In the past 6 hours, I have...

-Filmed a 3 minute student movie
-Cried for no less than an hour about being dumped
-Put up a Christmas tree with full 'Martha Stewart Living' worthy decoration in under 20 minutes
-Wrote a paper on white privilege
- Somehow managed not to write in said paper "Yes, yes... I'm now so very aware of white privilege, how real it is, how powerful and completely unearned it is... and it's awesome!"

What? I'm wayyyy more lazy than I am socially conscious.

And, that is what I did in the past 6 hours. In the next 6 hours, I intend to dream about nothing, and wake feeling refreshed and ready to try to take over the world-one trivial task after another- all over again tomorrow.

Did I Mention?

I totttally got the best Christmas present ever, Elvis Costello tickets. From someone secret, which is even more awesome than knowing me so well to begin with. I'm sure I'll be back to my angst in no time, but at this particular moment, I'm going to go dance around to Every Day I Write The Book in my pajamas a little more.

Not at all about men...

Some days I suddenly remember I have a Twitter and it works from my phone, and post like 47 things in .11 seconds. Then next day I feel a little shaky, my head hurts and it's all kind of a fog. I find myself making a mental note that I'm a small girl-- I really shouldn't mix medias.

Oh Gross, here it comes... Fucking Men Part III

I was fine. I was good. I didn't eat any ice cream last night or this morning, I didn't peek out the window every time I heard a car door close hoping he was coming to say it isn't over, that an impostor has been posting as him online and he really couldn't get to me because he was tied up in a basement. I have spent the past 3 days fine, happy, good.

I got a tattoo and talked about the holy trinity of female conversation (Makeup, Men and Motherhood) half of Friday. I ate fried dough and talked to a dear friend who gets me and laughed at the kinds of things normal people don't find funny. I didn't even blog for the love of fuck... I was healed.

And until half an hour ago, I was fine. Then suddenly the sick feeling started, and out it came-- gallons of snot and tears and miserable sobbing. 20 straight fucking minutes of body shuddering can't breathe face drenching blubbering.

This had better have been the fucking end of it: My blog is getting way boring.

Fucking Men: Part II

This. Fucking. Sucks.

I've used the $50 mud mask, I've thrown out all the pictures and notes and little trinkets from the past 6 months (except the Hold Steady shirt and poster: Ironically, if we hadn't been dating I would have been at that show). I've called the best friend, I've cried, I've deleted Buffy from my Instant View, I've updated my Netflix. I'm out of best friends to call, I'm out of tears, I'm out of things to symbolically destroy, and I'm out of energy.

And, I'm out of fucking ice cream.

But, I'm still in hurt--this fucking sucks.

Fucking Men.

Can you break up with someone you're not 'really' dating? And didn't he pretty much break up with you by facebook 'poking' you once over the course of the last week (with no form of chat cuddling after, mind you) as the only form of communication, even while you couldn't peek your internet social site wall because of the overflow of movie ratings and comments to shared friends that he did have time for (and once you have to block someone's posts because they're so frequent, aren't they lying to say they don't have a second?) And isn't it weird when people keep telling you how he's doing despite your not asking because you're too hurt to even care, even though he 'hasn't had a second' and has totally just shamed you for being like 'what the hell', making you feel like an asshole about the fact he hasn't realized that everyone already knows-- that he hasn't bothered... fuck men. Fuck men, fuck men, fuck men.

OK, Snuggie. OK, Ben, Jerry. OK, mascara oozing down my cheeks already... it's just us tonight, let's get down to business.

Grrr... Fucking men.

Not that I could stop anyone from reading my blog...

... not that at all. Nor am I trying to. No, ex boyfriend Tom Lopez of Granger Indiana, I don't care if you read my blog 27 times a day, I don't care if you need a box of tissue and some hand cream to read my blog, that's your own fucking business. However: Since you're already reading...

I absolutely 100 percent promise that if you ever ever ever ever ever email me again for any reason whatsoever, including but not limited to sending me Youtube videos and saying you enjoyed my last blog at 2 in the morning, I will have something totally awesome to blog about-- where we met, how we met, why we broke up, and every creepy dysfunctional insane thing you do. We could talk about the cookies. We could talk about the vacuum. We could talk about Trios. The fireplace video. The coming to my house all out of it on both this and that, and probably some that. We could talk about it all in humiliating detail. For days, weeks, probably months even! And so there's no confusion, that red link there would totally link to your facebook, whatever job sites you have, classmates.com, and multiple pictures of you to be 100% sure that anyone, everyone, can know exactly for certain who you are.

So step away from the keyboard, Tipsy McEmailson. Step away from communicating with me at all. You perhaps forgot how pissed I am, but certainly you could not have forgotten how tacky I am... I will soooo do that shit.

Things I Can't Believe They Gave Me

1) A baby.

Seriously. I have answered the question "Does Daddy call you babymommy too?" I wear stilettos and mini-dresses kite flying, when she asked for pink hair when she was 4 I said "that's awesome" before the question was entirely out of her mouth. I ignore cussing if it's in the right context, in private, and in a reasonable voice level. I let her wear the next day's clothing for pajamas because we both enjoy the extra 15 minutes of sleep it affords. We fight over the last Twinkie-- and sometimes I totally win. No one is as shocked as me that I got away with it... the cosmos somehow totally screwed up and gave me a baby.

2) An Apartment.

Clearly, however, not a vacuum, dish soap, Pine Sol, a shoe tree, or any real motivation to use such things if I actually do have them. You may think 'Mold on your dirty dishes' or 'odd smells' would be some sort of 'motivation'. You may indeed... but you would be wrong.

Caring about those things would require some degree of 'Dignity'. What? I just said I wear mini-dresses to go kite flying: Don't act all surprised.

3) The Right to an Education.

I dropped out of interior design school a semester shy of having my license because I went and got myself in a family way. Somehow the universe saw fit however to let me go back to school 6 years later to get what I have always really wanted, a degree in Psychology. And it's true I have not yet gotten myself pregnant by a drunk ND English major (Oh, how I love the English majors...) in the midst of a drinking game called 2 shot Saturday. It's true I have not yet told a professor that I'm actually thinking so far outside of the box that I'm thinking outside of his box, and that's why he doesn't understand me, and that I don't care to write it out in small words right now because PMS reduces my tolerances for salary-earning ignorance.

This doesn't mean, however, that I don't bring Twizzlers to Film Class, leave my MP3 player on for one of my lecture classes on a frighteningly regular basis, start working on 7 page papers the night before they are due as a rule, or blog when I 'm supposed to be doing a 7 page paper the night before it is due.

4) A Computer.

I don't know how they gave someone so irresponsible, impulsive and scatterbrained something like a computer or the Internet. What I do know is that Sephora and Ulta are sooooo glad they did.

I know there are more, these are just the ones that at current... as I place an Ulta order while blogging instead of writing my paper, perched on my counter-top next to a 2 day old half eaten pop-tart and 3 lipstick lids but no lipstick, eating the last of my daughters Halloween candy and wondering just how I can cover my tracks before morning.

When you keep a blog and no one really reads it too regularly, and then someone makes known that no, THEY will be reading it...

... you suddenly feel the need to add an entry to make it worthwhile.

And by 'you', I mean 'me'.

Ahhhh, that feels better. Hello, April. Welcome to my neurotic.

In Retrospect...

... when the guy I've been seeing said to me last night when I asked if it was over that "No, I just don't really know what's going on with anything, and I don't see that getting any better or me having any more time for anything in the future" and "It really doesn't have anything to do with you. I mean, it effects you, I know, but it's not ABOUT you"...

He wasn't saying "We're good, I just have a lot going on", but that dreaded sentiment I run into oh so often and never notice until after the fact: "It's not you, it's me".

And then I made out with him for at least a solid 20 minutes. My God, I'm glad I'm so hot... because I'm realllllllly fucking stupid.

This weekend...

I went on two dates with the same boy (we've been involved for some time, but this isn't how we roll generally) and didn't freak out about it in the slightest-- even when he kissed me in public for the first one, and pretended he didn't know me and we weren't together for the second one. I had a 6 member punk band on tour stay at my house (sorry boys-- hummus and pita and leaving behind toothpaste and imports: not very rock star), dyed a corset, dyed it again because the black wouldn't take, discussed horses having sex vs. sexual horseplay in a Starbucks, written and turned in two midterm papers that it seems are not due until next week, sat for 4 hours in front of a bonfire, smoked from a long cigarette holder, and ate an entire pumpkin pie to myself.

And my weekend felt wasted, faked and somehow misleading to anyone who saw me taking any part in it. I wasn't called 'mommy' once, and I can't help but think that I wasn't fooling anyone, especially myself... everything was effortless, everything came together perfectly, and everything was completely wrong.

I'll never quite adjust to this being old enough not to need to call me before bed thing.

3 Hours, 3 Exes

At 1:00 sharp, I have lunch with my ex boyfriend. We do not fight, we do not have to get together, we enjoy our Tuesday lunch. He was a major part of my daughters life, and when you live with someone for 7 years you get to be more than a couple. Indeed, in the end we really weren't a couple... we were still together because we are family. And so now, every Tuesday before he has a play day with my miniature self, we go to coffee. We talk about school (mine), how the family is (his), love for the aforementioned miniature (both parties inclusive). And it's good. And it's important. And honestly, it's my favorite part of the week.

As we part at 2:45, I feet compelled to offer to meet his new girlfriend. He's wanted me to for the 2 years they have been together, but I can't. It hurts that he is kind to her, never hits her, never yells at her. Never calls her stupid, never throws her things away because she shouldn't have left them laying around. Never tells her she doesn't deserve to be loved, that she's pathetic, that no one can stand her, that he hates waking up every day she's alive. "Isn't that sick" I think sometimes, "that I am angry with a woman because she doesn't go through something so terrible... Isn't that sick?". But, the last time he asked if I could meet her, I felt like he was asking me to give him permission to forgive himself. Which says more to the point that on his own, he simply can't. I escaped, I take care of me, we are friends, but he still can't forgive himself until he sees that I am OK with it if he does. He feels he has no right to on his own... and that earns my forgiveness. And getting out of the car today, I say "I'll meet her if you want". And he paused and responded very sincerely "Thank you. But you don't... just... whatever you're comfortable with". And he was a terrible boyfriend yes, but he's a wonderful person, he's essential to my life today.

And then I think to myself with 100% certainty... "I love my ex boyfriend."

**********************

Fast forward. 3:30. I call my often cuddle/sometimes kiss/totally gets me ex boyfriend. We are very good friends. We do not fight unless it is romantic in nature because we remain eternally unresolved. More accurately, we do not exactly fight. We get cold. We bicker. We get jealous with no right to. But, we do not exactly fight. Today we have coffee, we complain about school, we brush fingers for silly reasons because we are not physically affectionate in public. I look at him for a moment in that "we are not involved, but we are involved" way, where I am just noticing how much I like the color of his hair, how charming his freckles are, that I like the beard more as we get older, that his eyes shine more than most men. he always looks a little angry, and a little sad-- he always has. I have a moment where I don't think and reach out and brush my finger tips over his hair near his eyebrow, and catching myself. Because I don't like things like that in public any more than he does, I grab for his sunglasses after I do it. It blends seamlessly, no one notices, he does not notice, I barely do myself.

I have been making him a mix CD for a few days, and suddenly I think of how many women he will put these songs on mix CDs for. He's done so several times, in snoopier days I saw evidence of such things on his computer when looking through for my own mixes. They were personal songs. Tender songs. They were me telling him I was in love with him, and exactly how. It takes days, weeks, months to find enough songs to tell someone exactly how you love them, it isn't fair for them to steal your songs and pawn them off, it's like skinning one person to keep another one warm so you can keep your coat. Maybe not something that melodramatic at all, but it's wrong. And it hurts like hell regardless of what it's like... I don't know where the thought came from, but I feel tears welling up and I tell him his sunglasses are ugly and put mine back on, then stop looking at him entirely.

It's October, and in October it gets cold suddenly in the evening in the Midwest.: It suddenly gets cold this particular evening, and I decide to leave abruptly. I hug him at his car tersely, kiss him lightly-- half on his mouth and half on the cheek-- and say good bye. I barely peek back and I'm furious with myself. I hate that I feel the way I do, I know better and I don't trust him and I shouldn't trust him, but it is what it is: I'm just one of the girls he keeps on his shelf, and I hate that I love my ex boyfriend.

*******************************

45 minutes later: I am going to a group get-together. We meet every Tuesday, I am able to join in because my daughter is with our friend and his new girlfriend. I walk in to our regular table, sit down, and notice that people are looking at me cautiously. I turn around and out of the bathroom walks my ex boyfriend. My friends, previously our friends, are looking at me waiting to see how to respond. I do not have a real family, not the way most people do, my friends are my family and they know that I need them, so they love me dearly. They watch me ready to shut down or hug him happily based entirely on my response. He looks perfect, he always did and being in Columbia for almost a year has not changed that. His hair is perfect and I remember how he used to approve of my hair color but not be fond of it past a certain length. His nails shine and I recall him telling me when my nail polish chipped. His outfit is coordinated flawlessly and I can hear him telling me what I should and should not wear, what colors don't work for me, what style shoes make me walk what way, the critique on my body, my weight, my skin... it has all been laying silent for all of this time waiting for today, somewhere just behind my ears.

It's hard to come somewhere when you know that everyone probably knows who you really were after the fact. It doesn't hurt me to let this man be accepted. I don't forget, but I forgive-- I have to. Because when I lean in to decide if I should hug him I smell his skin and it's familiar, and I remind myself that he used to kiss me in his sleep so hard that my lips bled from his teeth pressing against him, that he used to hold me so tightly in that same sleeping state that I was afraid he would strangle me and I wouldn't be able to wake him. It wasn't about me, he was asleep those nights and I could have been anyone.

It was that this man, so perfect, was starving to death for love in his elitist isolation, but no one was good enough. And so I promised then that I would love him, simply because he needed it. And he is still flawless, he is still starving.

And so in the way I would a scared withdrawn child who needs to be loved, I love my ex boyfriend.

*****************

Tonight, washing it all away in the shower, scrubbing away at their fingerprints on who I am today, it all catches up and I feel without reasoning for the first time since the parade of ex boyfriends started. I cry and I cry and I cry until the water gets cold, and I cry a bit more until my my nipples ache and turn purple, goose bumps turn my skin to the flesh of a plucked bird. I slide down the shower wall and sit with the water running over me as I cry, over my flawed hair and my replaceable hips and my ears raw from listening to too much music for other people.

I'm furious and I'm sick with the smiles and well meaning and I don't feel like being such a good fucking person for another second-- I hate hate hate my ex boyfriends.

Go to Hell, Internet Social Site.

No, actually that guy randomly decided he didn't like me and took me off of his friends list and stopped calling and texting out of the clear blue sky a season and a half ago. And I really kind of liked him, and I think you should stop suggesting in your oh so mechanically insensitive way that we should be friends. It's not that his little thumbnail showing up in a corner of my computer screen every single night asking if I want to be his friend (something it has been established that 'yes, I really really do' has nothing to do with) is going to leave me in tears. It isn't. As I type, I have a very nice man bringing me a cheeseburger-- boys come and go.

It's just that my computer shouldn't go around assuming what friends are available to me and rubbing it in that some of them, no they're not. I'm just saying. Go to hell, Internet social site. Making your judgment calls and irresponsible suggestions as to who may like to socialize with... you don't even know me.

Ah. Boy am I glad I got that out there.

Now, to eat that cheeseburger. And, to block someone from my facebook that doesn't even care what I'm doing or have any interest in being my friend to begin with, in the hopes of banishing that little thumbnail in my left hand screen corner forever.

I don't know that I agreed to this.

I 100% chose to give birth to, keep and raise my child. I am aware of this. I 100% chose to go to school full time, I am aware of this. I 100% opted, declared, all on my own that I will not be dating, will not be having sex, will not be getting 'involved' (whatever the fuck that means) for as long as it takes (for whatever the fuck 'it' is). I all on my own decided that yes, I was going to be best friends with not 1 but 2 of my ex boyfriends, the two I love most for tremendously different reasons. I chose with no reservation to move into an extremely small apartment clear on the other side of my city from the area I have always lived. All of these things, totally up to me. I am aware of this all.

It's just that at the time, they sounded more like the above mentioned decisions than "I am choosing to be lonely and confused and overwhelmed, cluttered and exhausted, poor, and above all else, to have a really good reason to be the most neurotic woman I will ever know."

Nope. On their own, none of them really sounded like that... on their own, they all sounded like pretty good ideas at the time.

Mmm, Hmm.

My 6 year old knows exactly what she thinks. Today, it's...


Likes
-------
-Charlie And Lola
-The Beastie Boys
-The green Tinkerbell shirt that fit her 2 years ago quite nicely
-The opening song for the Dianne Rehm show
-Having a 'Super Great Dance Contest'


Dislikes
-------

-The crossword puzzle being on the chair where she wants to read Charlie And Lola
-Nico ("No, Mommy-- I liked that girl before! Now turn it off and turn on that song about Egg Man!")
-Pants
-The actual Dianne Rehm show
-Any dance mommy decides to do in the 'Super Great Dance Contest'

Ah, well... tomorrow, no doubt, is a different day entirely.

Taiwanese Horror Movies

For some reason, totally not as good as Korean ones. Very emotional. Too much character development. Not nearrrrrly enough stop action ghosts with long hair and skeletal deformities.

(Unrelated side note: Giving yourself french tips, and/or blogging... not practical things when trying to watch said subtitled Taiwanese horror movie, just if you were wondering)

"When I go to Daddy's house, I just get to watch TV all day and he goes in his room... he must just think I want to be alone"

OK, I'm going to say it... this is going too far.

Mind you, I don't drink.

Sometimes, however, I do go out to bars with (sort of) ex boyfriends where I see a past romantic interest that was very very special to me (for reasons I never did and still don't understand) and get a little sad and painfully awkward because I want to talk to him-- and don't want to talk to him. I also see old friends and get a little nervous that they will want to be friends again even though there is no common ground to be found, friends I don't see enough of who recently got married that make my heart feel a million times bigger because they're just such good people, and myself in a nearby mirror kicking my (sort of) ex boyfriends ass in a game of darts.

And, it's sometimes a great way to start my summer vacation, however short of a summer vacation it is. Even if I go home at 11:00 because the sad awkward comes back in waves when I see the man at the other table, even if my soda was a little watered down, even if I didn't like what I played on the jukebox moments after I played it, it's sometimes a little nice just to know that I stepped outside of my little world for a moment to peek in on the rest of the world, the bigger one, the one I sometimes barely remember is out there anymore.

And by sometimes, I mean tonight.

And by a little nice, I mean very.

I wouldn't want to live in my old life, ever again, but I don't regret the past, and don't even particularly want to shut the door on it. A peek and a smile and an "I remember when this was my life" before walking out into the clean August air and back to what I know today, and a tiny pang of gratitude even for all of the mistakes and misgivings and sad little things that made me what I am and brought me to what I know. I'm happy today, I really am, and as such I have to be glad of what Ben Folds would call all the wrong turns and stumbles and falls that brought me here... and I really truly am.

I am glad for all of it.

Sad Things 6 Year Olds Say In The Middle Of The Night

"Is it morning yet? Am I going to Daddy's house today?"
"No, you've still got hours. Go back to sleep sweetie"

And she almost did, then suddenly sprang to her feet and threw her nightgown clad tiny frame across the bed to me, wrapping her arms around my neck with almost an adults strength.

"Oh, Mommy, I'm going to miss you so much. And you're so pretty Mommy. Daddy's kind of cooler, but you're just so pretty."

And I told her I loved her and how much I would miss her and how much fun she would have, and then I couldn't resist doing what any self proclaimed cool single mother would do... I gave her a second to get back to the hypnotic half sleep state she had been in previously, then whispered gently that I was wondering why I'm prettier and daddy is cooler.

"Daddy's kind of cool because he doesn't laugh and smile very much and we don't have lots of funny times. That's why you're pretty, because you wear lipstick and you always laugh and play fun silly things with me. And Daddy talks in a fake voice and makes pretend smiles. That's kind of cooler than you, but you're prettier than daddy because your real smile looks so nice and makes me happy, and you smile all the time".

And as suddenly as she had opened her eyes to ask if it was the morning yet a few minutes previous, she promptly closed them and was gone until morning.

And so. After 6 years of wondering just what it was like for her and this man in their brief times together once a month, wondering if maybe on his own he got parenting at all, wondering if I could be sure that I really am a better parent, wondering what he feels, if he feels, wondering if she would ever know that this is where her love comes from... I have an answer.

My daughter knows that her father pretends to enjoy her. I have always known. his parents take good care of him with open hearts and wallets because he's such a good daddy, I have always known that. If his parents had ever decided that they would rather he not raise this child, he would have been long gone, a sigh of relief, nearly immediately. He has to cash in on his parenting rights, but he can't make parenthood something he truly cares about... and now, in some level she doesn't understand yet, my daughter--his daughter--knows that.

She knows that her father pretends to smile at her.

And there is no smug satisfaction, my smart girl is onto you, you little weasel... not even for a moment. There is nothing but sadness, nothing but aching for a human being that doesn't know how beautiful it is to be unable to hide the smile, and for the little girl that one day isn't going to think it's cool anymore that her father is only going through the motions, that there is no real happiness from him for her.

I admit it...

... marriage isn't my bag, no, but I would hate more than anything to live in a world where I didn't see one of my dearest friends look as happy as she did today, where I didn't get to see her say I do and mean it more than I've probably ever meant anything except the I love you's uttered to my daughter.

And here's what trips me up about that, in a big way. The love between my child and I is indeed a force to be reckoned with. It's borderline creepy love, like the kind that might make a mother tell her child all men were evil and lock her away in an ivory tower... or at least a Lorelei/Rory worthy closeness that probably isn't criminal, but definitely counts as some sort of unhealthy enmeshment that child psychiatrist warn against. But it's a big, wonderful completely authentic natural unstoppable love, and it floors me. However, that big creepy wonderful authentic unhealthy love is to some degree authentic because it is biological-- before the real love came, a surge of chemicals rushed through me forcing me to love the kicking ball of cartilage and spine that rolled on my bladder and incubated itself inside of me, only to be born to do nothing but require my maintenance and bite my nipples for the next couple of months before there was the laughing and smiling and little her coming out bit by bit.

Before anything else, that love existed purely to keep her from giving up on screaming to have her needs met by the only person that was physically created to meet them, purely to keep me from in a fit of exhaustion and frustration simply walk away from my young when I'd had enough and heading back to the wild without a thought to how she would fend on her own.

I'm not saying this to slight the sincerity of my love, only to say that originally, I loved because of something in my genetic makeup that makes me more maternal than some ( and then, loved to the somewhat freakish degree I do because of something no one ever would have suspected in my genetic makeup that makes me way the fuck more maternal than most).

Ultimately, my daughter and I love so purely and in such a forever way because it's pure science... we were made for each other. Literally.

But Courtney wasn't made for this man. Not in the way that a mother and child are, hard-wired in such a way that it seems to me someone must be working hard against their own biological makeup to not be (as some mothers manage, which baffles me to no end). No, this love didn't HAVE to be, this love wasn't 100% embedded in her without any say so from the get-go. My friend looked a man in the eyes, thought about it...

.... and then made the decision that yes, yes, she was going to share a part of herself, the bigger part of herself, her entire life and all of her love, with this man forever.

And while I don't understand that, while I know that's something that isn't within me and am not only at peace with that but a little admirable of myself for usually, I have to admit-- I was envious today for just a moment. Somehow, for a second, it registered with me that in a way this makes my friend somewhat scientifically superior to me. This woman can love to this degree without having to... this woman can choose something so big.

This woman can do something that my brain can't piece together at all. This woman can make the adult decision to love fully and entirely in a way I can never never ever seem to grasp.

And, I feel suddenly very limited in the way my mind processes love, I feel limited in what I have the ability to want to take for myself. And I feel lucky beyond words to be friends with someone with that beautiful amazing ability.

So there's that I suppose... the love of an amazing friend for all that she is, that's something I can choose to nurture and give myself to completely. I can take pleasure in that and hold it close and really protect it and treasure it even though it isn't hardwired into me, I can commit to my friendships and take joy from their joy freely and endlessly...

And, I do.

So, while thank God it's her and not me... I can be for a moment completely delighted for a marriage of two people today. And I suppose that vicarious happiness through another, it's in its way every bit as delightful as whatever it is that I'm not looking for from anything romantic. So, dare I say it-- yay, marriage.