Thursday, July 1, 2010
Do I really have to go take my student ID picture with a giant skin blemish on my chin today?
I cannot even begin to tell you how many things I am just too fucking old for in the above statement.
Monday, June 14, 2010
"You're so vain, you probably think this facebook's about you, don't you, don't you..."
Ashley asked the question randomly as a Facebook post, "Are you always this soft spoken? Are you okay right now?" I believe it is lyric or movie quote, and it was certainly not for me... but I wanted to call her and cry over the line, free minutes for true words (compliments of Verizon Cellular), exchanged between Indiana and New York... "I'm not okay right now. I'm at a loss for words, can't type, can't read, can't say what I mean. I can't even call it soft spoken, that would be spoken at all... It's been happening for weeks now, I don't know where I am. I'm so glad someone can tell. "
But the phone sits untouched, speed dial number 3 remains unpressed, "Call Ash" not voice prompted, more words I can't find. The post sits now 37 minutes of dust covering it, and I didn't say a word.
I fall to lyrics myself, The Talking Heads have been playing in my head for these weeks...
"Some things can never be spoken
Some things cannot be pronounced"
Which is small comfort, but having the words for not having any words, I'll take even that for now. It's a look across the room, a smell that reminds you of something... it's not articulate or even interesting to anyone but me, but there's a sensation, and that at least, is something.
Tonight, I plucked my eyebrows, scrubbed my face, and colored my hair. It's a painstakingly precise ritual, both punishing and satisfying in equal parts. I am killing myself to live attractively so often, the shoes that make the feet bleed come out more often in these waves of pensive quiet, the brows become wire thin, the posture creates aches where the shoulders meet the neck with it's rigid perfection. Every outward fiber of me screams when I fall so mute, but it screams the wrong way, the wrong words. "Look at me" and "Do you see" are not unalike, but are not, by any stretch, the same.
When putting the conditioner on after the dye tonight, my finger slipped along the edge of the foil packet, slicing not enough to bleed, but enough to break a smallish flap of skin from the the rest. I stared at it, felt the sting, and resented wrapping it with an utterly adorable pink band-aid with purple flowers. I do not wear hair-maintenance wounds like battle scars, and resent wearing their treatment like ornamentation. My pointer digit is all wrapped up as I type this, in a perfect pink floral sliver of irony, and for that as well, I don't have the words.
There is something, some overcast sticky-hot wave of humidity settled in just below the airy surface of me, and it's making my throat tight, distracting me... it's displeasing and it's real, and I find myself soft spoken even while trying to shout through it's muggy trappings that nothing is wrong, but no-- I am not okay right now. But the words are sucked into the steaming thickness of it all, and a thin little "I'm just in a weird place lately" barely manages to squeak through. And even that falls not from my mouth at all but fumbling off of my fingers onto a keyboard with its (with my) grammatical errors and lack of accurate analogy and poor use of language in general, as well as ice cream on the keys and difficulties of the likes that Adrienne Rich would call "Mechanical Problems".
I'd like to say it's just one of those things, but even that's not really what I want to say... I don't know what this thing is, I don't have that word either. I'm not okay, and I can't tell anyone about it simply because there isn't a way to, and that is in itself becoming a serious mechanical problem, because making peoples facebook posts about me is tacky, and being soft spoken, however much it may be my reality right now, is simply not me.
But the phone sits untouched, speed dial number 3 remains unpressed, "Call Ash" not voice prompted, more words I can't find. The post sits now 37 minutes of dust covering it, and I didn't say a word.
I fall to lyrics myself, The Talking Heads have been playing in my head for these weeks...
"Some things can never be spoken
Some things cannot be pronounced"
Which is small comfort, but having the words for not having any words, I'll take even that for now. It's a look across the room, a smell that reminds you of something... it's not articulate or even interesting to anyone but me, but there's a sensation, and that at least, is something.
Tonight, I plucked my eyebrows, scrubbed my face, and colored my hair. It's a painstakingly precise ritual, both punishing and satisfying in equal parts. I am killing myself to live attractively so often, the shoes that make the feet bleed come out more often in these waves of pensive quiet, the brows become wire thin, the posture creates aches where the shoulders meet the neck with it's rigid perfection. Every outward fiber of me screams when I fall so mute, but it screams the wrong way, the wrong words. "Look at me" and "Do you see" are not unalike, but are not, by any stretch, the same.
When putting the conditioner on after the dye tonight, my finger slipped along the edge of the foil packet, slicing not enough to bleed, but enough to break a smallish flap of skin from the the rest. I stared at it, felt the sting, and resented wrapping it with an utterly adorable pink band-aid with purple flowers. I do not wear hair-maintenance wounds like battle scars, and resent wearing their treatment like ornamentation. My pointer digit is all wrapped up as I type this, in a perfect pink floral sliver of irony, and for that as well, I don't have the words.
There is something, some overcast sticky-hot wave of humidity settled in just below the airy surface of me, and it's making my throat tight, distracting me... it's displeasing and it's real, and I find myself soft spoken even while trying to shout through it's muggy trappings that nothing is wrong, but no-- I am not okay right now. But the words are sucked into the steaming thickness of it all, and a thin little "I'm just in a weird place lately" barely manages to squeak through. And even that falls not from my mouth at all but fumbling off of my fingers onto a keyboard with its (with my) grammatical errors and lack of accurate analogy and poor use of language in general, as well as ice cream on the keys and difficulties of the likes that Adrienne Rich would call "Mechanical Problems".
I'd like to say it's just one of those things, but even that's not really what I want to say... I don't know what this thing is, I don't have that word either. I'm not okay, and I can't tell anyone about it simply because there isn't a way to, and that is in itself becoming a serious mechanical problem, because making peoples facebook posts about me is tacky, and being soft spoken, however much it may be my reality right now, is simply not me.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
"I was thinking of an unrelated thing"
The past weekend has been a tizzied blur of completely unrelated events and thoughts, along with a broken blogger and a missing journal, leaving me to sort out now the fractured bits and pieces that still haunt...
*I want to know when, why and how I became the kind of woman who at any point thought "you know... I'm going to start altering books". I sandpaper books. I splash bleach on books. I adhere things to, remove things from, measure, dye and stamp books. And what is more... I really like it.
And I have no idea how this happens to someone. I mean, where does this kind of things start, really?
*There are maybe 3 people in all the world who can come to my house totally trashed in the middle of the night, really insult me and make it my fault that they must impose upon me in the middle of said night, then pass out in my bed after trying to get some action, and I not at all be hurt, offended and entirely changed in my feelings about them in the morning. 2 of these people would never ever ever begin to do such a thing because a) They don't drink and B) They really honestly love me and to treat me that way would seem somehow inconceivable to them.
The 3rd, well... I suppose if I'm going to be honest, after a trial run it turns out that there is no 3rd.
* I wish someone had told me 6 years ago that those terrifying nightmares that haunt new mothers and send them shooting up in bed shaking and sobbing would never ever ever stop. No one ever ever let on that "Oh, the nightmares after you have a baby" meant "The nightmares you will NEVER stop having about your child after they are born no matter how old they get or how safe they are in waking life"... and I don't know why not. It would be just as easy to say that there will be a lot of nightmares as a continual part of parenthood as it was to tell me that there would be a lot of nightmares when I first gave birth. The mask of motherhood, baby-- we women are the ones who work against each other the most in our secret lives and struggles anshared, so another mother cannot benefit either.
*I want to know when, why and how I became the kind of woman who at any point thought "you know... I'm going to start altering books". I sandpaper books. I splash bleach on books. I adhere things to, remove things from, measure, dye and stamp books. And what is more... I really like it.
And I have no idea how this happens to someone. I mean, where does this kind of things start, really?
*There are maybe 3 people in all the world who can come to my house totally trashed in the middle of the night, really insult me and make it my fault that they must impose upon me in the middle of said night, then pass out in my bed after trying to get some action, and I not at all be hurt, offended and entirely changed in my feelings about them in the morning. 2 of these people would never ever ever begin to do such a thing because a) They don't drink and B) They really honestly love me and to treat me that way would seem somehow inconceivable to them.
The 3rd, well... I suppose if I'm going to be honest, after a trial run it turns out that there is no 3rd.
* I wish someone had told me 6 years ago that those terrifying nightmares that haunt new mothers and send them shooting up in bed shaking and sobbing would never ever ever stop. No one ever ever let on that "Oh, the nightmares after you have a baby" meant "The nightmares you will NEVER stop having about your child after they are born no matter how old they get or how safe they are in waking life"... and I don't know why not. It would be just as easy to say that there will be a lot of nightmares as a continual part of parenthood as it was to tell me that there would be a lot of nightmares when I first gave birth. The mask of motherhood, baby-- we women are the ones who work against each other the most in our secret lives and struggles anshared, so another mother cannot benefit either.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
There are no good calls after 9:00 p.m. on a Tuesday
When i was 21, I lived in Crown Heights Brooklyn with a 30 year old republican who enjoyed fast food and King Of Queens. We lived in one of the smallest rooms in a brownstone tenement and we were not together too terribly long. That was in the winter and spring of 2001, and while we did not in fact like each other, we claimed to be very deeply in love despite everything about two people like us being all wrong (and truly, I'm fairly certain it was the only reason we were together to begin with... because it was all sooo very interesting). That man was my boyfriend, at one point even my fiance, that man was who I lived with when I one day decided to move to New York for on my 21st birthday.
That man is not who I got the call about at 9:45 on the second last night.
The man I was sleeping with, the subject of said calls didn't even live in Crown Heights, was a year younger than me... the Prat boy with the perfect gray eyes, the one who would meet me at Accidental Records with a bottle of Jameson and talk me into leaving 2 hours early, into claiming I had to work at the club short notice and wouldn't be home that night... he was a photography student-- never put his camera away even knowing I hated, then, to be photographed, even knowing I was terrified that in some fit of jealousy those pictures of me huddled on the train in his jacket, sipping coffee bare-legged in his school sweater perched on kitchen counter, would end up at my boyfriends office, in our mailbox, slid under our door in some moments jealousy or anger or resentment, territorial male claiming of one sort or another. He was the man who taught me "There's nothing you will ever be sorry you have a picture of... always take a picture", advice that to this day, no matter what, I heed.
Even when we met, it was not his eyes that met mine but his flash. 2 weeks in New york, crying outside of the Odessa on the phone to Athena "I don't want to be here... I hate this place, I hate this man, I hate temping, I want to come home!" And, there was a flash (literal), and that night I didn't go home. Nor did I go back to the Brownstone on Lincoln Place off of Kingston. It was the first morning I liked waking up in New York, it was the first time I had liked the feeling of someone taking my picture with no outfit on, no makeup, no pose... just a cup of coffee, a borrowed sweater, a hangover and a lack of obligation.
I still send him pictures of me every now and again. When I was younger, still perfect, they were more like the ones he took of me that winter and spring... in pajamas with hot beverages, gardening with dirt on my nose and my shirt unbuttoned too low, my robe too undone and sliding off of my shoulder resting on my breast as I lounged tragically with the flu. Over the years there has been every few months an exchange of this and that, he's sent pictures of his dog, a tree in his back yard he thought I would have liked the flowers on if the light had been better. And I have sent the pictures truer of our age now... the new place, the most horrible thing he won't believe I've done to my hair, pregnancy, pictures of my new born daughters foot next to a quarter for perspective... most recently of myself combing my hair surrounded by the golden glow of my flimsy bathroom lighting, this one taken by my now 5 year old daughter nearly 10 years after that night in the East Village that he first put me to film (it was real film still, then). That one was sent via email a little under a month ago, the picture as the body of the message, this text added in as formality...
Hello, monster man, thought this may amuse what with the door-frame bit-- it made me giggle anyway. God, let her stay away from Prat boys if she must go photographer on me. Hope you are well, it has been a longer month than usual here, but then I'm always complaining about the month. I plan on visiting a friend late this summer your way, I hope you will find some time. Really, I do, it would be absolutely wonderful to see you. It's been three years since I was living in Bay Ridge hasn't it... I was complaining a lot then too, yes? I'm sure we are neither of us at loss for things to tell, and I don't know if I was clear on it last month, but I was extremely sorry to hear about your breakup. If you don't mind me saying though, she sounded like she had abysmal taste in music. Feel free to write more on the subject any time you need to bounce it off someone, both because I like to hear from you, and because I know things like this just suck.
Fond flashes, Amanda.
And when someone was able to get into his email, they figured from this email that we must have had some thing when we were young, when he was in college, we may in some way be close, and that is why his sister who had never heard of me looked me up to call me at the very precise time of 9:45 PM.
To tell me that he shot himself two weeks ago.
And there's really no one I can talk to about it, our entire bond happened behind closed doors, through his shutter, and via email. It was a secret, and then it was a 'stay in touch' friendship. Last night, I didn't cry. I smoked a pack of cigarettes and remembered all of the things I wish I still had pictures of, wondered what makes a person shoot themselves after the angst of teenage years have passed. And so I'll cry, and so I'll delete the emails and get rid of the pictures. And then, I will watch Lost. Because in the grand scheme of not being able to talk to anyone about something... I'll take my smaller victories today.
That man is not who I got the call about at 9:45 on the second last night.
The man I was sleeping with, the subject of said calls didn't even live in Crown Heights, was a year younger than me... the Prat boy with the perfect gray eyes, the one who would meet me at Accidental Records with a bottle of Jameson and talk me into leaving 2 hours early, into claiming I had to work at the club short notice and wouldn't be home that night... he was a photography student-- never put his camera away even knowing I hated, then, to be photographed, even knowing I was terrified that in some fit of jealousy those pictures of me huddled on the train in his jacket, sipping coffee bare-legged in his school sweater perched on kitchen counter, would end up at my boyfriends office, in our mailbox, slid under our door in some moments jealousy or anger or resentment, territorial male claiming of one sort or another. He was the man who taught me "There's nothing you will ever be sorry you have a picture of... always take a picture", advice that to this day, no matter what, I heed.
Even when we met, it was not his eyes that met mine but his flash. 2 weeks in New york, crying outside of the Odessa on the phone to Athena "I don't want to be here... I hate this place, I hate this man, I hate temping, I want to come home!" And, there was a flash (literal), and that night I didn't go home. Nor did I go back to the Brownstone on Lincoln Place off of Kingston. It was the first morning I liked waking up in New York, it was the first time I had liked the feeling of someone taking my picture with no outfit on, no makeup, no pose... just a cup of coffee, a borrowed sweater, a hangover and a lack of obligation.
I still send him pictures of me every now and again. When I was younger, still perfect, they were more like the ones he took of me that winter and spring... in pajamas with hot beverages, gardening with dirt on my nose and my shirt unbuttoned too low, my robe too undone and sliding off of my shoulder resting on my breast as I lounged tragically with the flu. Over the years there has been every few months an exchange of this and that, he's sent pictures of his dog, a tree in his back yard he thought I would have liked the flowers on if the light had been better. And I have sent the pictures truer of our age now... the new place, the most horrible thing he won't believe I've done to my hair, pregnancy, pictures of my new born daughters foot next to a quarter for perspective... most recently of myself combing my hair surrounded by the golden glow of my flimsy bathroom lighting, this one taken by my now 5 year old daughter nearly 10 years after that night in the East Village that he first put me to film (it was real film still, then). That one was sent via email a little under a month ago, the picture as the body of the message, this text added in as formality...
Hello, monster man, thought this may amuse what with the door-frame bit-- it made me giggle anyway. God, let her stay away from Prat boys if she must go photographer on me. Hope you are well, it has been a longer month than usual here, but then I'm always complaining about the month. I plan on visiting a friend late this summer your way, I hope you will find some time. Really, I do, it would be absolutely wonderful to see you. It's been three years since I was living in Bay Ridge hasn't it... I was complaining a lot then too, yes? I'm sure we are neither of us at loss for things to tell, and I don't know if I was clear on it last month, but I was extremely sorry to hear about your breakup. If you don't mind me saying though, she sounded like she had abysmal taste in music. Feel free to write more on the subject any time you need to bounce it off someone, both because I like to hear from you, and because I know things like this just suck.
Fond flashes, Amanda.
And when someone was able to get into his email, they figured from this email that we must have had some thing when we were young, when he was in college, we may in some way be close, and that is why his sister who had never heard of me looked me up to call me at the very precise time of 9:45 PM.
To tell me that he shot himself two weeks ago.
And there's really no one I can talk to about it, our entire bond happened behind closed doors, through his shutter, and via email. It was a secret, and then it was a 'stay in touch' friendship. Last night, I didn't cry. I smoked a pack of cigarettes and remembered all of the things I wish I still had pictures of, wondered what makes a person shoot themselves after the angst of teenage years have passed. And so I'll cry, and so I'll delete the emails and get rid of the pictures. And then, I will watch Lost. Because in the grand scheme of not being able to talk to anyone about something... I'll take my smaller victories today.
Monday, May 24, 2010
I wonder how lame it is...
That I'm not going to watch the last 'LOST' simply because there's no one I can talk to about it when I do.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Maid Of Honors Daughter, However...
... has her very own ideas about marriage.
"When Courtney gets married, she's going to look like a princess. When I get married, I think I'm going to marry a girl because girls are pretty. "
And while a couple of my conservative friends have always been concerned that My daughter has a perfectly healthy understanding of some girls having girlfriends and some having boyfriends and have always been weary of how close she is to some of my lesbian friends, my own concern suddenly lays not in the fact that we are a gay friendly household, but in the fact that of my lesbian friends... I've clearly let her get closer to some of the too shallow ones.
Really sweetie? You just want to marry someone because they're pretty? I know I raised you better than that.
"When Courtney gets married, she's going to look like a princess. When I get married, I think I'm going to marry a girl because girls are pretty. "
And while a couple of my conservative friends have always been concerned that My daughter has a perfectly healthy understanding of some girls having girlfriends and some having boyfriends and have always been weary of how close she is to some of my lesbian friends, my own concern suddenly lays not in the fact that we are a gay friendly household, but in the fact that of my lesbian friends... I've clearly let her get closer to some of the too shallow ones.
Really sweetie? You just want to marry someone because they're pretty? I know I raised you better than that.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Whatever you do, keep the bouquet away from the maid of honor..."
Some time ago, sitting in Courtney, one of my hands down best friends in all the world's car, I muttered (or rather, spoke too quickly and too softly-- which is the only way I ever speak) about her and her brand new boyfriend. She said something wonderful about him, I agreed, and in the way mentioned above said "You should totally marry him" or some such slightly outlandish but positive statement. And she, claiming not to hear what I had said correctly, said "Oh I know" or "Yes, I should" or some such.
As I recall (and note here that Courtney insists this isn't how it went... but she also claims not to remember the hitchhiking prostitute with the 2 legged puppy in the back seat or the taffeta ball gown I was wearing either: Are we really calling journalistic integrity on me? My blog, my recollection, babe) I yelled "You admit it! You're going to marry him and you love him and you're going to be a housewife! I can't wait to call everyone we know and tell them that you're engaged!"
And she yelped "No... that's not what I thought you said! (and what did you think I had suggested, Court? That you carry him?)! I didn't understand you!"
And I was babbling on and on about how I was going to blog it, and should I call her mother to tell her or would she like to, and can the bridesmaids dresses be green? I look great in emerald green. Just not yellow-- I look terrible in yellow. I mean, I can be a bridesmaid, right? I can't believe you're getting married! All the while, my dear friend proceeded to get pink and frustrated and of this I am sure: At one point she did utter the phrase, as so many people have in the past several years... "You better not blog that (in fairness, I think I did actually suggest that I would first this time)!"
And yes, I know it wasn't nice to freak my friend out about a simple misunderstanding, but she does this great flustered exasperated mom of an overactive toddler thing when I get absurd, and it makes me giggle, and that's why I did it. It's also why periodically I would still say "So, can I tell people you're getting married yet? Can I blog it now?" when she would get that far away "I'm in love" look in the time that followed. I think that somewhere in the back of her mind she actually did fear that I would make an unreasonable false statement about her pending nuptials just because I thought it was funny, both on the Internet and to our closest friends at some public gathering.
And, I think that's fair enough... I really might do something like that.
As it turns out, however, Courtney is very recently engaged. And what is more, despite my harassment previous, she's still by some miracle asked me to be her maid of honor. While it's true that I have already sent her a text in the 3 hours since she has asked me with an embarrassing suggestion for the toast I would like to make, I have also already cried because I'm so happy for her, and because I'm so happy to have her in my life and to be part of such a major time in hers. Her fiance thinks the world of her, she has been the happiest in the past few days that I have ever seen her, and this is something she wants: Someone she loves and trusts, who loves and trusts her, to share her life with. She should have that, and now she will have that, and I'm thrilled. I'm thrilled that one of her dreams is coming true.
And, of course, I've clarified with her that yes, yes, now I'm going to blog it.
It has made something clear to me though, and pardon my jaded nature here because the following statements are not about marriage, they are about me: I am sooooo soooo certain that I never want to get married, ever.
It's not that seeing one of my best friends in the entire worlds joy isn't beautiful to me, and it's not as if I wish or expect anything but the best and happiest for her. But, for just one second I imagined that I were engaged, just let myself run with the silly romantic notion of what it would look like, and it looked like a bloody massacre. I saw having to stop carrying my cigarette butts in my purse because it's tacky and women about to be married don't do things like that. I saw some man getting to know my daughter, getting to live with my daughter, and the nagging fear that some day, maybe, he would go away and plunge her into confusion and a sense of abandon. I saw my daughter and I not being able to hang around eating breakfast in our t-shirts and undies. I saw having to get rid of the worn Persian rug that while once very expensive and classy has since become the victim of spilled milk-shakes, a brief attempt at puppy ownership, newborn puke, hair dye drips. There are frayed tassels on the ends, it smells, and it's mine and I love it. NO man will take this from me, and no man would take me if they knew this came with me.
I tried to imagine the wedding itself: I stopped flat at my family alone-- I don't do family, not really. None of us do. We're just not those kinds of people. I found out my father had a baby because someone saw it on a billboard, and honestly, that was just fine with me. And then there is the matter of babies in general... do I want to have to answer that question over and over again at the reception?
"So, when are you guys going to start planning on a little one?"
We're not. Sorry, hypothetical husband, but it's not happening, you keep that baby-making voodoo away from me. I remember vividly the endless discussions with my long term ex that were eventually a key part in our demise: When were we going to get married? He wanted to have a baby, he was getting to old. "I already have a baby" I explained over and over again. I had gotten my own baby, it's not my job to make them for other people too. I love my child, she's more than enough for me. What do I want with another one? I am not a vending machine, and sadly what I am putting in my uterus becomes, when wed, something that is open to the opinions of another as well. And that's wonderful for people who want children, or even people who are open to the idea-- I, however, simply am not and never will be, and it's not up for debate.
And above all else, it's a little thing that gets me every time: I am not going to wear a diamond on my left ring finger. I have a large green turquoise number rocking the ring finger on my right hand that I've worn since I was teenager, and in more seriously committed relationships I have been known to wear it on my left hand simply to make clear that I was taken and liked it that way. Which in and of itself could be a simple matter, but let's be clear: I am not a simple person, and no one can possibly take the following quirk in any simple way. I would never agree to marry a man who would not get on one knee and place a diamond or some such engagement-looking stone on my ring finger. And yet, I would also not dream of actually wearing that ring save for days that it happened to look good with my outfit and I felt like it. And ultimately, that is about more than just a ring... it is about who I am. I don't know that I could ever completely be one half of a whole. I am more than a fulfilled person with enough of herself to share, I am an overflowing person with too much self to be contained within the confines of two, and I am too selfish with all that I am, the good and the bad, to ever really be able to share it with another person on any terms other than my own... and sometimes those terms may be literally impossible for another person to meet.
This isn't to say I've not been known to be a great girlfriend. It isn't even to say that I have not at one point in my life been essentially married, 7 years of domestic status with the same person. But, in the end he needed more, and I simply wasn't willing to give it. It's not about love, I'm very loving. And it's not about support, I will support the people I love endlessly, I do so on a regular basis. It's about something more abstract. In the beginning of Peter Pan, it talks about how Mr. Darling had almost all of Mrs. Darling, except for one certain kiss at the corner of her mouth that he could never quite get at. And, I've always understood that, but beyond the fantasy world of J.M. Barrie, that kiss isn't one little thing someones wife has... it's that one little thing that one gives to another that those two people should share a life. And I know I have that kiss, coursing through my veins before rushing over my lips, and I have no intentions of sharing it-- I have no interest whatsoever in ever giving it up.
It's hard to explain, but at the end of the day I think about my wonderful beautiful friend Courtney getting married, and I think that is wonderful. It makes me grin, in large part because of the joy I see in her at the very idea of it. But I think for a second about me getting married, ever, and something inside of me gets heavy, hard... I'm filled with a sensation of what I can only call impending doom. When all is said and done, I don't have it in me. I don't have that want to share my life with anyone but my cat and my daughter. And, I don't see anything wrong with that: I have found the love of my life, and it's motherhood, and I am full to the brim. There is no more room for anything else in me... I'm just not the kind of girl, if such a thing sounds even possible, who has ever, or would ever, really dream of being someone's wife.
And I'm glad I know that. I'm glad I can put my loving energy into where I authentically feel the urge to. I'm glad I can not lament my own single status when celebrating my friends pending marital bliss. I'm glad I can entirely submerse myself in time with my daughter, never wishing there was more. I'm glad my rug will always be mine, I'm glad I can wear what ring I want when I want. I'm glad I never have to have another child, I'm glad I don't have to try to figure out family holidays, I'm glad I have cigarette butts in my purse... and I'm glad to be a bridesmaid, and I'm glad someone I love dearly, who wants to be, gets to be a beautiful, happy, wonderful wife.
As I recall (and note here that Courtney insists this isn't how it went... but she also claims not to remember the hitchhiking prostitute with the 2 legged puppy in the back seat or the taffeta ball gown I was wearing either: Are we really calling journalistic integrity on me? My blog, my recollection, babe) I yelled "You admit it! You're going to marry him and you love him and you're going to be a housewife! I can't wait to call everyone we know and tell them that you're engaged!"
And she yelped "No... that's not what I thought you said! (and what did you think I had suggested, Court? That you carry him?)! I didn't understand you!"
And I was babbling on and on about how I was going to blog it, and should I call her mother to tell her or would she like to, and can the bridesmaids dresses be green? I look great in emerald green. Just not yellow-- I look terrible in yellow. I mean, I can be a bridesmaid, right? I can't believe you're getting married! All the while, my dear friend proceeded to get pink and frustrated and of this I am sure: At one point she did utter the phrase, as so many people have in the past several years... "You better not blog that (in fairness, I think I did actually suggest that I would first this time)!"
And yes, I know it wasn't nice to freak my friend out about a simple misunderstanding, but she does this great flustered exasperated mom of an overactive toddler thing when I get absurd, and it makes me giggle, and that's why I did it. It's also why periodically I would still say "So, can I tell people you're getting married yet? Can I blog it now?" when she would get that far away "I'm in love" look in the time that followed. I think that somewhere in the back of her mind she actually did fear that I would make an unreasonable false statement about her pending nuptials just because I thought it was funny, both on the Internet and to our closest friends at some public gathering.
And, I think that's fair enough... I really might do something like that.
As it turns out, however, Courtney is very recently engaged. And what is more, despite my harassment previous, she's still by some miracle asked me to be her maid of honor. While it's true that I have already sent her a text in the 3 hours since she has asked me with an embarrassing suggestion for the toast I would like to make, I have also already cried because I'm so happy for her, and because I'm so happy to have her in my life and to be part of such a major time in hers. Her fiance thinks the world of her, she has been the happiest in the past few days that I have ever seen her, and this is something she wants: Someone she loves and trusts, who loves and trusts her, to share her life with. She should have that, and now she will have that, and I'm thrilled. I'm thrilled that one of her dreams is coming true.
And, of course, I've clarified with her that yes, yes, now I'm going to blog it.
It has made something clear to me though, and pardon my jaded nature here because the following statements are not about marriage, they are about me: I am sooooo soooo certain that I never want to get married, ever.
It's not that seeing one of my best friends in the entire worlds joy isn't beautiful to me, and it's not as if I wish or expect anything but the best and happiest for her. But, for just one second I imagined that I were engaged, just let myself run with the silly romantic notion of what it would look like, and it looked like a bloody massacre. I saw having to stop carrying my cigarette butts in my purse because it's tacky and women about to be married don't do things like that. I saw some man getting to know my daughter, getting to live with my daughter, and the nagging fear that some day, maybe, he would go away and plunge her into confusion and a sense of abandon. I saw my daughter and I not being able to hang around eating breakfast in our t-shirts and undies. I saw having to get rid of the worn Persian rug that while once very expensive and classy has since become the victim of spilled milk-shakes, a brief attempt at puppy ownership, newborn puke, hair dye drips. There are frayed tassels on the ends, it smells, and it's mine and I love it. NO man will take this from me, and no man would take me if they knew this came with me.
I tried to imagine the wedding itself: I stopped flat at my family alone-- I don't do family, not really. None of us do. We're just not those kinds of people. I found out my father had a baby because someone saw it on a billboard, and honestly, that was just fine with me. And then there is the matter of babies in general... do I want to have to answer that question over and over again at the reception?
"So, when are you guys going to start planning on a little one?"
We're not. Sorry, hypothetical husband, but it's not happening, you keep that baby-making voodoo away from me. I remember vividly the endless discussions with my long term ex that were eventually a key part in our demise: When were we going to get married? He wanted to have a baby, he was getting to old. "I already have a baby" I explained over and over again. I had gotten my own baby, it's not my job to make them for other people too. I love my child, she's more than enough for me. What do I want with another one? I am not a vending machine, and sadly what I am putting in my uterus becomes, when wed, something that is open to the opinions of another as well. And that's wonderful for people who want children, or even people who are open to the idea-- I, however, simply am not and never will be, and it's not up for debate.
And above all else, it's a little thing that gets me every time: I am not going to wear a diamond on my left ring finger. I have a large green turquoise number rocking the ring finger on my right hand that I've worn since I was teenager, and in more seriously committed relationships I have been known to wear it on my left hand simply to make clear that I was taken and liked it that way. Which in and of itself could be a simple matter, but let's be clear: I am not a simple person, and no one can possibly take the following quirk in any simple way. I would never agree to marry a man who would not get on one knee and place a diamond or some such engagement-looking stone on my ring finger. And yet, I would also not dream of actually wearing that ring save for days that it happened to look good with my outfit and I felt like it. And ultimately, that is about more than just a ring... it is about who I am. I don't know that I could ever completely be one half of a whole. I am more than a fulfilled person with enough of herself to share, I am an overflowing person with too much self to be contained within the confines of two, and I am too selfish with all that I am, the good and the bad, to ever really be able to share it with another person on any terms other than my own... and sometimes those terms may be literally impossible for another person to meet.
This isn't to say I've not been known to be a great girlfriend. It isn't even to say that I have not at one point in my life been essentially married, 7 years of domestic status with the same person. But, in the end he needed more, and I simply wasn't willing to give it. It's not about love, I'm very loving. And it's not about support, I will support the people I love endlessly, I do so on a regular basis. It's about something more abstract. In the beginning of Peter Pan, it talks about how Mr. Darling had almost all of Mrs. Darling, except for one certain kiss at the corner of her mouth that he could never quite get at. And, I've always understood that, but beyond the fantasy world of J.M. Barrie, that kiss isn't one little thing someones wife has... it's that one little thing that one gives to another that those two people should share a life. And I know I have that kiss, coursing through my veins before rushing over my lips, and I have no intentions of sharing it-- I have no interest whatsoever in ever giving it up.
It's hard to explain, but at the end of the day I think about my wonderful beautiful friend Courtney getting married, and I think that is wonderful. It makes me grin, in large part because of the joy I see in her at the very idea of it. But I think for a second about me getting married, ever, and something inside of me gets heavy, hard... I'm filled with a sensation of what I can only call impending doom. When all is said and done, I don't have it in me. I don't have that want to share my life with anyone but my cat and my daughter. And, I don't see anything wrong with that: I have found the love of my life, and it's motherhood, and I am full to the brim. There is no more room for anything else in me... I'm just not the kind of girl, if such a thing sounds even possible, who has ever, or would ever, really dream of being someone's wife.
And I'm glad I know that. I'm glad I can put my loving energy into where I authentically feel the urge to. I'm glad I can not lament my own single status when celebrating my friends pending marital bliss. I'm glad I can entirely submerse myself in time with my daughter, never wishing there was more. I'm glad my rug will always be mine, I'm glad I can wear what ring I want when I want. I'm glad I never have to have another child, I'm glad I don't have to try to figure out family holidays, I'm glad I have cigarette butts in my purse... and I'm glad to be a bridesmaid, and I'm glad someone I love dearly, who wants to be, gets to be a beautiful, happy, wonderful wife.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Everyone has that one ex boyfriend...
Child free weekends often result in ex boyfriend movie night for me. Not because I want this certain ex back, but because he gets me, I get him, he's comfortable and familiar and has seen me at my absolute worst and loves me anyway. Which isn't to say I'm not friends with a lot of my exes, I am, really. But, this certain ex has become one of my best friends by no small miracle, for the very same reasons we never worked out as a couple to begin with.
But, there are those movie nights, few and far between, when at some point when leaving there's that brush of the arm, the holding hands on the way out the door without really noticing. Muscle memory from long ago coming back to us out of nowhere. And suddenly, eerily naturally, I'll find myself in a kiss. And it's not the easy go with it kisses of dating that make me feel giddy or immediately realize that no, this guy just doesn't work. They're riskier kisses. Not because things get frisky mind you (I may never again live to see the light of a frisky day), not that at all. It's something more like when you quit smoking for a week and then find yourself taking just one hit of a camel wide light. You know what it is, you know it's not what you want and that you've finally put it aside, and that this is riskier business than a casual smokey inhalation... this is temptation.
Or at least, that's what it is for me.
And he's thinking "Oh, I'm kissing Nanda. Kissing Nanda is nice"... if he's thinking at all (I think some people, most people, normal people--probably don't think through kisses to begin with. You know, because they're busy. Kissing) while my mind is racing. He said he loved me but wasn't in love with me. He bails on plans all the time. What's the point in this, we don't work and we're finally better off as friends after years of trying to find that ex balance, does he want to throw that all away? Can I count on him? No, I can't. It would be so easy, and we've both grown up so much since when we were us... no. This is all wrong. I'm past that, I was so unhappy all the time".
And then, the kiss is over and I'm left with my head spinning, reminding myself that I'm not that girl anymore and what it was like, and what's wrong with him, and that I declared on my facebook not three days ago that I "gave the dating world a several month go and absolutely prefer Netflix". And then I'm thinking about dating in general and how when I said I didn't really want to date anymore people said "You have to get back on the horse". Not one, but several people. All I could think, can think, is that no, no I don't. I didn't get thrown from the horse, I decided I didn't like horseback riding-- why would I get back on the horse? I know I don't want dating, I don't want the stress, I'm not interested, and I definitely don't want to date my ex that I'm not really dating.
And, he's already forgotten and is scratching his armpit and trying to play back toe missed part of the movie or find his keys, or maybe laughs and says something about me still being hot and doesn't look back. Because he's not any more interested than I am, a kiss is a kiss, and we used to do so more often and it just kind of happened.
And, I've talked to girlfriends about this several times and know that everyone has one of those ex boyfriends. What I wonder though is if everyone has one of these ex girlfriends...
The one he knows is soooo going to blog it the second she gets home.
But, there are those movie nights, few and far between, when at some point when leaving there's that brush of the arm, the holding hands on the way out the door without really noticing. Muscle memory from long ago coming back to us out of nowhere. And suddenly, eerily naturally, I'll find myself in a kiss. And it's not the easy go with it kisses of dating that make me feel giddy or immediately realize that no, this guy just doesn't work. They're riskier kisses. Not because things get frisky mind you (I may never again live to see the light of a frisky day), not that at all. It's something more like when you quit smoking for a week and then find yourself taking just one hit of a camel wide light. You know what it is, you know it's not what you want and that you've finally put it aside, and that this is riskier business than a casual smokey inhalation... this is temptation.
Or at least, that's what it is for me.
And he's thinking "Oh, I'm kissing Nanda. Kissing Nanda is nice"... if he's thinking at all (I think some people, most people, normal people--probably don't think through kisses to begin with. You know, because they're busy. Kissing) while my mind is racing. He said he loved me but wasn't in love with me. He bails on plans all the time. What's the point in this, we don't work and we're finally better off as friends after years of trying to find that ex balance, does he want to throw that all away? Can I count on him? No, I can't. It would be so easy, and we've both grown up so much since when we were us... no. This is all wrong. I'm past that, I was so unhappy all the time".
And then, the kiss is over and I'm left with my head spinning, reminding myself that I'm not that girl anymore and what it was like, and what's wrong with him, and that I declared on my facebook not three days ago that I "gave the dating world a several month go and absolutely prefer Netflix". And then I'm thinking about dating in general and how when I said I didn't really want to date anymore people said "You have to get back on the horse". Not one, but several people. All I could think, can think, is that no, no I don't. I didn't get thrown from the horse, I decided I didn't like horseback riding-- why would I get back on the horse? I know I don't want dating, I don't want the stress, I'm not interested, and I definitely don't want to date my ex that I'm not really dating.
And, he's already forgotten and is scratching his armpit and trying to play back toe missed part of the movie or find his keys, or maybe laughs and says something about me still being hot and doesn't look back. Because he's not any more interested than I am, a kiss is a kiss, and we used to do so more often and it just kind of happened.
And, I've talked to girlfriends about this several times and know that everyone has one of those ex boyfriends. What I wonder though is if everyone has one of these ex girlfriends...
The one he knows is soooo going to blog it the second she gets home.
Monday, April 26, 2010
"Aging Spinster In Produce..."
Honestly, do they make an announcement at my grocery store the second I walk in the door? Should I be listening more closely when I get my cart?
Because I have taken not 2 and not 3, but 5-- yes, 5-- numbers in the past 2 weeks so men would leave me alone to finish grocery shopping.
And you know, not a one of them has offered to buy any-any-of my groceries.
Because I have taken not 2 and not 3, but 5-- yes, 5-- numbers in the past 2 weeks so men would leave me alone to finish grocery shopping.
And you know, not a one of them has offered to buy any-any-of my groceries.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Effin' laundry day
I cannot imagine how it is that I wear the same 12 outfits over and over like a cartoon strip character, and yet cannot wade through enough of my walk in to figure out what goes to the laundromat and what stays at home for a different day that I am feeling more ambitious.
Certainly something has to give. It's probably time to toss the jeans that aren't going to fit me again even if they did look so cute when I was 89 lbs. If they fit me again, it means I am in a fit of postpartum hysteria and eating every third day. I do not want those pants to fit me again, I do not want 2004 back, I do not want to be 89 lbs of fear and depression and breastfeeding. I can probably get rid of those jeans, even though when they did fit, they looked cute.
And sweaters... I have always had a problem with sweaters. I dress like a dirty trollop and that's all there is to it, but sometimes I like the option of covering up those two quivering scoops of flesh. I know there is in all honesty nothing more inherently womanly or motherly than the very breasts a child is meant to nurse at, but many a mother may beg to differ, and I admit it, I let those boobie-shunning bibs of shame sweaters have become for me live in my purse for in case I run across just such a woman. However: How many bibs of shame do I really neeeed in April? Couldn't I cut it down the way that one does a belt to, say, 1 brown, one black, one white? That should cover all ground, no? Or rather, all breast? Do I really need the brown one with the pencil stripes because it makes my hair color look cute, the one that doesn't stay up on one shoulder because it lets me alternate between tart and curt with blindingly manipulative ease, the button down green green cropped sweater with the short sleeves because in a pinch Morgan can put it on, the cut-off flash-dance one just because I love it, the gray striped one that I got from one of those adorable basement boys in high school that he still probably doesn't know I have since I quit school the next month and never have seen him again, the one I bought my ex boyfriend but took with me when getting out of his car after friend-lunch one day when I found out he let his new girlfriend have it after we broke up last year, the maternity sweater that I don't want to store because what if I'm wrong and some day I decide I really DO want another child, the 4 Morgan is waiting to grow into, the one that I know I'm going to grow into any day now, the long mesh one that will never be in style again but I don't care because it makes me feel beautiful so I wear it around the house all the time anyway...
No. All of this... all of this, I do not need.
The jeans? Yes, I do need all 12 pairs. The shorts, yes. 3 micro mini-shorts, one black, one white, one brown. The same of micro mini-skirt. Brown, black, white. Every tank top I own, every single one, gets millage also. The socks... somehow, I cannot find the socks. The bras? A knotted tangle of straps and hooks, varying from a small C to a large D, in 32, 34, and 36 from various stages of nursing, postpartum depression, weening, weight gain, push up results, etc. I am wearing one of the 2 I got on clearance at TJ maxx, and the other is in the laundry-bag. One is brown, and one is black-- in bras it seems, I do not care for a white.. Though I'm certain there are a few of those amidst the bra-ball in the closet too.
Something must be done, this is the bottom line. In the time it has taken me to list this (yes, I realize a blog and a list are to normal people different things-- but what normal person has named the bra ball in their closet, I ask you that.), it has started to rain, and I won't be doing laundry today after all.
I'm glad I'm freakishly attractive, it's easier being dumb in a world you're beautiful in I've found.
Certainly something has to give. It's probably time to toss the jeans that aren't going to fit me again even if they did look so cute when I was 89 lbs. If they fit me again, it means I am in a fit of postpartum hysteria and eating every third day. I do not want those pants to fit me again, I do not want 2004 back, I do not want to be 89 lbs of fear and depression and breastfeeding. I can probably get rid of those jeans, even though when they did fit, they looked cute.
And sweaters... I have always had a problem with sweaters. I dress like a dirty trollop and that's all there is to it, but sometimes I like the option of covering up those two quivering scoops of flesh. I know there is in all honesty nothing more inherently womanly or motherly than the very breasts a child is meant to nurse at, but many a mother may beg to differ, and I admit it, I let those boobie-shunning bibs of shame sweaters have become for me live in my purse for in case I run across just such a woman. However: How many bibs of shame do I really neeeed in April? Couldn't I cut it down the way that one does a belt to, say, 1 brown, one black, one white? That should cover all ground, no? Or rather, all breast? Do I really need the brown one with the pencil stripes because it makes my hair color look cute, the one that doesn't stay up on one shoulder because it lets me alternate between tart and curt with blindingly manipulative ease, the button down green green cropped sweater with the short sleeves because in a pinch Morgan can put it on, the cut-off flash-dance one just because I love it, the gray striped one that I got from one of those adorable basement boys in high school that he still probably doesn't know I have since I quit school the next month and never have seen him again, the one I bought my ex boyfriend but took with me when getting out of his car after friend-lunch one day when I found out he let his new girlfriend have it after we broke up last year, the maternity sweater that I don't want to store because what if I'm wrong and some day I decide I really DO want another child, the 4 Morgan is waiting to grow into, the one that I know I'm going to grow into any day now, the long mesh one that will never be in style again but I don't care because it makes me feel beautiful so I wear it around the house all the time anyway...
No. All of this... all of this, I do not need.
The jeans? Yes, I do need all 12 pairs. The shorts, yes. 3 micro mini-shorts, one black, one white, one brown. The same of micro mini-skirt. Brown, black, white. Every tank top I own, every single one, gets millage also. The socks... somehow, I cannot find the socks. The bras? A knotted tangle of straps and hooks, varying from a small C to a large D, in 32, 34, and 36 from various stages of nursing, postpartum depression, weening, weight gain, push up results, etc. I am wearing one of the 2 I got on clearance at TJ maxx, and the other is in the laundry-bag. One is brown, and one is black-- in bras it seems, I do not care for a white.. Though I'm certain there are a few of those amidst the bra-ball in the closet too.
Something must be done, this is the bottom line. In the time it has taken me to list this (yes, I realize a blog and a list are to normal people different things-- but what normal person has named the bra ball in their closet, I ask you that.), it has started to rain, and I won't be doing laundry today after all.
I'm glad I'm freakishly attractive, it's easier being dumb in a world you're beautiful in I've found.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
And the best question my 5 year old has asked all week isssss.....
"Mommy, how come time and temperature never just calls you for once?"
(That this was followed up with a sigh (from her) really gave it a little something, too.)
(That this was followed up with a sigh (from her) really gave it a little something, too.)
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Cosmic signs from the checkout lane: It's not you it's me and the 40 times I've learned that.
"It's not you, it's me".
So, maybe that's true. Maybe. But it's also true that since the dawn of my womanhood, or at least since I got my first training bra, I have single-handily been responsible for men the world over realizing what about them (not me) it was. The thought of having to see ME again, of maybe being my boyfriend or even having to go through another Friday night with me for any reason at all... that helped them to see something... you know... about them.
In short, there's just something about me. Or rather, more specifically there's something wrong, very very wrong about me, that makes men realize something about themselves-- and their never wanting to see me again.
And, it's what it is. I've always been the girl before the girlfriend, the girl to whom you say "It's just that I respect you too much to keep just hooking up and not actually moving forward"... but doesn't respect you enough to maybe, as you'd been waiting for all those stupid fumbling nights after closing down the bar with him, for him to m maybe ask "Do you want to go to a movie? Or rent one? Or maybe even swing through a drive-through on the way back to your apartment and I'll pay?"... but maybe, maybe this certain boy respected me too much for that too-- I mean, he wouldn't have wanted me to feel like a hooker or anything, right? No, no, 'Blue-Ribbon' boy... I have never forgotten that winter. It was a cold winter, and that 'respect' has chilled me to the bone for all these years hereafter. Someone once told me it was because you were so Irish... that it was because you were so this or so that, but the truth is, it wasn't any of those things-- that was my first peek at the reality of it... that it wasn't anything about you. It was that you were (or rather weren't) with me.
And so I don't know why-- because I am 30, because my partner of 7 years has met the woman of his dreams in under a year, jsut because it's what people say I should do--I continue to try, now and again, to date. Cautiously, generally firmly set against it before even considering coffee, googling to be on the safe side and secretly hoping to find out that this time it will be you to get it out of the way before having to put on makeup even that first time.
But, I do, I keep that door just the tiniest crack open. I do not know why, it's in my nature... a romantic without any trust is a messy thing. In past years I would be very good friends with Emily Dickinson, no doubt, though I feel certain she would not care in the slightest for the fact that the only way I write is to blog.
And, it's in my nature to be a kind person. And recently, when seeing a my-god-i-cant-believe-a-man-that-hot-can-be-walking-the-face-of-this-earth lost soul of a creature wandering desperately through a grocery store looking for a place to throw out his gum, I offered him a wrapper from my purse. I even offered, though he refused, for him to put it in my purse (not because I'm creepy, relax-- I just happen to have a child nearing 6, it would probably be the least creepy thing in my purse). And he said "It would be wrong to just you know... stick it somewhere". And I agree-- there are just certain ways one ought to behave in this world. You should return your cart to the cage for it in the parking lot. You should never throw your cigarette butt on the ground. You should never leave a tip for a waitress under the plate so it gets lost or dirty. You should always ask customer service people how they are, and you should really want to know when you ask... and it's nice to see others of that nature as I do here and there. So we got to talking, and talking led to chatting, and chatting led to "I don't want to be to forward, but you're extremely attractive and seem like a kind of special girl-- are you married or engaged?"
And I'm not. And we exchanged numbers, and it was nice. And it took some of the hurt from the most recent 'it's not me, it's just me not wanting you' experience, which was still a little fresh just because it went down in an awkward fashion, and because by now, it's a familiar kind of sting, it's getting old and more wearing.
But I digress. Before side note, we were exchanging numbers. And I continued my shopping, kind of tickled, a little flattered, but as ever myself thinking "But I probably won't call him... anyway, who the hell meets someone in the grocery store? And he totally wasn't my type". But, the number, it did go in my purse. And there it stayed...
Until the checkout lane. And there, there was the last one. The most recent reminder that 'no, no, you are not for dating... you are one who doesn't work for others'. His perfect jaw, soft eyes, everything about him wonderful, just another of so many who knew that he was worlds apart from me, something I somehow failed to register. And that's something that always happens, really this was just a little cosmic sign from the checkout... "Reality check at the express lane, please".
And I waited for the cosmic reminder to leave, remembered who I am and what I'm not (datable) , and that it's not me, pretty much as a rule. And I walked out the door after all these years with the thing I've never entirely gotten finally sunken in firmly. I dropped the number behind a trash can. I knew better. Guys and me... we have a 3 weeks shelf life.
There's a poem I remember from an elementary school reader about a kid watching moths flying to their fiery deaths in a bug zapper, and the last line after a moth explains to him the exhilaration of that moment beforehand making it all worth while is something to the effect of "I wish I wanted something as badly as that moth wanted to fry itself" as he watched utterly clueless an d befuddled at the white wings pop away.
And I get that today, I do.
The boy has been in touch... we will have lunch, but for some reason I get it now. I do, I literally truly give up... I have finally come full circle from a 21 year old hopeless romantic to a 30 year old romantic who doesn't know hope. It's always going to hurt like hell, it's always going to end badly, and it's never ever been and never going to be worth it to get there. I don't want anything as badly as that moth wanted to fry itself, and baby... when it comes to who gets zapped in the end...
It's not you... it's me.
Always.
(*I really do want to note here that the most recent "ummm...not vibing you" guy is really a great guy, wonderful even. I wasn't mad that he didn't like me, it happens. He just happened to be the one in the checkout line when self doubt creeped in.)
So, maybe that's true. Maybe. But it's also true that since the dawn of my womanhood, or at least since I got my first training bra, I have single-handily been responsible for men the world over realizing what about them (not me) it was. The thought of having to see ME again, of maybe being my boyfriend or even having to go through another Friday night with me for any reason at all... that helped them to see something... you know... about them.
In short, there's just something about me. Or rather, more specifically there's something wrong, very very wrong about me, that makes men realize something about themselves-- and their never wanting to see me again.
And, it's what it is. I've always been the girl before the girlfriend, the girl to whom you say "It's just that I respect you too much to keep just hooking up and not actually moving forward"... but doesn't respect you enough to maybe, as you'd been waiting for all those stupid fumbling nights after closing down the bar with him, for him to m maybe ask "Do you want to go to a movie? Or rent one? Or maybe even swing through a drive-through on the way back to your apartment and I'll pay?"... but maybe, maybe this certain boy respected me too much for that too-- I mean, he wouldn't have wanted me to feel like a hooker or anything, right? No, no, 'Blue-Ribbon' boy... I have never forgotten that winter. It was a cold winter, and that 'respect' has chilled me to the bone for all these years hereafter. Someone once told me it was because you were so Irish... that it was because you were so this or so that, but the truth is, it wasn't any of those things-- that was my first peek at the reality of it... that it wasn't anything about you. It was that you were (or rather weren't) with me.
And so I don't know why-- because I am 30, because my partner of 7 years has met the woman of his dreams in under a year, jsut because it's what people say I should do--I continue to try, now and again, to date. Cautiously, generally firmly set against it before even considering coffee, googling to be on the safe side and secretly hoping to find out that this time it will be you to get it out of the way before having to put on makeup even that first time.
But, I do, I keep that door just the tiniest crack open. I do not know why, it's in my nature... a romantic without any trust is a messy thing. In past years I would be very good friends with Emily Dickinson, no doubt, though I feel certain she would not care in the slightest for the fact that the only way I write is to blog.
And, it's in my nature to be a kind person. And recently, when seeing a my-god-i-cant-believe-a-man-that-hot-can-be-walking-the-face-of-this-earth lost soul of a creature wandering desperately through a grocery store looking for a place to throw out his gum, I offered him a wrapper from my purse. I even offered, though he refused, for him to put it in my purse (not because I'm creepy, relax-- I just happen to have a child nearing 6, it would probably be the least creepy thing in my purse). And he said "It would be wrong to just you know... stick it somewhere". And I agree-- there are just certain ways one ought to behave in this world. You should return your cart to the cage for it in the parking lot. You should never throw your cigarette butt on the ground. You should never leave a tip for a waitress under the plate so it gets lost or dirty. You should always ask customer service people how they are, and you should really want to know when you ask... and it's nice to see others of that nature as I do here and there. So we got to talking, and talking led to chatting, and chatting led to "I don't want to be to forward, but you're extremely attractive and seem like a kind of special girl-- are you married or engaged?"
And I'm not. And we exchanged numbers, and it was nice. And it took some of the hurt from the most recent 'it's not me, it's just me not wanting you' experience, which was still a little fresh just because it went down in an awkward fashion, and because by now, it's a familiar kind of sting, it's getting old and more wearing.
But I digress. Before side note, we were exchanging numbers. And I continued my shopping, kind of tickled, a little flattered, but as ever myself thinking "But I probably won't call him... anyway, who the hell meets someone in the grocery store? And he totally wasn't my type". But, the number, it did go in my purse. And there it stayed...
Until the checkout lane. And there, there was the last one. The most recent reminder that 'no, no, you are not for dating... you are one who doesn't work for others'. His perfect jaw, soft eyes, everything about him wonderful, just another of so many who knew that he was worlds apart from me, something I somehow failed to register. And that's something that always happens, really this was just a little cosmic sign from the checkout... "Reality check at the express lane, please".
And I waited for the cosmic reminder to leave, remembered who I am and what I'm not (datable) , and that it's not me, pretty much as a rule. And I walked out the door after all these years with the thing I've never entirely gotten finally sunken in firmly. I dropped the number behind a trash can. I knew better. Guys and me... we have a 3 weeks shelf life.
There's a poem I remember from an elementary school reader about a kid watching moths flying to their fiery deaths in a bug zapper, and the last line after a moth explains to him the exhilaration of that moment beforehand making it all worth while is something to the effect of "I wish I wanted something as badly as that moth wanted to fry itself" as he watched utterly clueless an d befuddled at the white wings pop away.
And I get that today, I do.
The boy has been in touch... we will have lunch, but for some reason I get it now. I do, I literally truly give up... I have finally come full circle from a 21 year old hopeless romantic to a 30 year old romantic who doesn't know hope. It's always going to hurt like hell, it's always going to end badly, and it's never ever been and never going to be worth it to get there. I don't want anything as badly as that moth wanted to fry itself, and baby... when it comes to who gets zapped in the end...
It's not you... it's me.
Always.
(*I really do want to note here that the most recent "ummm...not vibing you" guy is really a great guy, wonderful even. I wasn't mad that he didn't like me, it happens. He just happened to be the one in the checkout line when self doubt creeped in.)
Thursday, April 15, 2010
And then there was the time I was thinking about having brunch with a a philosopher and historian of science, Dissertating at ND....
... but then I thought about it some more.
That was a good call on my part.
That was a good call on my part.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Homecoming
It's always overwhelming, 2 days of a different life, a different me. One who doesn't tell bedtime stories or do the dishes, one who doesn't rub glitter on knees because it is 'fairy powder' and the biggest lie in all of maternal history but for some reason I've come to terms with the fact that I will never again be young, enough, perfectly wiling to want happiness and comfort enough to understand the magic behind, it is the only think that can make a 5 year old girl, nearly 6, think a growing pain doesn't hurt anymore. I go out late. I dress like a brazen hussy. For a few weeks in there I even kissed boys without worry of the sitter (that is over now, mind you-- seems it's hard to tell a girl you're not interested anymore when your tongue is in her mouth, but luckily, this girl knows to ask. Via text.). I drink red bull, I stay busy, I watch slasher films in the middle of the day and blare Liz Phair and They Might Be Giants until the windows shake to spite the Gin-Blossom rocking mullet lady downstairs.
And then, I go to bed alone, and I cry a little bit because this isn't me anymore-- I am not a girl who hangs out in bars and makes vapid chitchat and intrigues with little substance and much charm... I am more (now), my life is bigger (now)... I am not also a mother, I am a mother first and all else on the side. But the Indiana State Visitation guidelines insist that every 21 days I not look into my own eyes on a smaller face, marvel at the little girl that has her fathers mouth but wears my smile... that I assume another identity.
And I don't mind the break. I don't mind the monthly atmosphere of freaky holiday, I even look forward to it sometimes. But there are these times, the longer stretches like Spring Break, that I fear it. I feared losing myself. Closing down bars with diet soda, sleeping until noon, kissing virtual strangers because some boy made me feel bad about myself, wearing too much makeup and showing too much breast even for the stiletto-halter-mini mother of the year that I have always been. Yesterday, I woke up and thought "Oh, there were other things I was supposed to do in my time off".
In my time off.
Something terribly strange happened to me this week, something I didn't like. I have always had great respect for motherhood as hard work, my primary career, responsibility, life's calling. But never, never, have I seen it as a job. I forgot for a moment in there something crucial, something I've never forgotten before: Being my daughters mother is not what I do... being my daughters mother is who I am. It's what I was put on this earth to be. It's all I ever wanted, and I never knew crawling in and out of so many beds that it was only because that's what it would take a commitment-phobe like myself to have her head where it's always belonged, on the pillow next to mine.
And tonight, her first night home, I tucked her in and she held me close and said in half sleep to me that "I missed you so much... I'm really glad to be back home. It smells like our house here, mommy. It's different to be somewhere that doesn't smell like you. Here, hold on to me tighter like this so we're really close again at home ". And she held on until she fell asleep with one other whisper to me, the one I needed more than I knew.
"Can you crawl in my ear when I go to sleep, like get really small? Because then you can always be in my brain since I think about you all the time anyway. You can have a house there, and it can smell like you when I'm not home, and so it can smell like me for you too when I'm gone".
They were the babbles of an exhausted kindergartner up past bedtime, I know that, but that little tired 6 year old is smarter than I will ever be. She could never forget for a moment what I did for that split second here and there when she was gone... that there's no telling who really belongs to who anymore, where one of us starts and the other one begins. So I smelled her hair and listened to her snore for a bit, and kissed her forehead for the first time in 8 days.
And she smelled like her, and she smelled like home. And I'm madly in love with that little girl, the me I wish I could be and a million times more, the very picture of perfection, brilliance and living poetry.
And in this very second it dawned on me... summer break is really going to be a fucking bitch.
And then, I go to bed alone, and I cry a little bit because this isn't me anymore-- I am not a girl who hangs out in bars and makes vapid chitchat and intrigues with little substance and much charm... I am more (now), my life is bigger (now)... I am not also a mother, I am a mother first and all else on the side. But the Indiana State Visitation guidelines insist that every 21 days I not look into my own eyes on a smaller face, marvel at the little girl that has her fathers mouth but wears my smile... that I assume another identity.
And I don't mind the break. I don't mind the monthly atmosphere of freaky holiday, I even look forward to it sometimes. But there are these times, the longer stretches like Spring Break, that I fear it. I feared losing myself. Closing down bars with diet soda, sleeping until noon, kissing virtual strangers because some boy made me feel bad about myself, wearing too much makeup and showing too much breast even for the stiletto-halter-mini mother of the year that I have always been. Yesterday, I woke up and thought "Oh, there were other things I was supposed to do in my time off".
In my time off.
Something terribly strange happened to me this week, something I didn't like. I have always had great respect for motherhood as hard work, my primary career, responsibility, life's calling. But never, never, have I seen it as a job. I forgot for a moment in there something crucial, something I've never forgotten before: Being my daughters mother is not what I do... being my daughters mother is who I am. It's what I was put on this earth to be. It's all I ever wanted, and I never knew crawling in and out of so many beds that it was only because that's what it would take a commitment-phobe like myself to have her head where it's always belonged, on the pillow next to mine.
And tonight, her first night home, I tucked her in and she held me close and said in half sleep to me that "I missed you so much... I'm really glad to be back home. It smells like our house here, mommy. It's different to be somewhere that doesn't smell like you. Here, hold on to me tighter like this so we're really close again at home ". And she held on until she fell asleep with one other whisper to me, the one I needed more than I knew.
"Can you crawl in my ear when I go to sleep, like get really small? Because then you can always be in my brain since I think about you all the time anyway. You can have a house there, and it can smell like you when I'm not home, and so it can smell like me for you too when I'm gone".
They were the babbles of an exhausted kindergartner up past bedtime, I know that, but that little tired 6 year old is smarter than I will ever be. She could never forget for a moment what I did for that split second here and there when she was gone... that there's no telling who really belongs to who anymore, where one of us starts and the other one begins. So I smelled her hair and listened to her snore for a bit, and kissed her forehead for the first time in 8 days.
And she smelled like her, and she smelled like home. And I'm madly in love with that little girl, the me I wish I could be and a million times more, the very picture of perfection, brilliance and living poetry.
And in this very second it dawned on me... summer break is really going to be a fucking bitch.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Defeat
The job of a mother is to instruct, lead, mold. We teach our children right from wrong-- not only a healthy fear that prevents the wrong action, but ideally a good enough reason to all on their own choose right. We are raising beautiful children into truly good adults, this is our primary function, this is our main objective-- to send the child, unbroken, into the world as the best adult we can teach them to be. In some way, our job is really only to save the entire the world via the tools we give our children to build their own place in it.
Today, I failed in that seemingly simple job.
I didn't argue, I didn't explain, I didn't reason. I looked at her, saw what she was doing, and knew that she would hear nothing I had to say to contradict her action. She looked at me, and she knew it too, smirked condescendingly as I told her what I did. She heard the surrender in my voice, and she was relishing every second of it when I didn't say "Stop that right now young lady, you know that is not OK, we've talked about this before!", and she was delighted as I told her this instead:
"Please chew your toenails on the rug if you're going to do it standing up, if you fall on this floor you're going to hurt yourself."
Some days, I still can't believe I got away with it... I can't believe they gave me a child.
Today, I failed in that seemingly simple job.
I didn't argue, I didn't explain, I didn't reason. I looked at her, saw what she was doing, and knew that she would hear nothing I had to say to contradict her action. She looked at me, and she knew it too, smirked condescendingly as I told her what I did. She heard the surrender in my voice, and she was relishing every second of it when I didn't say "Stop that right now young lady, you know that is not OK, we've talked about this before!", and she was delighted as I told her this instead:
"Please chew your toenails on the rug if you're going to do it standing up, if you fall on this floor you're going to hurt yourself."
Some days, I still can't believe I got away with it... I can't believe they gave me a child.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Things I have learned today
1)Baby sitters will never never never be an exact science-never. There is a perfectly good reason that we pay them $5 an hour.
2)Neither will napping after ones child has returned from school. Sadly, there will never be $5 an hour for that.
3)I don't actually "like" any piece of clothing that I own (if by "like" what I mean is feel even moderately attractive in). No really... not a single thing.
4)Once you throw lunch dates into the mix, it's difficult to know if you are on date number 2 or date number 3.
5) Once you are a 30 year old in the world of dating, you don't really remember what it is that is supposed to be different between date number 2 and date number 3.
And as I told my friend Courtney earlier-- napping went poorly, I don't like my outfit, but in the end it comes down to a few simple things before venturing out on a Friday night:
6)If I'm going on a date with an extremely attractive man, I've made it 30 years without really regretting any of my tattoos getting a divorce or losing a limb, and I've yet to utterly fail my child, then all I really need is a little eyeliner and a Red Bull and I'm good, baby.
Yeah, that's right... it's the small victories and a simple willingness to be happy with them some days, though regretfully I must admit, that's something I have no doubt I will forget and have to relearn at least a thousand more days to come.
2)Neither will napping after ones child has returned from school. Sadly, there will never be $5 an hour for that.
3)I don't actually "like" any piece of clothing that I own (if by "like" what I mean is feel even moderately attractive in). No really... not a single thing.
4)Once you throw lunch dates into the mix, it's difficult to know if you are on date number 2 or date number 3.
5) Once you are a 30 year old in the world of dating, you don't really remember what it is that is supposed to be different between date number 2 and date number 3.
And as I told my friend Courtney earlier-- napping went poorly, I don't like my outfit, but in the end it comes down to a few simple things before venturing out on a Friday night:
6)If I'm going on a date with an extremely attractive man, I've made it 30 years without really regretting any of my tattoos getting a divorce or losing a limb, and I've yet to utterly fail my child, then all I really need is a little eyeliner and a Red Bull and I'm good, baby.
Yeah, that's right... it's the small victories and a simple willingness to be happy with them some days, though regretfully I must admit, that's something I have no doubt I will forget and have to relearn at least a thousand more days to come.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
I'm starting to think I'm really not like other girls.
In the past 48 hours, I have had a 10 hour date, made coffee plans with my ex boyfriend because we think it's important to get together once a week to keep our relationship good. I have dyed my hair 3 times, plucked my eyebrows twice, gone to church 2 times but not actually entered the church once, cooked and thrown away 2 tuna steaks, and will cook two more today before going to another church I have no intentions of entering.
Some of the phrases I have uttered are
"I think I love my snuggy more than you love your child"
"Would it be wrong for me to eat the flower off of my house plant?
"Let's get together just as the guys this time"
"Can I take a picture of your toenail?"
and my personal favorite...
"Do you mind if I do something really weird to your forehead?"
Tomorrow my daughter will be home and life will resume as I know it-- still utterly strange, but an entirely different kind of strange than it has been this weekend. But, I won't be any less strange (or even a different variety of such), that cannot be denied. Least of all now...now that it has been documented.
Some of the phrases I have uttered are
"I think I love my snuggy more than you love your child"
"Would it be wrong for me to eat the flower off of my house plant?
"Let's get together just as the guys this time"
"Can I take a picture of your toenail?"
and my personal favorite...
"Do you mind if I do something really weird to your forehead?"
Tomorrow my daughter will be home and life will resume as I know it-- still utterly strange, but an entirely different kind of strange than it has been this weekend. But, I won't be any less strange (or even a different variety of such), that cannot be denied. Least of all now...now that it has been documented.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Every Morning A 5 year Old Crawls In My Bed And Starts Talking Crazy.
M: Mommy, do you love daddy, and like him too?
N: No... we're not really friends exactly. We don't get along very well, that's why we don't spend time together. We both love you though, that's most important, right?
M: No, I think everyone should love each other and Anna should sleep on the couch and you should sleep in a BIG bed with me and daddy.
N: Ohhh, do you (Many other things were said after this,vicious like a rabid dog and all of them completely silently)?
M: Yes. Maybe I can tell daddy you love him, and he will love you.
N: Don't. You. Dare.
(completely out loud, this statement)
M: OK, then. How about if I cut out a heart out of some red paper and then put some glitter on it and daddy will see it and think maybe that you made it and then I can give it to you (I realize the point is NOT my daughters concern for recycling, but here please let me pause and draw attention to it anyway) and you will think daddy gave it to you and then you'll both love each other and then you and daddy can get married and I don't have to marry you.
N: You got mad moxie kid, I'll give you that. That's a very fancy plan indeed. But, um, no. Your moms a babe, we're getting married, that's that. You, Morgan, are going to marry your mom.
M: Oh... too bad.
N:Mm, it's almost 7:30. We should get out of bed, huh?
M: Yeah. I'm really tired though... I don't even want to get up to go potty.
N: Oh, don't you dare.
*please note: This conversation did not take place this morning-- it's old hat.
N: No... we're not really friends exactly. We don't get along very well, that's why we don't spend time together. We both love you though, that's most important, right?
M: No, I think everyone should love each other and Anna should sleep on the couch and you should sleep in a BIG bed with me and daddy.
N: Ohhh, do you (Many other things were said after this,vicious like a rabid dog and all of them completely silently)?
M: Yes. Maybe I can tell daddy you love him, and he will love you.
N: Don't. You. Dare.
(completely out loud, this statement)
M: OK, then. How about if I cut out a heart out of some red paper and then put some glitter on it and daddy will see it and think maybe that you made it and then I can give it to you (I realize the point is NOT my daughters concern for recycling, but here please let me pause and draw attention to it anyway) and you will think daddy gave it to you and then you'll both love each other and then you and daddy can get married and I don't have to marry you.
N: You got mad moxie kid, I'll give you that. That's a very fancy plan indeed. But, um, no. Your moms a babe, we're getting married, that's that. You, Morgan, are going to marry your mom.
M: Oh... too bad.
N:Mm, it's almost 7:30. We should get out of bed, huh?
M: Yeah. I'm really tired though... I don't even want to get up to go potty.
N: Oh, don't you dare.
*please note: This conversation did not take place this morning-- it's old hat.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Dating and the 30 year old woman (Part 2)
Yes, actually it was (sort of) a date. And what's more, an OK sort-of-date that didn't totally make me feel miserable that I had gone... who knew such a thing was even possible? Not this girl anymore, certainly. I mean, it wasn't Disneyland, but I didn't pretend to be sick or in early pregnancy, so there's that. It was an entirely fine time.
Take that, creepy world of 30 year old single mothers dating.
Take that, creepy world of 30 year old single mothers dating.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Dating and the 30 year old woman
I have found out in the past year that there are myriad ways to ask out a 30 year old woman, ways I would never have imagined could be mistaken for appropriate. Ways that until this past year, I don't know that anyone else did find appropriate. I am not sure if it is that I am 30 and with a child that allows general convention slip... 'that one, she's lucky to be asked out at all, no need to exhaust my A game here', or if I'm putting out some sort of a vibe myself-- somehow what I am wearing or standing or speaking or looking across the grocery store (or taxi) at them is different than last year, somehow it is saying that no no, I don't want the normal rules of social respect to apply to me. I'm beyond them... we're beyond them.
Some of those ways have included, but are not limited to:
-Giving me a call later, since I gave you your number... you know... via the taxi dispatch I called to hire you. To drive me, in your taxi. I mean, of course you're going to call me-- what else could that have meant?
-Following me around the grocery store after catching me dancing to the Rolling Stones in the frozen foods aisle I mistook for empty, "You like the stones though!" being the protest when I say I don't date. That, and following me further through the store to reason with me. I can see the moments after attack in the parking lot... "She was asking for it, just look what she was dancing to!"
- Introducing yourself as Tony Rice (who it so happens you really are-- and who it so happens I have never heard of) before attempting to dry-hump my leg to bad Karaoke at the bowling alley bar. Which may not have counted as asking me on a date... but may well have counted as an actual date.
-Telling me that my low self esteem is really unattractive and if I don't decide to be less shallow there's nothing else you can say to me (in fairness, this was in response not to a rejected date offer so much as a rejected booty call with the excuse that I'm tired and look like shit, so don't feel like a late night coffee guest-- I may be a little lame, but I'm not a complete fucking idiot, KJ.)
-Telling me that I'm scared of getting close because I don't think I deserve to be happy: But I do. I deserve to be happy with you. And while I thank you for your several follow up speculations on my clear social issues (as found blatantly on my Facebook posts), no, no... actually I still think it was a good idea not to go out with you a second time.
-The old 'Play Date/ Actual Date' switcheroo. Exactly what it sounds like, that one.
-Following me home from a walk with my daughter, then sometimes being on my porch when I get home and leaving before I get to the door. And once knocking at my door. And then coming back to my porch several more times and just standing there looking down until eventually I call the police... 2 times in a row. And not even bringing flowers.
The reason I'm fixated on this bad run is because recently a friend from my teenage years asked if I wanted to have coffee and catch up. Which sounds lovely, be it a date or not. But, being the 30 year old woman on the receiving end of these nightmare one sided love connections, I found myself hopping very quickly from 'Oh, that will be fun' to 'So wait, what does he think this is? Is this going to get creepy' to 'Maybe I should have some mace'. And he's kind of cute, and if I remember correctly he's sort of smart and funny as well. And maybe it will be a date (and quite honestly I am thinking that it probably is not). But in the long run, it sounds nice either way--what it comes down to is 'who gives a fuck, as long as he doesn't potentially keep human body parts in his basement'.
And, that's where I'm at. Coffee has become much more-- it has become not the potential for love and a future, bridesmaids selected and all of my unborn children being named before the coffee comes out like it may for some over-thinking neurotic girls in the dating world. No, for me it has the potential to need to change not my last name, but my phone number, locks, and maybe social security number. My desperation is not to get a date or have a future...
It is simply not to have to call the police at any point during the courtship process, least of all before exchanging names, that has become the challenge.
Some of those ways have included, but are not limited to:
-Giving me a call later, since I gave you your number... you know... via the taxi dispatch I called to hire you. To drive me, in your taxi. I mean, of course you're going to call me-- what else could that have meant?
-Following me around the grocery store after catching me dancing to the Rolling Stones in the frozen foods aisle I mistook for empty, "You like the stones though!" being the protest when I say I don't date. That, and following me further through the store to reason with me. I can see the moments after attack in the parking lot... "She was asking for it, just look what she was dancing to!"
- Introducing yourself as Tony Rice (who it so happens you really are-- and who it so happens I have never heard of) before attempting to dry-hump my leg to bad Karaoke at the bowling alley bar. Which may not have counted as asking me on a date... but may well have counted as an actual date.
-Telling me that my low self esteem is really unattractive and if I don't decide to be less shallow there's nothing else you can say to me (in fairness, this was in response not to a rejected date offer so much as a rejected booty call with the excuse that I'm tired and look like shit, so don't feel like a late night coffee guest-- I may be a little lame, but I'm not a complete fucking idiot, KJ.)
-Telling me that I'm scared of getting close because I don't think I deserve to be happy: But I do. I deserve to be happy with you. And while I thank you for your several follow up speculations on my clear social issues (as found blatantly on my Facebook posts), no, no... actually I still think it was a good idea not to go out with you a second time.
-The old 'Play Date/ Actual Date' switcheroo. Exactly what it sounds like, that one.
-Following me home from a walk with my daughter, then sometimes being on my porch when I get home and leaving before I get to the door. And once knocking at my door. And then coming back to my porch several more times and just standing there looking down until eventually I call the police... 2 times in a row. And not even bringing flowers.
The reason I'm fixated on this bad run is because recently a friend from my teenage years asked if I wanted to have coffee and catch up. Which sounds lovely, be it a date or not. But, being the 30 year old woman on the receiving end of these nightmare one sided love connections, I found myself hopping very quickly from 'Oh, that will be fun' to 'So wait, what does he think this is? Is this going to get creepy' to 'Maybe I should have some mace'. And he's kind of cute, and if I remember correctly he's sort of smart and funny as well. And maybe it will be a date (and quite honestly I am thinking that it probably is not). But in the long run, it sounds nice either way--what it comes down to is 'who gives a fuck, as long as he doesn't potentially keep human body parts in his basement'.
And, that's where I'm at. Coffee has become much more-- it has become not the potential for love and a future, bridesmaids selected and all of my unborn children being named before the coffee comes out like it may for some over-thinking neurotic girls in the dating world. No, for me it has the potential to need to change not my last name, but my phone number, locks, and maybe social security number. My desperation is not to get a date or have a future...
It is simply not to have to call the police at any point during the courtship process, least of all before exchanging names, that has become the challenge.
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