e-mailed some friends at the next to the last minute and a few of them are going to join me for dinner with my parents in Virginia. Only now I don't really want to go anymore. I want to sit in my apartment in my underwear and work my way up to showering and running errands like getting a 40lb bag of dog food. I want to wander around alone, feel sorry for myself for about 30 seconds and then take myself and a good book somewhere for dinner that we haven't tried yet.
I know I'll have fun with my friends and it will be great to see them. But I really, really, really, REALLY don't want to drive down to VA and back. I'm over that trip completely, especially for an overnighter. I would take the train (and oh how I love the train) but my old neighbor and sometimes friend absolutely insisted I bring my dog with me if I came so her boys (also dogs) could see her because they miss her. There is drama in having Baloo stay with me at my parent's house that I'm just not willing to put up with on my birthday so I will leave her at my neighbor/friend's house and shuttle back and forth between the two houses to feed and walk my dog with her dogs. It's a lot for one night and I'm ready to skip it. It annoys the shit out of me that my dad's nose gets so out of joint over dog hair. I love him but he can be a jerk about some things. An unapologetic one at that. But it is his house so whatever. I just hate the look on my mom's face when I have to leave because my dog is being housed somewhere else, creating an obligation for me to spend time away from home, even if the purpose is to come visit them. And my dad realizes that he's being stupid about it but just keeps asking me if labradors can be shaved or he talks about inventing something that will statically charge Baloo's hair and then have her pass through some filter that snatches all the stray hairs from her coat. I should stop talking about it, it makes me even less enthused to drive 3 hours for a meal. I should have told the sometimes friend no. If she wants the boys to see Baloo, she can bring them up here. But now I'm too late to get a sitter so she's coming. So at least three trips back and forth to feed and walk her for barely an overnighter. I'm so annoyed with myself. No cards are going out on time, I haven't given myself the head space to consider what to do for others, and now I'm absolutely dreading both my birthday and the event I have created to celebrate it. Ugh.
I'm getting grumpier as I age. But I still like this song.
Drama Queen
Called my father today at work. He answered the phone in a tone of voice that conveyed all was not well. I asked him if it was a good time. He said, and I quote "the world is falling down around me" and that he would call me later. I hung up the phone and smiled. He can be so dramatic. My mother is the antithesis of drama. She described her contractions when she had my sister as simply "uncomfortable." And my father, surrounded by the trappings, deadlines, pressures and irritations present in every single line of work finds the world disintegrating at his feet. I sure do come by it honestly, this flair for drama.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
A thought
Perhaps it's not a good idea to describe the way the fire licks my flesh and burns. Maybe the energy I devote to being mesmerized by the dance of the flames could be used in putting the fire out.
I don't know, it's just a thought.
I don't know, it's just a thought.
Block of letters
Is it a writer's block if I can write about not being able to write?
My birthday twin is getting married. For years, our lives had this creepy parallel quality that kept us both interested in keeping up with one another even though we had more of a kinship than a friendship. The truth is, our paths diverged long before she met her future husband at a house party. It seems like I should hope that I'm not far behind her. I don't know if it is a chronic lack of sleep or just a pickling from the slow bitterness I've been steeping in, watching many friends pair off and begin lives together, but I'm not terribly envious. Being with someone is work. I think 3/4 of the pain in the loss of a relationship is the resetting of all of your habits. You're used to telling them about your day, you're used to something that always annoyed you about them but was familiar, you're used to the way they smell. They become as automatic as the involuntary kick of your leg when your knee is tapped. And we associate that familiarity and intimacy with love. And we miss that. Which is to say I'm not green with envy because I'm not having a ball by myself but I haven't found it better to have loved and lost, or to have loved and fought, or any of the other combinations of love and pain a relationship can produce. Perhaps I just haven't been in love.
Who knows.
My birthday twin is getting married. For years, our lives had this creepy parallel quality that kept us both interested in keeping up with one another even though we had more of a kinship than a friendship. The truth is, our paths diverged long before she met her future husband at a house party. It seems like I should hope that I'm not far behind her. I don't know if it is a chronic lack of sleep or just a pickling from the slow bitterness I've been steeping in, watching many friends pair off and begin lives together, but I'm not terribly envious. Being with someone is work. I think 3/4 of the pain in the loss of a relationship is the resetting of all of your habits. You're used to telling them about your day, you're used to something that always annoyed you about them but was familiar, you're used to the way they smell. They become as automatic as the involuntary kick of your leg when your knee is tapped. And we associate that familiarity and intimacy with love. And we miss that. Which is to say I'm not green with envy because I'm not having a ball by myself but I haven't found it better to have loved and lost, or to have loved and fought, or any of the other combinations of love and pain a relationship can produce. Perhaps I just haven't been in love.
Who knows.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Insomnia
I'm tired and I wish the worries of the day would not creep into my night. Would not make it hard to slip into rest. Would not make it so hard to be awake again.
In a related aside, the thought of a warm glass of milk before bed makes me want to hurl. Not only should milk never be warmed past the age of 1 or whenever you stop receiving nutrition from bottles, the thought of what my warm milk mouth would taste and smell like in the morning makes me want to run and brush my teeth again.
Sweet dreams or any dreams at all. I just want to sleep.
In a related aside, the thought of a warm glass of milk before bed makes me want to hurl. Not only should milk never be warmed past the age of 1 or whenever you stop receiving nutrition from bottles, the thought of what my warm milk mouth would taste and smell like in the morning makes me want to run and brush my teeth again.
Sweet dreams or any dreams at all. I just want to sleep.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Overheard
Two guys on the sidewalk: "I think I found my calling. I'm going to be a power plant engineer."
Wow.
I didn't even know guys talked like that to eachother. Like they were in a midday commercial between Jerry Springer and Maury Povich offering certifications in a variety of fast growing industries. It was all I could do not to go back to them and say, "Really?"
Wow.
I didn't even know guys talked like that to eachother. Like they were in a midday commercial between Jerry Springer and Maury Povich offering certifications in a variety of fast growing industries. It was all I could do not to go back to them and say, "Really?"
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Freaking out; heartbreak stories
This post from The Optimistic Pessimist got me thinking about my injured pride/broken heart behavior over the years. The few folks who actually know me AND read this blog (hi best friend and goodgrace) know that my "relationship" history hardly qualifies me to have a lot to say about breakups and broken hearts unless we did a series on unrequited affection and history of going to formal dances in college with gay men. My relationship history otherwise consists of nursing impossible "secret" crushes on guys who aren't interested in me and a delightful assortment of Mr. Coffee's, Stairmaster's and Batman's that serve primarily as blog fodder. It makes celibacy effortless. Really.
So my one prized memory of me completely freaking out publicly over one of these guys instead of doing the usual brooding, bad poetry, and endless banal discussions with my girlfriends was over David. We were all in Brussels on a school trip. I don't remember having any interaction with him at all--perhaps that was why I was so disappointed. What I recall is crying, crying, and crying some more on the bus, on the ferry, in the bathroom on the ferry, in the movie theater in the ferry (The Brave Little Toaster was playing, a movie I still hate). I was miserable because this boy was never going to like me the same as I liked him. I was sad over many guys but I recall only ever crying over him. Not sure why. I think I just felt alone and was sad that I didn't have him in the way I really wanted. It likely wasn't about him at all but when I saw him, it represented everything I wanted that I couldn't have. I kept hoping he would see how good I was and choose me. We were friends, but he just didn't like me in "that way."
"That way" was always the issue. My crushes may have been "secret" but I always had some kind of relationship with the guys I liked because I date in reverse (which is why I don't date). I meet a guy, we become friends, and then I decide I really like him more than that. And I had a terrible habit in high school of eventually confessing my crushes to my crush in a heartfelt artfully folded note. A girlfriend of mine recently did something like that to some guy she worked with and I plainly told her that my observations and experiences had led me to the conclusion that if you find yourself writing a letter to a guy who isn't in prison, confessing your love and affection and hoping your letter will lead to his uncovering of feelings he's never expressed to you, it is not likely to end well. Especially since we are in our 30's and not our teens. And our lives don't even remotely resemble a romantic comedy or sitcom.
I would have done well if I had grown up in the 1940's and 50's. I would have been a swell girl to know, guys would court me properly, and I'd be married by the time I was 21. My husband would likely cheat on me and I would probably be on some kind of medication for my "nerves." It would be picture perfect.
So my one prized memory of me completely freaking out publicly over one of these guys instead of doing the usual brooding, bad poetry, and endless banal discussions with my girlfriends was over David. We were all in Brussels on a school trip. I don't remember having any interaction with him at all--perhaps that was why I was so disappointed. What I recall is crying, crying, and crying some more on the bus, on the ferry, in the bathroom on the ferry, in the movie theater in the ferry (The Brave Little Toaster was playing, a movie I still hate). I was miserable because this boy was never going to like me the same as I liked him. I was sad over many guys but I recall only ever crying over him. Not sure why. I think I just felt alone and was sad that I didn't have him in the way I really wanted. It likely wasn't about him at all but when I saw him, it represented everything I wanted that I couldn't have. I kept hoping he would see how good I was and choose me. We were friends, but he just didn't like me in "that way."
"That way" was always the issue. My crushes may have been "secret" but I always had some kind of relationship with the guys I liked because I date in reverse (which is why I don't date). I meet a guy, we become friends, and then I decide I really like him more than that. And I had a terrible habit in high school of eventually confessing my crushes to my crush in a heartfelt artfully folded note. A girlfriend of mine recently did something like that to some guy she worked with and I plainly told her that my observations and experiences had led me to the conclusion that if you find yourself writing a letter to a guy who isn't in prison, confessing your love and affection and hoping your letter will lead to his uncovering of feelings he's never expressed to you, it is not likely to end well. Especially since we are in our 30's and not our teens. And our lives don't even remotely resemble a romantic comedy or sitcom.
I would have done well if I had grown up in the 1940's and 50's. I would have been a swell girl to know, guys would court me properly, and I'd be married by the time I was 21. My husband would likely cheat on me and I would probably be on some kind of medication for my "nerves." It would be picture perfect.
High School
So I was watching a Target back to school commercial and I finally found something I miss about high school. How fun it was to dress. I cringe almost to the point of straining when I see the kind of stuff I wore but high school was all about clothes that created a persona. I wore a nightgown and boots to school once and thought it was the best thing ever. There is picture in my yearbook of me in an english bowler hat. I don't know how my parents weren't reduced to tears of laughter every morning when I went to school. I purposely bought a paisley scarf and wore it. I wore shorts in the winter. I should call my parents and tell them that I love them for purchasing those hideous clothes for me and allowing me to express myself in clothing that way. The point is that dressing isn't fun like that anymore. I don't recall ever thinking about how long I would have to walk when figuring out what shoes to wear or considering the weather at all. I just wanted to project a certain image. Nevermind the image was goofy, every fall was the fun of becoming something new.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Church
Bless my blasphemous heart, this made me laugh out loud. I knew I had to return to get a picture and finally remembered to bring my phone on our walk this evening.
Thunder
Few things are as exhilarating as getting caught in a real deal epic thunderstorm. One that treats an umbrella as a liability, floods the streets in moments, and produces chest tightening thunder claps. We took shelter in a parking garage and still had to move 20 feet in to stay dry which is relative when you are already soaked. But we're home now, my clothes are drying, the storm outside is subsiding, and I'm grateful for parking garages, dogs that aren't even a little bit afraid of thunderstorms, and the opportunity to experience that great storm in the company of others.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Addict
This morning I was looking out the window while waiting for my coffee and thinking of next weekend when one of my good friends will be coming to visit. The weekend will be a whirlwind of eating, walking, talking, and shopping. And then she will leave on Sunday and I'll return to the Ava show which has been suffering low ratings for quite some time now. There was a girl sitting across the street wearing a 'Save Darfur' t-shirt and a poster in Starbucks about a water pump installed in an African village both of which started the marbles rolling about getting absorbed into some cause to inject purpose, meaning, and new characters into my life.
What I'm looking for is an addiction. I'm looking for something to consume me, to be the thrust behind everything else. Something that holds my interest long enough for it to become a habit. In my 20's, my habit was church but there was something lonely in the way I practiced my faith. I never really felt as free as I think a relationship with Christ should have felt. I don't blame Jesus, nor have I abandoned my belief in God. Things are quite different between us now and if God was ever the center of my life to begin with and not just a shield I used so life couldn't touch me, He isn't now. So I'm looking for something or someone to give my life to. My friend's mom thinks all single people are doing the same. Maybe. It would be nice in many ways to be some other kind of person but as my friend Wendy would say, "When you are called to be a servant, don't stoop to be a King."
I think deep, deep, down, I'm an impulsive free spirit. That spirit flashes up everyday in some way. Sometimes I'll see a person and want to tell them that they are beautiful or I'll want to take a picture of them so they can see their loveliness. Sometimes I want to do a little happy dance with a good song on the ipod and sing the lyrics at passersby. Sometimes I want to burp loudly in the office or fart and make a big to do about how good it felt. Basically, all the stuff I do when I'm with my family. I want to be loved by someone who wasn't instrumental in the development of that crazy. I want to be with someone who feels like home. One can argue that I have to embrace myself before I can expect anyone else to but I really do not believe that is true. A different and longer discussion for another post perhaps.
It goes without saying that I routinely struggle with depression and I'm functional at those times only in the sense that I can manage to do those things that must be done but I have very little left over to do the things I would like to do. I have no sense of how anything really is, just that very little feels good and I want desperately to retreat. Which brings me to our videos; songs which don't glamorize drug use as much as they describe how well drugs meet the need to have an obsession, to have something to give your life over to that makes you feel good long enough for you to keep coming back. It's a shortcut, and an unhealthy, cruel one at that. Even though drugs can never love you back, I think I understand why it's so easy to love them and so hard to let go. Not my kind of thing but just another way some people try to find the home I think we're all looking for.
What I'm looking for is an addiction. I'm looking for something to consume me, to be the thrust behind everything else. Something that holds my interest long enough for it to become a habit. In my 20's, my habit was church but there was something lonely in the way I practiced my faith. I never really felt as free as I think a relationship with Christ should have felt. I don't blame Jesus, nor have I abandoned my belief in God. Things are quite different between us now and if God was ever the center of my life to begin with and not just a shield I used so life couldn't touch me, He isn't now. So I'm looking for something or someone to give my life to. My friend's mom thinks all single people are doing the same. Maybe. It would be nice in many ways to be some other kind of person but as my friend Wendy would say, "When you are called to be a servant, don't stoop to be a King."
I think deep, deep, down, I'm an impulsive free spirit. That spirit flashes up everyday in some way. Sometimes I'll see a person and want to tell them that they are beautiful or I'll want to take a picture of them so they can see their loveliness. Sometimes I want to do a little happy dance with a good song on the ipod and sing the lyrics at passersby. Sometimes I want to burp loudly in the office or fart and make a big to do about how good it felt. Basically, all the stuff I do when I'm with my family. I want to be loved by someone who wasn't instrumental in the development of that crazy. I want to be with someone who feels like home. One can argue that I have to embrace myself before I can expect anyone else to but I really do not believe that is true. A different and longer discussion for another post perhaps.
It goes without saying that I routinely struggle with depression and I'm functional at those times only in the sense that I can manage to do those things that must be done but I have very little left over to do the things I would like to do. I have no sense of how anything really is, just that very little feels good and I want desperately to retreat. Which brings me to our videos; songs which don't glamorize drug use as much as they describe how well drugs meet the need to have an obsession, to have something to give your life over to that makes you feel good long enough for you to keep coming back. It's a shortcut, and an unhealthy, cruel one at that. Even though drugs can never love you back, I think I understand why it's so easy to love them and so hard to let go. Not my kind of thing but just another way some people try to find the home I think we're all looking for.
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