A couple of weekends ago, M- and I had just escaped a horrendous hippie party and were in the mood for acoustic guitar-free pitchers of beer at one of my favorite dives in Old Town. I hadn't had a loong night like that in ages; it felt really good to become one of an anonymous crowd. But there was a brief exchange that stuck in my head.
We found ourselves sharing stories about When We Were Single and What We Were Looking For. The most recent example I'd had of being a wacky single was, of course, my liaison with LTF (aka, B-; aka, IncognitoLatino.) I didn't dwell on the details but said that while I was thrilled I was no longer connected to him, I could understand why some people make the wrong relationship choices they do.
Like a knight on a horse, M- comes to my own defense.
'Your mom died, babe. You weren't really in the right place.'
'I know. But that's not really the whole thing ...'
'You were all messed up.'
He was right. When I met LTF/B-/IncognitoLatino back in 2002, I was all messed up.
But my mother's death and my grief don't really account for the years 2006-2009.
I had will and I exercised it.
I chose that situation with him. It was my decision to be there and experience LTF/B-'s bizarro world with him. Sure. The foundation of my choice was boredom and a faint (very faint) curiosity, but it was still my choice. If I'm going to own ending our liaison, I must also own staying in it for 7 years. As much of a freak B- was, he didn't kidnap me, lure me or seduce me into making the weekly train ride to his shabby apartment in Uptown.
He wasn't a Svengali molding my vulnerable mind to his own nefarious or perverted ends. (In fact, if you cornered him in the dank corners of El Gato Negro, his version of the story paints me a manipulative bitch who ruined his life and crushed his soul. Potato, potahto.)
Most people don't recognize that women have will, I think. (Don't misunderstand me; I am not making the argument that all women choose their individual situations - especially the bad situations - and that they are the masters of their own exploitation. I was not exploited or abused; I merely endured an emotionally unsatisfying affair with someone I didn't really care for that much.) I'm saying that, like men, women have agency. We make decisions; we make choices. I was not an object acted against; I was a subject.
It seems I'm too over-determined about this, but I think it's an important point to make about women in general and me, in particular.
Showing posts with label B-. Show all posts
Showing posts with label B-. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Friday, April 02, 2010
This Whisper of a Wince
First, the links:
Jill Scott says something.
And Ta-Nehisi Coates says this.
Then Racialicious said some other things.
And then Coates had a PS.
And then we wrap up the week with Kevin Powell writing all us black folk a letter.
And now, the stories (which aren't prescriptive, merely illustrative):
When my friend Prof. L- sent me the Coates link I wrote him back. 'When ppl open their mouths and tell me how they 'feel' when they see another person's relationship choice I want to tell them to keep their personal issues to themselves. If they aren't about to say 'I hope they're happy,' then folks need to STFU.'
And Prof. L- replied,'Is there much of a distance from discomfort to disapproval?'
...
Here's another story:
When I was in therapy, my therapist (a WOC) started to dig deeper into my family background when our sessions began to concentrate on intimacy and relationships and why I felt I was such crap at them. She wanted to know about my relationship to my father; what it was like to grow up in my old Baptist church; how I felt growing up in such a patriarchal and religious environment; what I really needed in a relationship.
My relationship to my father: I love the man, and I'm his 'duffle bag' (don't ask) but he was/is also the only man to make me ramp up to rage in under 10 minutes when the subject is women, men, politics or women in the bible/church.
What it was like growing up in my old Baptist church: it was like being a visitor from the future and you landed in 1898. BC.
How I felt growing up in such an environment: I was angry at all the bloviating old black dudes who were traditional, controlling, bullying, manipulative, insecure, and completely transparent with their greed and ambition. I hated that I had to compete with them for my father's attention. Because I was better than they were, I had contempt for them.
What I needed most in a relationship: Safety; recognition; personal integrity; comfort; to be taken care of; trust; mutual, unconditional support. Acceptance.
Dr. C- would ask, 'And you can't find this in black men?'
I'd say, 'I probably could, but I don't give them the chance to show me. I am so angry, I can't see straight. All I can think of is those men in that church or I'm anticipating how they are going to turn into those types of men.'
Dr. C- would ask, 'Those men in the church. What was your primary method of dealing with them?'
I'd say, 'Competition. I had to beat them. I had to be smarter than they were, than their children were. I had to be a better church person than they were. Understand the bible better than they were. Even if they didn't let me preach, I had to be better at preaching.'
'Why?'
'So my dad would tell me 'good job,' or something. They didn't think a woman could be a leader in anything and I had to show them I was better than they were.'
Dr. C- (who was married to a very nice black man) would say, 'What do you think about trying to date a black man?'
I'd say, 'Well....ok. If you think that will help.'
And she'd say, 'It always helps to challenge our fears.'
And I tried. But every conversation I'd have with a black man would either remind me of a tired R&B song or fill me with such panic attack anxiety I took a break and fell back into a liaison with B-, which was even more unsatisfying because it was finally clear to me that he was utterly incapble of giving me the things I needed most.
But at least he didn't remind me of that old Baptist church.
Then, when I was at the point of letting my Match.com account expire, I met M-. A white guy. Who didn't graduate college. Who worked blue collar most of his life. Who wouldn't know Foucault if Michel bit him on his ass. Who, when he drove me home on our first date, said he wanted to make me a mixed CD and cancel his Match account the next day. And I never spoke to, or saw, B- again. Because of a white guy. The Other.
This month marks our 1-year anniversary. It is the most emotionally satisfying relationship I've had since grad school.
...
A third, and final, story (which long-time readers may have already heard):
When it was time for me to go off to grad school, my cracker barrel, deeply southern godfather pulled me aside after evening church services. I was leaving for Michigan in a couple of days and I was excited. Scared, too, but excited. In my imagination, Ann Arbor looked like Boston. (Yes, I was completely inaccurate but the main point was it was 2000 miles away from my provincial church.)
It was clear my godfather was trying to do the avuncular thing and this was the sterling piece of advice that he gave me:
'Don't jump the fence.'
What kind of backwoods, country folk-ism was this? I was blank-faced for a few seconds until his fierce gaze and the eventual, firing synapses in my brain made me stiffen. Don't jump the fence. Don't leave your side of the social divide. Don't get involved with a white guy. Don't sleep with a white guy. Don't have sex with a white guy. Don't betray your people. I wanted to slap his southern face.
'My father 'jumped the fence,' James.'
'Well, now. That's a little different. You just be careful. Don't jump the fence. Stay where you belong.'
I stomped away and seethed for hours. That was the last time I spoke to him.
Just this past year, my father told me that old James had died and it was revealed that he had had an affair with a married woman in the church for years. My old anger at his goatish hypocrisy rushed back at me and all I could do was sputter over the phone about that 'fucking old man.'
...
The 'heart wants what the heart wants' and it's usually because of something pushed so way down deep, you can't even recognize it. So I get Scott's wince. I do. (I'm a student of African American history and literature; I've read the same history books and wondered why everyone gets play but a black girl.)
But I've got a wince of my own and the whisper of it makes me almost ashamed; I almost want to hand in my own Black Card of Racial Solidarity because of it. Almost. This is not to say that my triggers are the fault of others. It's not all black men's fault that I have this whisper of a wince. But I have it. It has caused me to close one type of door between me and black men. Other doors (filial, platonic or professional ones) remain open; just not intimate ones. In this regard, the man who has given me what I need is a white man.
Not all white men. Not every white man. A white man.
When we are together, the looks or stares (or whether someone may or may not have a wince) people send us don't register with me. He is more aware of it than I am. And he is now more aware of the complex ways that our being together works as a kind of social shorthand in different parts of the city. (He'd never say it that way; he just tells me, 'My Mexican neighbors like me better now because of you.') But shorthand or not, when he looks at me he tells me that he has been waiting his whole life for me and I know that because of him, my heart is bigger.
So wince away, you Scotts of the world. You can't help it. It's not your fault.
Jill Scott says something.
And Ta-Nehisi Coates says this.
Then Racialicious said some other things.
And then Coates had a PS.
And then we wrap up the week with Kevin Powell writing all us black folk a letter.
And now, the stories (which aren't prescriptive, merely illustrative):
When my friend Prof. L- sent me the Coates link I wrote him back. 'When ppl open their mouths and tell me how they 'feel' when they see another person's relationship choice I want to tell them to keep their personal issues to themselves. If they aren't about to say 'I hope they're happy,' then folks need to STFU.'
And Prof. L- replied,'Is there much of a distance from discomfort to disapproval?'
...
Here's another story:
When I was in therapy, my therapist (a WOC) started to dig deeper into my family background when our sessions began to concentrate on intimacy and relationships and why I felt I was such crap at them. She wanted to know about my relationship to my father; what it was like to grow up in my old Baptist church; how I felt growing up in such a patriarchal and religious environment; what I really needed in a relationship.
My relationship to my father: I love the man, and I'm his 'duffle bag' (don't ask) but he was/is also the only man to make me ramp up to rage in under 10 minutes when the subject is women, men, politics or women in the bible/church.
What it was like growing up in my old Baptist church: it was like being a visitor from the future and you landed in 1898. BC.
How I felt growing up in such an environment: I was angry at all the bloviating old black dudes who were traditional, controlling, bullying, manipulative, insecure, and completely transparent with their greed and ambition. I hated that I had to compete with them for my father's attention. Because I was better than they were, I had contempt for them.
What I needed most in a relationship: Safety; recognition; personal integrity; comfort; to be taken care of; trust; mutual, unconditional support. Acceptance.
Dr. C- would ask, 'And you can't find this in black men?'
I'd say, 'I probably could, but I don't give them the chance to show me. I am so angry, I can't see straight. All I can think of is those men in that church or I'm anticipating how they are going to turn into those types of men.'
Dr. C- would ask, 'Those men in the church. What was your primary method of dealing with them?'
I'd say, 'Competition. I had to beat them. I had to be smarter than they were, than their children were. I had to be a better church person than they were. Understand the bible better than they were. Even if they didn't let me preach, I had to be better at preaching.'
'Why?'
'So my dad would tell me 'good job,' or something. They didn't think a woman could be a leader in anything and I had to show them I was better than they were.'
Dr. C- (who was married to a very nice black man) would say, 'What do you think about trying to date a black man?'
I'd say, 'Well....ok. If you think that will help.'
And she'd say, 'It always helps to challenge our fears.'
And I tried. But every conversation I'd have with a black man would either remind me of a tired R&B song or fill me with such panic attack anxiety I took a break and fell back into a liaison with B-, which was even more unsatisfying because it was finally clear to me that he was utterly incapble of giving me the things I needed most.
But at least he didn't remind me of that old Baptist church.
Then, when I was at the point of letting my Match.com account expire, I met M-. A white guy. Who didn't graduate college. Who worked blue collar most of his life. Who wouldn't know Foucault if Michel bit him on his ass. Who, when he drove me home on our first date, said he wanted to make me a mixed CD and cancel his Match account the next day. And I never spoke to, or saw, B- again. Because of a white guy. The Other.
This month marks our 1-year anniversary. It is the most emotionally satisfying relationship I've had since grad school.
...
A third, and final, story (which long-time readers may have already heard):
When it was time for me to go off to grad school, my cracker barrel, deeply southern godfather pulled me aside after evening church services. I was leaving for Michigan in a couple of days and I was excited. Scared, too, but excited. In my imagination, Ann Arbor looked like Boston. (Yes, I was completely inaccurate but the main point was it was 2000 miles away from my provincial church.)
It was clear my godfather was trying to do the avuncular thing and this was the sterling piece of advice that he gave me:
'Don't jump the fence.'
What kind of backwoods, country folk-ism was this? I was blank-faced for a few seconds until his fierce gaze and the eventual, firing synapses in my brain made me stiffen. Don't jump the fence. Don't leave your side of the social divide. Don't get involved with a white guy. Don't sleep with a white guy. Don't have sex with a white guy. Don't betray your people. I wanted to slap his southern face.
'My father 'jumped the fence,' James.'
'Well, now. That's a little different. You just be careful. Don't jump the fence. Stay where you belong.'
I stomped away and seethed for hours. That was the last time I spoke to him.
Just this past year, my father told me that old James had died and it was revealed that he had had an affair with a married woman in the church for years. My old anger at his goatish hypocrisy rushed back at me and all I could do was sputter over the phone about that 'fucking old man.'
...
The 'heart wants what the heart wants' and it's usually because of something pushed so way down deep, you can't even recognize it. So I get Scott's wince. I do. (I'm a student of African American history and literature; I've read the same history books and wondered why everyone gets play but a black girl.)
But I've got a wince of my own and the whisper of it makes me almost ashamed; I almost want to hand in my own Black Card of Racial Solidarity because of it. Almost. This is not to say that my triggers are the fault of others. It's not all black men's fault that I have this whisper of a wince. But I have it. It has caused me to close one type of door between me and black men. Other doors (filial, platonic or professional ones) remain open; just not intimate ones. In this regard, the man who has given me what I need is a white man.
Not all white men. Not every white man. A white man.
When we are together, the looks or stares (or whether someone may or may not have a wince) people send us don't register with me. He is more aware of it than I am. And he is now more aware of the complex ways that our being together works as a kind of social shorthand in different parts of the city. (He'd never say it that way; he just tells me, 'My Mexican neighbors like me better now because of you.') But shorthand or not, when he looks at me he tells me that he has been waiting his whole life for me and I know that because of him, my heart is bigger.
So wince away, you Scotts of the world. You can't help it. It's not your fault.
Friday, July 24, 2009
work, again.
this past week has confirmed it: i am *not* cut out for direct service provision or program operation. ugh.
we have a number of volunteers through a national volunteer program assigned to our site; then the budget thing happened. we had to lay off one of our program directors who was going to supervise half of the volunteers. to keep our volunteers, we offered them alternative assignments which necessitated, basically, the reworking of the volunteer program from the ground up - or ass backwards. whichever.
long story short: i am not a program director; i just write the proposal. why am i creating the workplan for a program? i am not a program director; i just write the proposal. why am i creating the job description for the program? why am i talking to the volunteers? why am i doing what a program director does? grrrrrr.
i'm cranky AND hungry.
...
last night i cooked dinner at M-'s place.
keeping things simple, i whipped up a very nice carbonara. but, geez, dude tools are primitive. do all single guys have kitchen tools from c. 1978?
we watched a few shows (catching up on TrueBlood and Hung - which is hilarious), held hands, dozed off on the couch and went to bed. and...that's it.
i have chosen to adopt a different attitude when it comes to the school-night celibacy we seem to be practising. i realized why i was so upset with the idea of it before - i have always placed an inordinate amount of value on sex as a rubric for how much a guy likes me. in other words, if a guy likes me, he'll have sex with me. this is not to say that this is true. B- had sex with me, but i don't know if we 'liked' each other. and i'm happy to say that there are dudes out there who have been fond of me (and i them) and we have never had sex. so it's not exactly a correllary.
but. in the past, i have equated my own value with the amount of sex had. there. that's closer to the truth.
(if my therapist was reading this, she'd be proud of my breakthrough just now.)
so when it seemed that we weren't having sex as regularly as i thought we ought, i automatically thought it was a reflection of my value. where this thinking comes from, i hesitate to probe. or, i'll just blame it on B- who will become my boogie man for all things dysfunctional and messed up.
(ExRoomie says that's unfair. 'He was mentally ill. He was on meds, or off them, neurotic and crazy. You cannot use him as a measuring stick.')
i realize that kind of thinking is warped, as well as sad, hence the change in attitude. the school-night celibacy is not a metric of my value (or a measure of his lack of regard for me); it is merely we are old and tired, in food coma and it's the middle of the week after a hard day at work. who wouldn't go to bed next to the person they like after all that?
baby steps that i will eventually allow myself to shower there in the morning.
...
P.S: to all my 9 (!) readers who were curious to know if M- knew about my blogging about him. Yes, he does.
Last weekend (which was really lovely and I'll write about it later, perhaps), we were hanging out in Nilda's and having really serious conversations again about our families. It's odd, the moments we choose to open up. We do it in public. Huh.
Anyway, we were there, forcing ourselves to be honest about things. He was honest about his family history; I was honest about mine. He was honest about his past lovers; I was honest about mine (though if he asks about my number, I will not answer - so none of his business.) And so, in the interest of honesty, I said: You know I mention you on my blog.
M-: Yeah? Everything?
D: No...just observations. Things that happen on a date or a funny conversation.
M-: Am I famous?
D: No, but you're popular. You're beginning to have a following. The posts about you are the ones with the most hits. Are you cool with that?
M-: Maybe I'll have groupies.
There you have it. M- is cool with it and looks forward to fan mail. Let the M- stories continue.
we have a number of volunteers through a national volunteer program assigned to our site; then the budget thing happened. we had to lay off one of our program directors who was going to supervise half of the volunteers. to keep our volunteers, we offered them alternative assignments which necessitated, basically, the reworking of the volunteer program from the ground up - or ass backwards. whichever.
long story short: i am not a program director; i just write the proposal. why am i creating the workplan for a program? i am not a program director; i just write the proposal. why am i creating the job description for the program? why am i talking to the volunteers? why am i doing what a program director does? grrrrrr.
i'm cranky AND hungry.
...
last night i cooked dinner at M-'s place.
keeping things simple, i whipped up a very nice carbonara. but, geez, dude tools are primitive. do all single guys have kitchen tools from c. 1978?
we watched a few shows (catching up on TrueBlood and Hung - which is hilarious), held hands, dozed off on the couch and went to bed. and...that's it.
i have chosen to adopt a different attitude when it comes to the school-night celibacy we seem to be practising. i realized why i was so upset with the idea of it before - i have always placed an inordinate amount of value on sex as a rubric for how much a guy likes me. in other words, if a guy likes me, he'll have sex with me. this is not to say that this is true. B- had sex with me, but i don't know if we 'liked' each other. and i'm happy to say that there are dudes out there who have been fond of me (and i them) and we have never had sex. so it's not exactly a correllary.
but. in the past, i have equated my own value with the amount of sex had. there. that's closer to the truth.
(if my therapist was reading this, she'd be proud of my breakthrough just now.)
so when it seemed that we weren't having sex as regularly as i thought we ought, i automatically thought it was a reflection of my value. where this thinking comes from, i hesitate to probe. or, i'll just blame it on B- who will become my boogie man for all things dysfunctional and messed up.
(ExRoomie says that's unfair. 'He was mentally ill. He was on meds, or off them, neurotic and crazy. You cannot use him as a measuring stick.')
i realize that kind of thinking is warped, as well as sad, hence the change in attitude. the school-night celibacy is not a metric of my value (or a measure of his lack of regard for me); it is merely we are old and tired, in food coma and it's the middle of the week after a hard day at work. who wouldn't go to bed next to the person they like after all that?
baby steps that i will eventually allow myself to shower there in the morning.
...
P.S: to all my 9 (!) readers who were curious to know if M- knew about my blogging about him. Yes, he does.
Last weekend (which was really lovely and I'll write about it later, perhaps), we were hanging out in Nilda's and having really serious conversations again about our families. It's odd, the moments we choose to open up. We do it in public. Huh.
Anyway, we were there, forcing ourselves to be honest about things. He was honest about his family history; I was honest about mine. He was honest about his past lovers; I was honest about mine (though if he asks about my number, I will not answer - so none of his business.) And so, in the interest of honesty, I said: You know I mention you on my blog.
M-: Yeah? Everything?
D: No...just observations. Things that happen on a date or a funny conversation.
M-: Am I famous?
D: No, but you're popular. You're beginning to have a following. The posts about you are the ones with the most hits. Are you cool with that?
M-: Maybe I'll have groupies.
There you have it. M- is cool with it and looks forward to fan mail. Let the M- stories continue.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
closure?
This is a dream I had the other night:
And that's the dream. That's it.
I was on a speaking tour with two other colleagues and were waiting for our
panel at UCLA. [Note: yes, this is probably some work issues bleeding through.] We were standing in front of Anderson Hall when someone called my name.
I turned and it was B-. He looked different - dyed blonde hair, tweed jacket over a loose t-shirt and surfer pants. He was really tanned and looked a little beat up, like he was coming down off a days long drug binge.
My colleagues looked startled and I said, 'uh, hi B-.'
He asked to speak to me and after a hesitation I said yes. At which point, he shoved me into a waiting car and drove away.
I said that people were expecting me, I had a speaking engagement and he needed to drive me back. He said he just wanted to talk and I kept repeating he needed to take me back; there were people waiting for me.
So he did. When I got out the car and he drove away, my two colleagues were looking freaked out and I said it was ok. Nothing happened. And then we went back inside to wait to be called.
And that's the dream. That's it.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
summer of love, take 3
it's been a while since i shared what's going in the game called my social life: nothing.
the bench is empty, the players on the field are about to get traded.
B3 (who lasted until right before italy) is about to find out that i really wasn't kidding when i warned him about my intimacy issues - if only he'd answer his email.
B- (!!!), referencing a hot and naughty message i sent him LAST YEAR, sent me a message right before i boarded the plane to italy asking how i was; when i returned, i told him that particular boat of dysfunction had sailed. i kept it friendly! (yes, i have processed this with Dr. C- . with the help of a few friends, i have resisted the siren call of do-over sex with a person who makes my homicidal rage peak.)
and that's about it. sure, there are possibilities (Dr. Cop; Old Irish; NatureDude) but, for all intents and purposes, Ding's dancing card is blank.
i'm fine with it. really.
actually, i'm not, but whatever.
just for snarky, horrifying fun: crap email from a dude - Jezebel via Siddity (on my blogroll, silly.)
the bench is empty, the players on the field are about to get traded.
B3 (who lasted until right before italy) is about to find out that i really wasn't kidding when i warned him about my intimacy issues - if only he'd answer his email.
B- (!!!), referencing a hot and naughty message i sent him LAST YEAR, sent me a message right before i boarded the plane to italy asking how i was; when i returned, i told him that particular boat of dysfunction had sailed. i kept it friendly! (yes, i have processed this with Dr. C- . with the help of a few friends, i have resisted the siren call of do-over sex with a person who makes my homicidal rage peak.)
and that's about it. sure, there are possibilities (Dr. Cop; Old Irish; NatureDude) but, for all intents and purposes, Ding's dancing card is blank.
i'm fine with it. really.
actually, i'm not, but whatever.
just for snarky, horrifying fun: crap email from a dude - Jezebel via Siddity (on my blogroll, silly.)
Monday, January 14, 2008
the wilds of online dating
so how are things on the 'dating' front?
well, there was a brief setback last week when i discovered that, horror of horrors, B- is now in a relationship. my horror and dismay was not from jealousy; there was no regret that things hadn't worked out between us. (though there is much evidence of my inconsistency here.) no, my dismay and shock came from an irrational sense of competition.
"how dare he, the most lonely and dysfunctional of men, have a relationship while i don't! at least i'm working on my issues, dammit." i'm not proud of my pettiness; i just acknowledge that it exists.
anyway, a friend reminded me of my many vows to leave B-'s eeyore-like specter behind and so, finally, i am. (it helps that i'm confident B-'s inherent lack of generosity will doom his relationship in a few months no matter how often he goes jogging.) as i leave the weirdo behind, i look to the future and what do i see?
i see more weirdos.
i'm on blackplanet and, lord help me, it's sort of depressing. it's almost as bad as those christian dating sites i tried years ago. my kingdom for a man who can spell and use punctuation correctly! i'm tired of telling black men no, i don't have kids. make of that what you will.
are the men i've met there weird because they don't use standard english? no. most of them are weird because they live in the burbs and can't say anything that doesn't sound like a R&B cliche. i'd also give my left nipple for a little bit of banter.
(there was this one guy who thought he was being funny when he said that he'd buy me dinner, drinks and give me a warm place to stay for folding his laundry. it took everything in me not to get snippy. enough women have been snippy to these guys, it seems but, lord, trying to communicate with these guys is drying up my very small well of patience!)
i'll keep looking, though. there's gotta be a black/brown equivalent to me out there, somewhere. right?
well, there was a brief setback last week when i discovered that, horror of horrors, B- is now in a relationship. my horror and dismay was not from jealousy; there was no regret that things hadn't worked out between us. (though there is much evidence of my inconsistency here.) no, my dismay and shock came from an irrational sense of competition.
"how dare he, the most lonely and dysfunctional of men, have a relationship while i don't! at least i'm working on my issues, dammit." i'm not proud of my pettiness; i just acknowledge that it exists.
anyway, a friend reminded me of my many vows to leave B-'s eeyore-like specter behind and so, finally, i am. (it helps that i'm confident B-'s inherent lack of generosity will doom his relationship in a few months no matter how often he goes jogging.) as i leave the weirdo behind, i look to the future and what do i see?
i see more weirdos.
i'm on blackplanet and, lord help me, it's sort of depressing. it's almost as bad as those christian dating sites i tried years ago. my kingdom for a man who can spell and use punctuation correctly! i'm tired of telling black men no, i don't have kids. make of that what you will.
are the men i've met there weird because they don't use standard english? no. most of them are weird because they live in the burbs and can't say anything that doesn't sound like a R&B cliche. i'd also give my left nipple for a little bit of banter.
(there was this one guy who thought he was being funny when he said that he'd buy me dinner, drinks and give me a warm place to stay for folding his laundry. it took everything in me not to get snippy. enough women have been snippy to these guys, it seems but, lord, trying to communicate with these guys is drying up my very small well of patience!)
i'll keep looking, though. there's gotta be a black/brown equivalent to me out there, somewhere. right?
Friday, December 21, 2007
toward the end of our last session, Dr. C- said, 'in order to address what triggers your resistance to intimacy we need to see you in a relationship. so you need to start dating.'
gack.
she recommended i go back online since the normal places people date each other (work, social circle, church, extra curricular activities) are, for me, completely estrogen-filled. but this was her caveat: 'you must be honest about what it is you want and try to avoid men who just want to fool around. you said you wanted companionship, so look for qualities that would make for a good companion.'
i complained, 'that means i won't get laid until well into 2008!'
she sighed. 'ding, if all you want to do is get laid, go out and get laid. but you said you don't want to do that.'
'i know.'
'that's why we're pretending B- has moved.'
'i know. you're right. companion. ok.'
so where am i going to find this companion?
i can forget about nerve; the only folks on there are erectile dysfunctional one night stands. i've done that, already, thank you very much. match was horrific; eharmony sent me youth pastors from lombard and sad, divorced dads living on the illinois-wisconsin border. where can i go next?
chemistry. i think it's supposed to be eharmony-lite. no 29 dimensions, but still a really long personality test (i'm a Director/Negotiator, heavy on the Director bit) and incremental communication steps. the good thing is that they send you matches right away; none of eharmony's esteem-killing, months-long waiting to see a profile. but, again, my honest needs are resulting in suburban divorced dads. i don't know what it is going on. is my inner self suburban? is there a Willow Creek, twin set housewife inside me, just waiting to wander out?
i shudder to think.
anyway, i'll keep all 5 of my readers posted.
...
on the B- front, i've been fairly successful in pretending he lives in another state. at this time of year, i'd usually be planning how i could convince him to spend a long weekend with me in my neighborhood. (such planning would meet with staunch resistance and i'd spend christmas seething silently about why he won't cross town on a bus to see me.) this year, i'm completely uninterested. i mailed him one very impersonal christmas card and, yesterday, when he dared to bait me by saying 'maybe if you got in shape you wouldn't need therapy' and you could think clearly' i politely ignored his rudeness and just said back to him 'i guess we all get in shape in different ways. my therapist is helping me see things a LOT more clearly, thanks.'
yes, i could have called him an asshat, but what would that accomplish?
gack.
she recommended i go back online since the normal places people date each other (work, social circle, church, extra curricular activities) are, for me, completely estrogen-filled. but this was her caveat: 'you must be honest about what it is you want and try to avoid men who just want to fool around. you said you wanted companionship, so look for qualities that would make for a good companion.'
i complained, 'that means i won't get laid until well into 2008!'
she sighed. 'ding, if all you want to do is get laid, go out and get laid. but you said you don't want to do that.'
'i know.'
'that's why we're pretending B- has moved.'
'i know. you're right. companion. ok.'
so where am i going to find this companion?
i can forget about nerve; the only folks on there are erectile dysfunctional one night stands. i've done that, already, thank you very much. match was horrific; eharmony sent me youth pastors from lombard and sad, divorced dads living on the illinois-wisconsin border. where can i go next?
chemistry. i think it's supposed to be eharmony-lite. no 29 dimensions, but still a really long personality test (i'm a Director/Negotiator, heavy on the Director bit) and incremental communication steps. the good thing is that they send you matches right away; none of eharmony's esteem-killing, months-long waiting to see a profile. but, again, my honest needs are resulting in suburban divorced dads. i don't know what it is going on. is my inner self suburban? is there a Willow Creek, twin set housewife inside me, just waiting to wander out?
i shudder to think.
anyway, i'll keep all 5 of my readers posted.
...
on the B- front, i've been fairly successful in pretending he lives in another state. at this time of year, i'd usually be planning how i could convince him to spend a long weekend with me in my neighborhood. (such planning would meet with staunch resistance and i'd spend christmas seething silently about why he won't cross town on a bus to see me.) this year, i'm completely uninterested. i mailed him one very impersonal christmas card and, yesterday, when he dared to bait me by saying 'maybe if you got in shape you wouldn't need therapy' and you could think clearly' i politely ignored his rudeness and just said back to him 'i guess we all get in shape in different ways. my therapist is helping me see things a LOT more clearly, thanks.'
yes, i could have called him an asshat, but what would that accomplish?
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
there may be some residual hostility...
Roomie and I stood at our kitchen counter going through our morning vitamin/pill ritual.
"So," I said. "I had this dream last night."
She turned around. "I had *crazy* dreams last night, too! But - you first."
"So I'm living in New York - "
"Just you?"
"Just me."
"And was this after the cocktail party?" Roomie makes fun of me and my dreams because, in them, I am always at a party. I cannot help that my subconscious makes me out to be Holly Golightly.
"Yes," I said. "And then Al Pacino stopped by to say hello." Yes, celebrities often made an appearance in my dreams. "Anyway, I'm living in New York. My sister and her family are coming out for a visit. They are bringing with them a Filipino surfer guy and his sister. Who are these people? I have no idea. But, apparently, I have a big enough apartment for all of them.
"Anyway, they arrive and the Filipino surfer dude says to me, 'Hey, I think I know someone who knows you and he's going to be here in New York for a thing and it would be great to see him, so is it ok if he stops by so we can play XBox?'"
Roomie interrupts. "I love how the guys in your dreams all talk like girls."
"They do, don't they?"
"They're so chatty."
"So I like my guys girly. Anyway, I say to Filipino surfer guy 'I can't think of who I know that you know but ok. Whatever.'
"The guy comes by, I open the door and GUESS who it is? It's B-! I'm like, 'What the fuck?!' He's all like, 'What the fuck?!' and all I can think of is how totally random my life is, how it's filled with these crazy, weird coincidences that make me nuts.
"My sister and her family go sightseeing and I'm left in the apartment with Filipino surfer guy and B-. B-, of course, is quiet. I'm just hanging out at the back of the apartment wondering how the hell this just happened. Then, suddenly, a masked intruder breaks into the apartment and KILLS B-! He shoots him in the head! I'm all 'What the hell? They killed B-!' Filipino surfer guy is totally traumatized and he's like, 'That was totally unneccessary and harsh!'
"My sister and her husband get back from sightseeing and are absolutely horrified. All they can say is how glad they were the kids weren't home to see this. Filipino surfer guy and I are sitting on the curb, smoking cigarettes while we watch the crime scene team do their thing and roll out B-'s body under a sheet. Heh."
Roomie said, "And you laugh. You are so twisted. I shudder at the thought of whatever psychotic break you'll have when you're tanked up on pain meds after your surgery."
I ignored her. "Anyway, Filipino surfer guy is really broken up about it and he's like, 'But you...you guys were a thing. How are you?' And I have to admit that there's shock that this crazy random crap keeps happening to me, but I'm not that broken up about it. And then it's like that skit at the Second City Show, where the guy tries to cry but can't? Yeah, I'm like that. I'm unh-unh, trying to cry and I got nothin'. And that's when I wake up."
Roomie just stared at me. I smiled.
Then she said, "This was my dream. I'm waiting to pick you you up at work. You come out and you have a dead body with you. What the fuck? You sort of roll it on the ground in front of Corner Bakery and you say, "You have to help me get rid of the body." And you're dressed in high heels and looking girly and I'm still, What the fuck? Who is he? You keep telling me he's just some guy from a meeting; all I can see is this shock of white hair. But you, of course, can't lift him into the trunk. And there are people all around! No one notices this! Some firemen come by and wanna know if you need assistance and you’re waving at them and saying ‘Hi!’ and just flirting with everyone, pissing me off, and so I just get grr! And lift the dead guy over my shoulder and dump him in the trunk. He flips over and GUESS who it is?”
I was agog. “Who? Bill Clinton?”
“It was B-!”
To say that I laughed my ass off would not convey just how hilarious I thought this was.
"So," I said. "I had this dream last night."
She turned around. "I had *crazy* dreams last night, too! But - you first."
"So I'm living in New York - "
"Just you?"
"Just me."
"And was this after the cocktail party?" Roomie makes fun of me and my dreams because, in them, I am always at a party. I cannot help that my subconscious makes me out to be Holly Golightly.
"Yes," I said. "And then Al Pacino stopped by to say hello." Yes, celebrities often made an appearance in my dreams. "Anyway, I'm living in New York. My sister and her family are coming out for a visit. They are bringing with them a Filipino surfer guy and his sister. Who are these people? I have no idea. But, apparently, I have a big enough apartment for all of them.
"Anyway, they arrive and the Filipino surfer dude says to me, 'Hey, I think I know someone who knows you and he's going to be here in New York for a thing and it would be great to see him, so is it ok if he stops by so we can play XBox?'"
Roomie interrupts. "I love how the guys in your dreams all talk like girls."
"They do, don't they?"
"They're so chatty."
"So I like my guys girly. Anyway, I say to Filipino surfer guy 'I can't think of who I know that you know but ok. Whatever.'
"The guy comes by, I open the door and GUESS who it is? It's B-! I'm like, 'What the fuck?!' He's all like, 'What the fuck?!' and all I can think of is how totally random my life is, how it's filled with these crazy, weird coincidences that make me nuts.
"My sister and her family go sightseeing and I'm left in the apartment with Filipino surfer guy and B-. B-, of course, is quiet. I'm just hanging out at the back of the apartment wondering how the hell this just happened. Then, suddenly, a masked intruder breaks into the apartment and KILLS B-! He shoots him in the head! I'm all 'What the hell? They killed B-!' Filipino surfer guy is totally traumatized and he's like, 'That was totally unneccessary and harsh!'
"My sister and her husband get back from sightseeing and are absolutely horrified. All they can say is how glad they were the kids weren't home to see this. Filipino surfer guy and I are sitting on the curb, smoking cigarettes while we watch the crime scene team do their thing and roll out B-'s body under a sheet. Heh."
Roomie said, "And you laugh. You are so twisted. I shudder at the thought of whatever psychotic break you'll have when you're tanked up on pain meds after your surgery."
I ignored her. "Anyway, Filipino surfer guy is really broken up about it and he's like, 'But you...you guys were a thing. How are you?' And I have to admit that there's shock that this crazy random crap keeps happening to me, but I'm not that broken up about it. And then it's like that skit at the Second City Show, where the guy tries to cry but can't? Yeah, I'm like that. I'm unh-unh, trying to cry and I got nothin'. And that's when I wake up."
Roomie just stared at me. I smiled.
Then she said, "This was my dream. I'm waiting to pick you you up at work. You come out and you have a dead body with you. What the fuck? You sort of roll it on the ground in front of Corner Bakery and you say, "You have to help me get rid of the body." And you're dressed in high heels and looking girly and I'm still, What the fuck? Who is he? You keep telling me he's just some guy from a meeting; all I can see is this shock of white hair. But you, of course, can't lift him into the trunk. And there are people all around! No one notices this! Some firemen come by and wanna know if you need assistance and you’re waving at them and saying ‘Hi!’ and just flirting with everyone, pissing me off, and so I just get grr! And lift the dead guy over my shoulder and dump him in the trunk. He flips over and GUESS who it is?”
I was agog. “Who? Bill Clinton?”
“It was B-!”
To say that I laughed my ass off would not convey just how hilarious I thought this was.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
an expression of things desired
have i told all 8 of my readers that my coaching has officially turned into therapy?
(i'm going to assume there are more than 5 of you now, but i won't be as immodest to assume there are as many as 10.)
yes; Coach C- is now Dr. C- and she said, in no uncertain terms, that my intimacy issues needed immediate attention.
'really?' i said.
'Ding, how long has it been since you've spoken with B-?'
(let's stop here. i know i've been keeping my summertime dallying with B- a secret. but things weren't actually that bad and i was actually looking forward to maybe making things a bit more normal and - i just thought that if it turned into something, perhaps it wasn't a good idea to write about it all over the place. but, clearly, things didn't turn out the way i wanted so he's back on the blog.)
i replied, 'um...since labor day?'
'Ding! it's practically november! how are you going to make progress if you won't make the effort!'
'i was really busy! there were some personal things, moving, work, some medical issues...i had to re-prioritize!'
'normally, where does B- fall on your list of priorities?'
'on a list of 10 things, he is about a 6 right now,' i said. then i thought a bit more. 'actually, in all my years of knowing him, he hasn't really moved up past 3.'
'how long have you been with him?'
'on and off, 7 years.' i shrugged and threw up my hands.
'Ding! that's really bad!' she lost her grip on her professional demeanor a little and laughed.
'i know! that's why i'm here! how can i not do this anymore?'
she sighed. 'i think we have to get a little bit more...aggressive. if you're reading and crying over wedding announcements in the times and you're coming here, it's clear you are interested in having a partner, but your inability to foster intimacy is so entrenched, you will never get one. (ouch, i thought.) i think coaching is too passive. one month between appointments is too long. behavioral intervention is going to be necessary.'
'jesus. there's not just a list of things to do that will help me? you know...write some journals, make notes about my bad habits?'
she shook her head. 'we're past that.'
so...this is me in therapy. at least she said i wasn't depressed.
Patricia Miller and Alfred Zollar - New York Times
(i'm going to assume there are more than 5 of you now, but i won't be as immodest to assume there are as many as 10.)
yes; Coach C- is now Dr. C- and she said, in no uncertain terms, that my intimacy issues needed immediate attention.
'really?' i said.
'Ding, how long has it been since you've spoken with B-?'
(let's stop here. i know i've been keeping my summertime dallying with B- a secret. but things weren't actually that bad and i was actually looking forward to maybe making things a bit more normal and - i just thought that if it turned into something, perhaps it wasn't a good idea to write about it all over the place. but, clearly, things didn't turn out the way i wanted so he's back on the blog.)
i replied, 'um...since labor day?'
'Ding! it's practically november! how are you going to make progress if you won't make the effort!'
'i was really busy! there were some personal things, moving, work, some medical issues...i had to re-prioritize!'
'normally, where does B- fall on your list of priorities?'
'on a list of 10 things, he is about a 6 right now,' i said. then i thought a bit more. 'actually, in all my years of knowing him, he hasn't really moved up past 3.'
'how long have you been with him?'
'on and off, 7 years.' i shrugged and threw up my hands.
'Ding! that's really bad!' she lost her grip on her professional demeanor a little and laughed.
'i know! that's why i'm here! how can i not do this anymore?'
she sighed. 'i think we have to get a little bit more...aggressive. if you're reading and crying over wedding announcements in the times and you're coming here, it's clear you are interested in having a partner, but your inability to foster intimacy is so entrenched, you will never get one. (ouch, i thought.) i think coaching is too passive. one month between appointments is too long. behavioral intervention is going to be necessary.'
'jesus. there's not just a list of things to do that will help me? you know...write some journals, make notes about my bad habits?'
she shook her head. 'we're past that.'
so...this is me in therapy. at least she said i wasn't depressed.
Patricia Miller and Alfred Zollar - New York Times
Sunday, October 21, 2007
some burning questions...
is it horribly wrong - when someone you've hooked up with in the past (and with whom you hoped to continue a casual liaison) appears to have taken advantage of an improved mental state and moved on - to feel sort of put out by it?
was watching the unbearable 'tell me you love me' with Roomie the other night; is it true that married women are really stunned that their husbands look at porn? i mean, really. who is stunned that men look at porn?? for that matter, isn't it understood by now that women also look at porn? (or is this a generational thing?)
speaking of TMYLM, how can i scrub the image of jane alexander, naked and fucking on a chair, off my inner eyeballs?
can we please have movies about neurotic people of color now? i mean, i'm getting sort of bored by all the representations of quirky/conflicted white folks in popular culture now. and i don't think the tyler perry movies count.
i guess what i'm asking is: who's the Wes Anderson for brown people? (great critique of wes anderson's work here.)
why is the #66 chicago bus the most crowded motherfrakker ever? hm? and why don't the folks who ride the #66 understand the Move to the Back rule ?
with a little under one month of unfettered carnal carnivale left to me before The Procedure, will i find a frolic partner in time?
was watching the unbearable 'tell me you love me' with Roomie the other night; is it true that married women are really stunned that their husbands look at porn? i mean, really. who is stunned that men look at porn?? for that matter, isn't it understood by now that women also look at porn? (or is this a generational thing?)
speaking of TMYLM, how can i scrub the image of jane alexander, naked and fucking on a chair, off my inner eyeballs?
can we please have movies about neurotic people of color now? i mean, i'm getting sort of bored by all the representations of quirky/conflicted white folks in popular culture now. and i don't think the tyler perry movies count.
i guess what i'm asking is: who's the Wes Anderson for brown people? (great critique of wes anderson's work here.)
why is the #66 chicago bus the most crowded motherfrakker ever? hm? and why don't the folks who ride the #66 understand the Move to the Back rule ?
with a little under one month of unfettered carnal carnivale left to me before The Procedure, will i find a frolic partner in time?
Thursday, July 05, 2007
i have no deep thoughts today. nothing probing to say about politics, the state of freedom or reproductive health.
instead, i'd rather think about how much i love the summer.
tuesday night, i left the office early and dropped by the dominick's by navy pier to pick up some things for the, frankly, unsanctioned barbecue we were having at a friend's house while she and her boyfriend spent the holiday in cabo. we spent hours in a bacchic fog on her balcony, our bodies languid in the humid evening, but as the thunderstorm rolled in, stretching our legs and hands, thrilling to the lightning. not caring even we had to run through puddles to get back to the car. summer is for feeling the body get mucky.
i don't mind the long lines at the checkout, i don't care that the bus is crowded and slow. i like standing in the close air of the bus, stretching up to grasp the handrail and feeling the press of bodies against me while there's music in my ears and i can slip into a drowsy daze while the streets speed and lurch past my eyes.
anyway, summertime. if i had my wish i'd 'work' from home, take naps in the middle of the day, walk around in loose dresses and low slung white pants and forsake shoes. it's such a cliche - the sensory memory that plunges you back into a crystal clear image of a nostalgic past.
but that's what summertime does for me. things like walking across the river around 3.30, or sitting in the back garden at my local bar staring up at the trailing ivy, or sticking my feet into a square patch of sun in my apartment, or drowsing on my antique quilt in the middle of the afternoon.
they make me want to be a little girl in los angeles again.my sister and i would make a hammock on our front porch, climb in, and she'd chatter while i would read nancy drew or stare at the wooden beams overhead and pretend i was stowing away on a pirate ship hiding with the potatoes and crackers. (for some reason i thought that's what pirates ate: potatoes and crackers. or oranges.)
driving down lakeshore drive with my roommate yesterday and passing through the park, smelling all the charcoal. it was like the whole city was grilling. and this brings back the awesome (so over-used, that word) church picnics from back home. the scratchy blanket on the grass, some contemporary gospel on a boombox, and the smell of chlorine and sun mixed with tangy sunblock on sweaty skin, while recovering from thin white bread sandwiches filled with barbecued pulled pork, or baked beans, buttery corn, peach cobbler with real crust, or greens or really eggy potato salad.
missing the grit inside my red keds from running in the sand pit, the contrast of my nuttier dark tanned skin with my sister's tanned gold. the shadow play of my wild hair, big poofs of hair on the side of my head that only got bigger the more i ran around or played in the pool. (not that i could swim. but man i loved the shallow end.)
but there are advantages to a grown up summer that i never could have imagined when i was a kid. (am i the only one who's fascinated by how cool a kiss can feel even when it's 98 degrees outside?)
yes; things were fun back then, but summer's just fine now.
...
(was really looking forward to a date planned for tomorrow night and he has to travel for the next two weeks; he'll be back in the country when i'm about to go under the knife. am alarmed at how disappointed i am. like - REALLY disappointed. like - despondent disappointed. hm. that's a surprise.
NOW, what??)
instead, i'd rather think about how much i love the summer.
tuesday night, i left the office early and dropped by the dominick's by navy pier to pick up some things for the, frankly, unsanctioned barbecue we were having at a friend's house while she and her boyfriend spent the holiday in cabo. we spent hours in a bacchic fog on her balcony, our bodies languid in the humid evening, but as the thunderstorm rolled in, stretching our legs and hands, thrilling to the lightning. not caring even we had to run through puddles to get back to the car. summer is for feeling the body get mucky.
i don't mind the long lines at the checkout, i don't care that the bus is crowded and slow. i like standing in the close air of the bus, stretching up to grasp the handrail and feeling the press of bodies against me while there's music in my ears and i can slip into a drowsy daze while the streets speed and lurch past my eyes.
anyway, summertime. if i had my wish i'd 'work' from home, take naps in the middle of the day, walk around in loose dresses and low slung white pants and forsake shoes. it's such a cliche - the sensory memory that plunges you back into a crystal clear image of a nostalgic past.
but that's what summertime does for me. things like walking across the river around 3.30, or sitting in the back garden at my local bar staring up at the trailing ivy, or sticking my feet into a square patch of sun in my apartment, or drowsing on my antique quilt in the middle of the afternoon.
they make me want to be a little girl in los angeles again.my sister and i would make a hammock on our front porch, climb in, and she'd chatter while i would read nancy drew or stare at the wooden beams overhead and pretend i was stowing away on a pirate ship hiding with the potatoes and crackers. (for some reason i thought that's what pirates ate: potatoes and crackers. or oranges.)
driving down lakeshore drive with my roommate yesterday and passing through the park, smelling all the charcoal. it was like the whole city was grilling. and this brings back the awesome (so over-used, that word) church picnics from back home. the scratchy blanket on the grass, some contemporary gospel on a boombox, and the smell of chlorine and sun mixed with tangy sunblock on sweaty skin, while recovering from thin white bread sandwiches filled with barbecued pulled pork, or baked beans, buttery corn, peach cobbler with real crust, or greens or really eggy potato salad.
missing the grit inside my red keds from running in the sand pit, the contrast of my nuttier dark tanned skin with my sister's tanned gold. the shadow play of my wild hair, big poofs of hair on the side of my head that only got bigger the more i ran around or played in the pool. (not that i could swim. but man i loved the shallow end.)
but there are advantages to a grown up summer that i never could have imagined when i was a kid. (am i the only one who's fascinated by how cool a kiss can feel even when it's 98 degrees outside?)
yes; things were fun back then, but summer's just fine now.
...
(was really looking forward to a date planned for tomorrow night and he has to travel for the next two weeks; he'll be back in the country when i'm about to go under the knife. am alarmed at how disappointed i am. like - REALLY disappointed. like - despondent disappointed. hm. that's a surprise.
NOW, what??)
Friday, June 15, 2007
compromised or, it was only a matter of time
one day, the skeins of my online life were going to cross. one day, i was going to underestimate the intrepid skillz of a man who had a lot of time on his hands and an uncanny knack to piss me off. one day, myspace was going to make me rue the day...blah blah blah.
the thing is, i don't use myspace for anything. it is a placeholder. and now it's connected to my work blog (yikes) and even though i've since made it private, so that no one can see it unless i've made them my friend, it's kinda been breached.
oh! and we were just talking about this today during a meeting - what happens when someone comes across your blog that you never intended to, in the first place. aaargh!
so, yeah. i check my myspace acct tonight and B- sent me a message there, inviting me to a show last week. of *course* he's on myspace! and of course he can find me - i used my real name!! my freak out isn't because i'm 'hiding' from him; that's not the issue. i just don't want to leave any crumbs that might lead back here, to Screed.
(because if he saw this? lord jesus. just look for my body in the chicago river.)
now i have to go back and scrub my myspace page and then try to make sure there's no trail to follow. (if he figures out Real Name=ding=Screed then i'm totally screwed. this blog is #2 when you google 'screed'! i mean, yay, but frak!)
the thing is, i don't use myspace for anything. it is a placeholder. and now it's connected to my work blog (yikes) and even though i've since made it private, so that no one can see it unless i've made them my friend, it's kinda been breached.
oh! and we were just talking about this today during a meeting - what happens when someone comes across your blog that you never intended to, in the first place. aaargh!
so, yeah. i check my myspace acct tonight and B- sent me a message there, inviting me to a show last week. of *course* he's on myspace! and of course he can find me - i used my real name!! my freak out isn't because i'm 'hiding' from him; that's not the issue. i just don't want to leave any crumbs that might lead back here, to Screed.
(because if he saw this? lord jesus. just look for my body in the chicago river.)
now i have to go back and scrub my myspace page and then try to make sure there's no trail to follow. (if he figures out Real Name=ding=Screed then i'm totally screwed. this blog is #2 when you google 'screed'! i mean, yay, but frak!)
Monday, June 04, 2007
anything you can do i can do better
a scene in one upmanship:
yeah, we're mature.
B-: nice pics on your profile.
Ding: don't look at my pics.
B-: i can look at your pics.
Ding: you make me tense.
B-: you're hostile.
Ding: what do you want?
B-: just thinking fondly of you.
Ding: you make me tense.
B-: you're the one who talked about me to my sister.
Ding: not me. i just blurted out our ex relationship during a
staff meeting.
B-: you're shallow and cruel.
Ding: whatever.
B-: i got promoted, live in a great apartment in uptown and am
no longer depressed. whaddya think of that?
Ding: i'm still great and i'm going to italy.
yeah, we're mature.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
a clockwork B-
if anything, he is predictable.
B- sent me an email today asking if i saw his sister when she performed for my organization at an event last month.
then he asked me out for a drink.
i declined.
i could totally set my watch to him.
B- sent me an email today asking if i saw his sister when she performed for my organization at an event last month.
then he asked me out for a drink.
i declined.
i could totally set my watch to him.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
ding dong, the B- is gone!
how do you tell a boy it's over after he's called you too crazy for friendship, too cool for love and too uptight (because you have a crazy busy work/social schedule) for everything else and then demanded you drop everything you had scheduled that night in order to prove you're not?
you tell him like this:
you tell him like this:
From: ding
To: B-
"busy" means 'uptight'?
whatever, b-. busy means that i have a full work and social life and enjoy it.
and i have to prove something to you? are you kidding?
i was willing to give the friendship thing a try but it's patently obvious that friendship between us will never be possible. (i'm too crazy for friendship? ha! that's called projection. when it's so clear that two people don't get along and aren't right for each other, it's pointless to argue back and forth about who or what's at fault.
but rest assured i could make a list. a long one.)
and since it's clear we've entered the Active Dislike phase of our association, and we can't even get the basics down, i think we've done this long enough. (in total, we've been going back and forth like this since 2002. too long without progress!)
so. in the interest of our mental health for 2007, let's drop the hammer on the two of us and vow never to contact the other ever again. i mean it. i don't want to open my inbox and see another email from you asking how i am. chances are, i'll be great.
in fact, i just deleted you from my mobile.
bye, b-. i'm late for a meeting.
Friday, January 05, 2007
deal me out
driving home yesterday in the rain, roomie and i had a conversation about my current dating status which is, to date, zilch. i despaired of 2007 turning into a repeat of 2006, The Year of Celibacy (though there's nothing really wrong with that and i rather enjoyed it - sorta), and she said, 'ding, you need to look at the cards that have been dealt you and be honest about what it is you want.'
i tried to imagine these cards but i had no idea what they were. 'and...what are they?'
'are you kidding me?'
'no! i don't know what cards i have! what cards? is it a good hand?'
'B-! your cards are B-!'
'oh,' i said. 'those cards. i don't want those cards. those cards piss me off.'
'then you need to fold and get a new hand.'
i said, 'and how would i do that? all three of the straight guys i know in chicago are...actually, there's just one. how is it possible i only know one straight guy and he has a girlfriend?'
roomie said, 'i don't know, ding. but you need a new deck of cards or you're going to go nuts. just call B-, arrange to see him this weekend and call it a night.'
'i can't. that would not be good. he makes me mad. but, grr! i want a frolic!'
'you're nuts. get a frolic. go online, choose a boy and get your frolic.'
'but i'm trying to be good!'
'then i don't know what to tell you, ding. you want the frolic or you don't. tradition and habit say that you want the frolic more than being good. so get the frolic.'
so, after a whole night of watching season 2 of Veronica Mars (damn you karis), i went online last night and looked for a frolic. what happened? when my search results came up the first candidate at the top of the queue was B-! aagh! i blocked him and logged off.
the universe has become a cockblock!
i tried to imagine these cards but i had no idea what they were. 'and...what are they?'
'are you kidding me?'
'no! i don't know what cards i have! what cards? is it a good hand?'
'B-! your cards are B-!'
'oh,' i said. 'those cards. i don't want those cards. those cards piss me off.'
'then you need to fold and get a new hand.'
i said, 'and how would i do that? all three of the straight guys i know in chicago are...actually, there's just one. how is it possible i only know one straight guy and he has a girlfriend?'
roomie said, 'i don't know, ding. but you need a new deck of cards or you're going to go nuts. just call B-, arrange to see him this weekend and call it a night.'
'i can't. that would not be good. he makes me mad. but, grr! i want a frolic!'
'you're nuts. get a frolic. go online, choose a boy and get your frolic.'
'but i'm trying to be good!'
'then i don't know what to tell you, ding. you want the frolic or you don't. tradition and habit say that you want the frolic more than being good. so get the frolic.'
so, after a whole night of watching season 2 of Veronica Mars (damn you karis), i went online last night and looked for a frolic. what happened? when my search results came up the first candidate at the top of the queue was B-! aagh! i blocked him and logged off.
the universe has become a cockblock!
Sunday, December 31, 2006
popping the cork
happy new year, people!
i'm back, relaxed, i even have a slight tan from LA and so frakking relieved that 2007 is here. (wasn't 2006 a little boring yet also stressful?)
i have to get ready for the sharon jones show at the park west tonight; after my freak out with B- last week, G- wanted to come out to chicago and help me ring in the new year but his father burned down his kitchen this morning so now i'm going with E-, an old nerve pal from milwaukee. (i'm a firm believer in recycling. there's no need for past internet dates to die on the vine, you know?)
be safe, be happy and have a great new year!
-ding
Saturday, December 23, 2006
last of the year
if i wasn't so gassy right now i'd be laughing.
i think the 'reunion' with B- has come (once again!) to an ignominius end.
i think i know why i always went back to B-, even though nothing materially changed. pride. at every email from him telling me how he missed me or wants a 'doover' my pride and vanity (ok, two reasons why i always went back) were pricked and it was an irresistible challenge to me to see if i could seduce him all over again and try to return to our initial period of intensity. but i should have paid attention to the law of diminishing returns. with each reunion, my mental and lifestyle difference from B- increased - as his from mine and the pleasure i sought soon dwindled to nothing the more we tried.
so last night, prompted by my ONE girly act of insecurity ('is he seeing someone else?'), which was also prompted by pride and vanity, the short-lived ding/B- show ended. we fought, we argued, we insulted one another, laid bare our misgivings, he admitted that he's thinking of someone else, and we came to the mutual conclusion that perhaps this was not a good idea.
so.
let this be the last B- post of the year - and hopefully thereafter.
i think the 'reunion' with B- has come (once again!) to an ignominius end.
i think i know why i always went back to B-, even though nothing materially changed. pride. at every email from him telling me how he missed me or wants a 'doover' my pride and vanity (ok, two reasons why i always went back) were pricked and it was an irresistible challenge to me to see if i could seduce him all over again and try to return to our initial period of intensity. but i should have paid attention to the law of diminishing returns. with each reunion, my mental and lifestyle difference from B- increased - as his from mine and the pleasure i sought soon dwindled to nothing the more we tried.
so last night, prompted by my ONE girly act of insecurity ('is he seeing someone else?'), which was also prompted by pride and vanity, the short-lived ding/B- show ended. we fought, we argued, we insulted one another, laid bare our misgivings, he admitted that he's thinking of someone else, and we came to the mutual conclusion that perhaps this was not a good idea.
so.
let this be the last B- post of the year - and hopefully thereafter.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
i had to write anyway...
that's it.
no word from B- about this weekend so i'm going to old orchard instead of lolling about in a hormonal haze with a boy before i leave.
grumble frakkin' grumble frakkin' grumble.
update:
B- has emerged after i emailed him asking if he'd been overcome by carbon monoxide and eaten by his cats. his response to my invitation: 'i'd rather hang out at my place. give me a call.'
well, FRAK! i'd rather NOT.
update #2:
there's a personal post today on his site. i'm reading it, seeing me in what he's writing (aw, he likes my belchiness!) then the post ends with a reference to this awesome woman, whoever she is, who makes him want to write poetry to her, wearing sweat pants with 'hot metal rocks' emblazoned across the ass.
this is not me.
i'm going about my pre-christmas business right now, in the apartment, and there's a part of me that is also going slowly insane. i don't want to go insane like those other hugely insecure, neurotic women. i don't want this...this doubt (about myself, mainly.) i'm not used to self-doubt. i left that behind in junior high and high school. that's not the Me that i am now.
fuck!
no word from B- about this weekend so i'm going to old orchard instead of lolling about in a hormonal haze with a boy before i leave.
grumble frakkin' grumble frakkin' grumble.
update:
B- has emerged after i emailed him asking if he'd been overcome by carbon monoxide and eaten by his cats. his response to my invitation: 'i'd rather hang out at my place. give me a call.'
well, FRAK! i'd rather NOT.
update #2:
there's a personal post today on his site. i'm reading it, seeing me in what he's writing (aw, he likes my belchiness!) then the post ends with a reference to this awesome woman, whoever she is, who makes him want to write poetry to her, wearing sweat pants with 'hot metal rocks' emblazoned across the ass.
this is not me.
i'm going about my pre-christmas business right now, in the apartment, and there's a part of me that is also going slowly insane. i don't want to go insane like those other hugely insecure, neurotic women. i don't want this...this doubt (about myself, mainly.) i'm not used to self-doubt. i left that behind in junior high and high school. that's not the Me that i am now.
fuck!
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