M- : i had a dream that i was waiting for you somewhere with some of your friends - i had never met before - and they were giving me a political ideology test.
DeliaChristina: oh, no! i'm sorry your subconscious is making my friends quiz you.
M- : no, it was ok. one of the friends was a guy, and he was on my side.
Ouch. Sigh.
M-: i had another dream that i sent snoop dogg back in time to the 18th century because he was being a dick.
DeliaChristina: (laughing) that's so mean! i'll teach you a lesson, snoop dog - i'm taking you back to slavery! see if you get sassy then!
M-: hey, he was being a dick. but i had another time travel dream a while ago when i went back to the 80s for an italian beef.
DeliaChristina: you wasted time travel on food? you can't do that!
M-: hey, i'm not changing history. i'm just eating pizza.
Showing posts with label NewGuy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NewGuy. Show all posts
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Monday, December 20, 2010
norridge rhymes with porridge - for a reason.
On Saturday, I stood on the corner of Cumberland and Lawrence, the freezing wind tearing through my leggings, making my thighs numb. Norridge, I thought. Frak you, Norridge!
I had arranged to meet M- at the comic book store he works at on the weekends for their holiday party and, apparently, I had not paid much attention to him the night before when he gave me directions.
Norridge is ugly. It is a placed cursed with squat homes and strip malls. Like LA but colder and uglier. So I wasn't in the best mood to start with. Not knowing where I was going, and unable to tell where I was on my GPS (frak you, GPS!), I walked all four corners of the intersection, even buttonholing old guys at the gas station. I walked up this block, up that block, down that street and back again. No frakking comic book store.
By this time, it was dark, the temperature had fallen to 16 (but the windchill made it feel like 8) and I stumbled to the McDonalds to nurse my frostbitten fingers and numb ass.
I texted M-:
'Dude. Your store apparently has an anti-girl force field covering it because I can't find it. So I'm at the McDonalds until my frostbite goes away. When you're done, you should come see me.'
I listened to the piped in Jesus music for a few minutes, grumbling about how I love this dude but man, the burbs suck, I can't feel my fingers, he better be glad I'm his girlfriend...grumble, grumble.
He called.
'Where are you? Did you just ignore everything I said last night?'
'Hey! No! Well, maybe. I got the intersection right!'
'You are right across the street from us!'
Pause. I turned around to look out the window.
'I don't see you.'
In a very patient voice he said, 'Go back outside. Walk toward the gas station. Look for the Italian restaurant. Then Edible Arrangements. We are right there.'
'I'm not going back outside! It's 8 degrees!'
'Then you're ok hanging out at the McDonalds for over an hour?!'
There went my thoughts about rescue.
'SIGH. NO. Fine. I'll finish my coffee and go outside.'
Grumbling all the while, I went back into the freezing Norridge night - and found it where he said I'd find it. I had walked past this place THREE frakking times!
When I went inside, all the comic book boys cheered and I felt like an idiot but at least the story made them laugh. And I hope it showed how dedicated a girlfriend I fucking am.
Note: M- later revealed that after he hung up, he'd said to the shop owner, 'I'd go and rescue the damsel in distress but she's a feminist!!'
Note to dudes everywhere: Feminism is officially put on hold when it's effing 8 degrees outside.
I had arranged to meet M- at the comic book store he works at on the weekends for their holiday party and, apparently, I had not paid much attention to him the night before when he gave me directions.
Norridge is ugly. It is a placed cursed with squat homes and strip malls. Like LA but colder and uglier. So I wasn't in the best mood to start with. Not knowing where I was going, and unable to tell where I was on my GPS (frak you, GPS!), I walked all four corners of the intersection, even buttonholing old guys at the gas station. I walked up this block, up that block, down that street and back again. No frakking comic book store.
By this time, it was dark, the temperature had fallen to 16 (but the windchill made it feel like 8) and I stumbled to the McDonalds to nurse my frostbitten fingers and numb ass.
I texted M-:
'Dude. Your store apparently has an anti-girl force field covering it because I can't find it. So I'm at the McDonalds until my frostbite goes away. When you're done, you should come see me.'
I listened to the piped in Jesus music for a few minutes, grumbling about how I love this dude but man, the burbs suck, I can't feel my fingers, he better be glad I'm his girlfriend...grumble, grumble.
He called.
'Where are you? Did you just ignore everything I said last night?'
'Hey! No! Well, maybe. I got the intersection right!'
'You are right across the street from us!'
Pause. I turned around to look out the window.
'I don't see you.'
In a very patient voice he said, 'Go back outside. Walk toward the gas station. Look for the Italian restaurant. Then Edible Arrangements. We are right there.'
'I'm not going back outside! It's 8 degrees!'
'Then you're ok hanging out at the McDonalds for over an hour?!'
There went my thoughts about rescue.
'SIGH. NO. Fine. I'll finish my coffee and go outside.'
Grumbling all the while, I went back into the freezing Norridge night - and found it where he said I'd find it. I had walked past this place THREE frakking times!
When I went inside, all the comic book boys cheered and I felt like an idiot but at least the story made them laugh. And I hope it showed how dedicated a girlfriend I fucking am.
Note: M- later revealed that after he hung up, he'd said to the shop owner, 'I'd go and rescue the damsel in distress but she's a feminist!!'
Note to dudes everywhere: Feminism is officially put on hold when it's effing 8 degrees outside.
Monday, November 22, 2010
It's Me, It's Not You: Pt. 2
This weekend, M- brought tears to my eyes. In a good way!
We were having pints with some friends after dinner and catching a few minutes alone (if you can be alone in the middle of a crowded bar.) Over dinner I had told one of M-'s coupled friends that he and I were thinking about their neighborhood for a house rental. The guy gave me a look and said, "Yeah, I think our neighborhood is a good compromise for you but not for M-. It's not downmarket enough."
"Really?"
"Yeah; he feels a little uncomfortable in places that aren't working class enough." I don't know if he said this because we had just walked through my neighborhood and they got a gander at all the new condos and the gentrification in Ukrainian Village, but it made me take a mental pause and added another mental brick to the pile in my brain.
Fast forward a few minutes and M- suddenly says to me, "You know, we don't have to do this until you're ready. I know you've been talking about this alot but ... you're not ready, yet." And he gave me his wry, Dad-look.
I said, "But I am! Really!" Totally lying.
And this is when he made me tear up. He cupped my face and said, "You're not. But if you insist you are going to break us up. We'll move in, you'll try to please me instead of thinking of what it is you want and then we'll break up and I'll be stuck with a goddamn house. I want us to do this because it's right for both of us at the same time."
I was quiet for a bit. "I thought I was hiding this better. I've been a little tense and anxious about this --"
"I know, babe," he said. "But when you're anxious, it makes me anxious and I can't take the stress. Ever since I was a little kid, I've been sensitive to other people's moods like this. When there's a problem, it makes me feel bad -- literally. I get sick when I feel that you're feeling all weird about us. So we don't have to do this now."
"And I get anxious when things move too fast. I just wanted you to know I'm committed to us, this thing we have."
"That's great to know you're willing to do this for me, but I don't need that big a sacrifice from you," he said. "You like living alone, you like doing your own thing and I like seeing you when I see you. Sure, I want to wake up with you. Sure, I wish we lived closer to one another. But don't worry about making ME feel good - I'm in this for the long haul. So when you're ready, we'll do this and it'll be good."
So we kissed, had more beers and went home for a rambunctious frolic and then some mutually disruptive snoring.
The upshot of all this cohabitation navel-gazing: I don't think I've felt more for this guy than during this conversation. How can any woman resist a guy who will wait for her?
We were having pints with some friends after dinner and catching a few minutes alone (if you can be alone in the middle of a crowded bar.) Over dinner I had told one of M-'s coupled friends that he and I were thinking about their neighborhood for a house rental. The guy gave me a look and said, "Yeah, I think our neighborhood is a good compromise for you but not for M-. It's not downmarket enough."
"Really?"
"Yeah; he feels a little uncomfortable in places that aren't working class enough." I don't know if he said this because we had just walked through my neighborhood and they got a gander at all the new condos and the gentrification in Ukrainian Village, but it made me take a mental pause and added another mental brick to the pile in my brain.
Fast forward a few minutes and M- suddenly says to me, "You know, we don't have to do this until you're ready. I know you've been talking about this alot but ... you're not ready, yet." And he gave me his wry, Dad-look.
I said, "But I am! Really!" Totally lying.
And this is when he made me tear up. He cupped my face and said, "You're not. But if you insist you are going to break us up. We'll move in, you'll try to please me instead of thinking of what it is you want and then we'll break up and I'll be stuck with a goddamn house. I want us to do this because it's right for both of us at the same time."
I was quiet for a bit. "I thought I was hiding this better. I've been a little tense and anxious about this --"
"I know, babe," he said. "But when you're anxious, it makes me anxious and I can't take the stress. Ever since I was a little kid, I've been sensitive to other people's moods like this. When there's a problem, it makes me feel bad -- literally. I get sick when I feel that you're feeling all weird about us. So we don't have to do this now."
"And I get anxious when things move too fast. I just wanted you to know I'm committed to us, this thing we have."
"That's great to know you're willing to do this for me, but I don't need that big a sacrifice from you," he said. "You like living alone, you like doing your own thing and I like seeing you when I see you. Sure, I want to wake up with you. Sure, I wish we lived closer to one another. But don't worry about making ME feel good - I'm in this for the long haul. So when you're ready, we'll do this and it'll be good."
So we kissed, had more beers and went home for a rambunctious frolic and then some mutually disruptive snoring.
The upshot of all this cohabitation navel-gazing: I don't think I've felt more for this guy than during this conversation. How can any woman resist a guy who will wait for her?
Friday, October 15, 2010
the road less traveled: iowa
Yesterday, I sent a message to my office: 'Delia will be on the road tomorrow to Iowa for a barn wedding. See you all on Monday!'
In other offices, my message would get some kind of snarky response: 'say hi to the corn for me!' or something like that.
This new office? Suddenly it's all 'Ooh! How fabulous! Bring back pics from the sustainable farm tour!'
So that's different.
...
When I think about how M- and I divide the labor of our relationship I think of two captains jockeying to steer a ship. He's used to steering his ship and I'm used to steering mine; together, we're in the wheelhouse, scuffling for control.
Like my dad, M- is convinced his way is always right. And, sometimes he's right. Except when it comes to wedding planning - even if it's a friend's wedding.
When it comes to that, I think of details that he hasn't: are there enough rooms in the hotel block? Are we really guaranteed a room (for some reason he thought we were but had never confirmed that)? What's the deadline for hotel reservations? What time is check in? What's their late check in policy? And what time is the wedding on Saturday? What are the events that we're invited to and not? (This is really important!)
I bet he's had one question in his head: am I going to be able to set up my DJ equipment on time and will the gig go well?
Once, I tried to ask these questions and he said, 'Don't worry about these things, baby. Everything will work out.'
And it's infuriating to hear because I instantly flash back to my mom and dad, standing in a restaurant lobby being told they can't be seated because Dad didn't make a reservation and my mom is humiliated and angry. All he had to do was think about How Things Are Done and make the damn reservation. But no. He thought his manly brain exluded him from certain rules and expectations. And so we go back to the car, drive to Carl's Jr. and eat our burgers in silence.
So, I waited for everything to work out. And I was right. We weren't guaranteed a room, the main hotel was full and now we had to look for a room at a frakking Super 8 Motel. So I quickly made the reservations, paid for it and sent him the confirmation.
No 'told you so's'. No blame.
But goddammit. Next time, frak being nice and doing the 'managing up' crap. I'm just going to go ahead and make the plans because dudes may be able to move carriers around the globe but can't interpret a frakking wedding invitation correctly. I understand my role this weekend is to be the Pretty Girlfriend. I get that. I'm so brain dead, that's fine. But I really hate it when dudes ignore what I'm saying.
This mouth isn't just for giving blow jobs.
In other offices, my message would get some kind of snarky response: 'say hi to the corn for me!' or something like that.
This new office? Suddenly it's all 'Ooh! How fabulous! Bring back pics from the sustainable farm tour!'
So that's different.
...
When I think about how M- and I divide the labor of our relationship I think of two captains jockeying to steer a ship. He's used to steering his ship and I'm used to steering mine; together, we're in the wheelhouse, scuffling for control.
Like my dad, M- is convinced his way is always right. And, sometimes he's right. Except when it comes to wedding planning - even if it's a friend's wedding.
When it comes to that, I think of details that he hasn't: are there enough rooms in the hotel block? Are we really guaranteed a room (for some reason he thought we were but had never confirmed that)? What's the deadline for hotel reservations? What time is check in? What's their late check in policy? And what time is the wedding on Saturday? What are the events that we're invited to and not? (This is really important!)
I bet he's had one question in his head: am I going to be able to set up my DJ equipment on time and will the gig go well?
Once, I tried to ask these questions and he said, 'Don't worry about these things, baby. Everything will work out.'
And it's infuriating to hear because I instantly flash back to my mom and dad, standing in a restaurant lobby being told they can't be seated because Dad didn't make a reservation and my mom is humiliated and angry. All he had to do was think about How Things Are Done and make the damn reservation. But no. He thought his manly brain exluded him from certain rules and expectations. And so we go back to the car, drive to Carl's Jr. and eat our burgers in silence.
So, I waited for everything to work out. And I was right. We weren't guaranteed a room, the main hotel was full and now we had to look for a room at a frakking Super 8 Motel. So I quickly made the reservations, paid for it and sent him the confirmation.
No 'told you so's'. No blame.
But goddammit. Next time, frak being nice and doing the 'managing up' crap. I'm just going to go ahead and make the plans because dudes may be able to move carriers around the globe but can't interpret a frakking wedding invitation correctly. I understand my role this weekend is to be the Pretty Girlfriend. I get that. I'm so brain dead, that's fine. But I really hate it when dudes ignore what I'm saying.
This mouth isn't just for giving blow jobs.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Gradual Fall of an Independent Woman
Satuday night, randomly, Moving In Together popped up again. I like having my own space and doing my own thing (and being in control of my own finances) so I don't take moving in together lightly. We were at a local bar with a friend when I very very casually mentioned it.
'But I'd need a few things first,' I said. 'I want to be in a safe neighborhood, I don't want to be sooo far from my friends and there need to be things in the neighborhood to do.'
'Ok,' M- said. 'I want a few things: parking, enough room for us and our stuff, and a safe neighborhood for you so I don't worry about you.'
'Aww. Ok, one more thing. A cleaning lady. This is non-negotiable. I'd want a cleaning lady.'
He gave me a look that I took to mean 'Ok, my girlfriend is a snooty bitch' and I said, 'I've had one before and she'd only need to come once a month for a maintenance clean, so things don't get out of control. And it's not that expensive.' I named a price.
'Holy shit. That's it?? We should have her every week!'
So, sold on the cleaning lady.
When we were brushing our teeth, more 'must-haves' popped up.
'Babe, I need more towels. If we move in together, I want enough towels so we only use them once a day,' he said.
'Uh, that's a lot of laundry.' I imagined becoming a slave to laundry like my mother and sister. 'Ok, then I'd need an apt with an in-unit washer/dryer.'
In bed, before drowsing off, he said, 'We can move in together whenever you're ready. You like doing your own thing so if you want to keep your apartment a while longer, that's cool.'
'You're ok with the way things are going?'
'Yes. I love spending time with you whenever I can. I love you. So when you're ready, we'll do it.' He flopped over. 'The only thing I hate is your mattress. When we move in together the first thing we're doing is getting a new bed.'
I kept my love for my mattress to myself. Choosing battles is important.
Our relationship has lasted a little over 18 months and I'm still waiting for this man to turn into a psycho and he hasn't. I might have to finally put my trust and intimacy crap to bed and embrace that M- is a normal, loving guy who only wants to be happy with me and for me.
'But I'd need a few things first,' I said. 'I want to be in a safe neighborhood, I don't want to be sooo far from my friends and there need to be things in the neighborhood to do.'
'Ok,' M- said. 'I want a few things: parking, enough room for us and our stuff, and a safe neighborhood for you so I don't worry about you.'
'Aww. Ok, one more thing. A cleaning lady. This is non-negotiable. I'd want a cleaning lady.'
He gave me a look that I took to mean 'Ok, my girlfriend is a snooty bitch' and I said, 'I've had one before and she'd only need to come once a month for a maintenance clean, so things don't get out of control. And it's not that expensive.' I named a price.
'Holy shit. That's it?? We should have her every week!'
So, sold on the cleaning lady.
When we were brushing our teeth, more 'must-haves' popped up.
'Babe, I need more towels. If we move in together, I want enough towels so we only use them once a day,' he said.
'Uh, that's a lot of laundry.' I imagined becoming a slave to laundry like my mother and sister. 'Ok, then I'd need an apt with an in-unit washer/dryer.'
In bed, before drowsing off, he said, 'We can move in together whenever you're ready. You like doing your own thing so if you want to keep your apartment a while longer, that's cool.'
'You're ok with the way things are going?'
'Yes. I love spending time with you whenever I can. I love you. So when you're ready, we'll do it.' He flopped over. 'The only thing I hate is your mattress. When we move in together the first thing we're doing is getting a new bed.'
I kept my love for my mattress to myself. Choosing battles is important.
Our relationship has lasted a little over 18 months and I'm still waiting for this man to turn into a psycho and he hasn't. I might have to finally put my trust and intimacy crap to bed and embrace that M- is a normal, loving guy who only wants to be happy with me and for me.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
a weirdly abrupt post on having a will of my own
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.
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.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
this is hard
For some reason, I haven't been able to sleep for the last few days. Last night, after a nice date night with M-, the inconsiderate DamnKids next door kept me awake from 2.30 am to 3.30. Even after I called the cops on them, I tossed and turned, trying every trick I knew to lull myself into sleep.
Some of it was work stuff, I know. Projects are starting to build up and while I may not be thinking about them consciously, it's running in the background. Like a .exe file on my hard drive somewhere sucking up disk space.
But what's the rest? Discontent with my blogging practice? (Blogging is starting to feel like spinning my wheels, not like real writing anymore.)
The eventual burnout from dealing with the state budget crap all year and having the end of session one week away? (I don't even care how it turns out, anymore. I just want it to be done. Janky budget or responsible budget, I don't care. Just end, already.)
Could it be M-?
As predicted, he read Screed while I was away (he had some free time on his hands) and ... I don't know how to read his reaction to it. (Also, notice that I'm not stopping writing about our relationship.)
Last night, in a light tone, he'd said, 'I'm sorry I didn't graduate college.'
But I don't know how to read that. Truthfully, I know I've settled that with myself. That was MY issue and I've looked at it and called myself out for being so entitled. And then friends thought that he'd had a strange reaction when he found out LTF/B- had gone to Stanford but I wasn't there so I'm forced to take their interpretation with a grain of salt.
(Besides, Stanford or no, LTF/B- was a frakking nutbag. Also - inconsiderate, selfish, freakish, drug-addled, neurotic, depressive andoccasionally impotent frustrating. By my assessment, M- wins on all points of comparison.)
I had been clipping dead daisy heads when this came up so I put down the scissors.
'M-, that used to be an issue when we first met, but it's not anymore. I love who you are.'
He shrugged. 'Well, I know that I still need to prove myself.'
'To whom?'
'To you. I want to be able -- I'm just tired of not being where I want to be.'
I said, 'You know why I love you? I know that you're the type of man who has integrity and you'll be the man who takes care of his business - and his family. You don't have to prove anything to me.'
'I just wish I had more money. I'm tired of working so hard and not having anything to show for it.'
And so we talked about that for a little while - about ambition, starting over at our age, about dreams that our parents had and that we doubt we'll have a chance to live. And about money. And living paycheck to paycheck. It was kind of a heavy conversation. No wonder we killed more than several bottles of Woodchuck.
In the past, a conversation like this would have made me skittish. My brain would have raced ahead, anticipating all sorts of trouble. But now I want to pay very close attention to how we both navigate peeling away our respective layers; what lies beneath won't always be attractive and we'll have to decide if we love the fantasy of love or if it's really about who this other person is in their bones.
I can already tell this 2nd year is going to be different than the first. The newness is still there, but now the edges of real life are starting to seep through. I'm beginning to see that being with someone really is a choice. It shouldn't be passive or accidental. It shouldn't just happen, like turning a corner in an unfamiliar place, finding you like the neighborhood and just deciding to hang out there a while. It's an act of will.
Did I just stumble into a profundity?
Some of it was work stuff, I know. Projects are starting to build up and while I may not be thinking about them consciously, it's running in the background. Like a .exe file on my hard drive somewhere sucking up disk space.
But what's the rest? Discontent with my blogging practice? (Blogging is starting to feel like spinning my wheels, not like real writing anymore.)
The eventual burnout from dealing with the state budget crap all year and having the end of session one week away? (I don't even care how it turns out, anymore. I just want it to be done. Janky budget or responsible budget, I don't care. Just end, already.)
Could it be M-?
As predicted, he read Screed while I was away (he had some free time on his hands) and ... I don't know how to read his reaction to it. (Also, notice that I'm not stopping writing about our relationship.)
Last night, in a light tone, he'd said, 'I'm sorry I didn't graduate college.'
But I don't know how to read that. Truthfully, I know I've settled that with myself. That was MY issue and I've looked at it and called myself out for being so entitled. And then friends thought that he'd had a strange reaction when he found out LTF/B- had gone to Stanford but I wasn't there so I'm forced to take their interpretation with a grain of salt.
(Besides, Stanford or no, LTF/B- was a frakking nutbag. Also - inconsiderate, selfish, freakish, drug-addled, neurotic, depressive and
I had been clipping dead daisy heads when this came up so I put down the scissors.
'M-, that used to be an issue when we first met, but it's not anymore. I love who you are.'
He shrugged. 'Well, I know that I still need to prove myself.'
'To whom?'
'To you. I want to be able -- I'm just tired of not being where I want to be.'
I said, 'You know why I love you? I know that you're the type of man who has integrity and you'll be the man who takes care of his business - and his family. You don't have to prove anything to me.'
'I just wish I had more money. I'm tired of working so hard and not having anything to show for it.'
And so we talked about that for a little while - about ambition, starting over at our age, about dreams that our parents had and that we doubt we'll have a chance to live. And about money. And living paycheck to paycheck. It was kind of a heavy conversation. No wonder we killed more than several bottles of Woodchuck.
In the past, a conversation like this would have made me skittish. My brain would have raced ahead, anticipating all sorts of trouble. But now I want to pay very close attention to how we both navigate peeling away our respective layers; what lies beneath won't always be attractive and we'll have to decide if we love the fantasy of love or if it's really about who this other person is in their bones.
I can already tell this 2nd year is going to be different than the first. The newness is still there, but now the edges of real life are starting to seep through. I'm beginning to see that being with someone really is a choice. It shouldn't be passive or accidental. It shouldn't just happen, like turning a corner in an unfamiliar place, finding you like the neighborhood and just deciding to hang out there a while. It's an act of will.
Did I just stumble into a profundity?
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.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
go, team!
M: So babe. We've been invited to a party in a couple of weeks on Sunday. You free?
DC: On a Sunday? Always.
M: Cool. We'll talk about it later.
DC: Wonderful.
(last Saturday night, pillow talk)
M: Babe, don't forget we have that thing tomorrow.
DC: Oh, right. What is that again?
M: It's my godson's birthday party. We'll be in and out.
DC: Wait. Children?!?
(Sunday afternoon, Walgreens greeting card aisle)
M: These cards suck.
DC: You could get him a blank card and just write 'Hey, Happy Birthday, kid!' (lady next to us snorts) They're twins, right? What about a card for the other one?
M: Naah. They need to learn how to share.
(I laugh really really loudly.)
(Sunday afternoon, Oak Park bungalow, livingroom couch)
M: (whispering) Do you want anything to eat?
DC: (whispering) No. Your godson picked his nose and touched all the cheese on the cheese tray.
(soon after)
Host: Ugh. That Sarah Palin.
M: (to me) He hates Sarah Palin.
DC: Oh? (having no clue what the political waters are here)
M: He used to be a raging Republican but now -
Host: I'm more Libertarian. It's the gun issue, mainly.
DC: Really? You...like guns?
Host: Oh, I don't own any. But don't say I can't!
DC: Ah. Yes. (to M-.) Los Angeles has guns everywhere. My dad has a gun.
Host: And that's his Constitutional right!
DC: (silently taking sip of Sprite)
(later)
Hostess: Did you know M- was our best man?
DC: I had no idea!
Hostess: (pulling out photo album, showing me a photo of the bride herself, hoisting M- in her arms) He's always been slim.
DC: I see that.
Hostess: M- is one of the best guys; he really is. (Giving me a hard look.)
DC: I know. That's why I'm keeping him around.
(much later)
VeryNiceLady: Oh! They're voting on that healthcare thing today! You work with government - what do you think?
(M- is very very silent next to me. VeryNiceLady's VeryConservativeHusband gives me the fish-eye.)
DC: You know, I was at a panel discussion earlier this year and it was so interesting! There are some unintended consequences, I think, to healthcare reform that local municipalities haven't quite thought about, yet. (I blather on about public healthcare and Stroger Hospital) But there's no doubt that something needs to be done. I mean, premiums in Illinois are predicted to jump at least 25% by 2015! There are questions, though...
VeryNiceLady: (nodding) I know what you mean...
M: (whispering) Thank you.
(last night, on the phone)
M: They invited us for dinner next week.
Teamwork, you know?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
stuck on amtrak, i think about relationships
Talking to my dad yesterday about the utter destruction of my sister's marriage he asked how things were going with me and M-.
I said we were going strong and he said something like, 'You two will be screaming at each other like all the rest.’
‘Uh, no,’ I said. ‘I think I'm doing pretty well here; we actually talk. We're honest.’
Dad snorted. ‘Honest. I’m honest.’
‘Whatever, Dad. M- and I actually talk about how we feel and we don’t wait for shit to blow up before we do. I know exactly why I’m in this relationship and so does he. If that changes anytime soon it won’t be the end of the world for us.’
‘We’ll see,’ Dad said.
It’s funny; Dad has seen how repressive and strangling the conventional rules of marriage are, and have been for a lot of people. He even admits it. But it’s a weird sort of reflex to not only see people conform to that convention, but see them twist in it and suffer. Maybe that's a Baptist thing. For all that the folks I went to church with clapped and congratulated each other for marrying, they practically salivated with pleasure when those marriages cracked and crumbled.
There was this strange mentality: 'You thought you were so special. So different. But you're not. You're just as miserable as I am. You're no different.'
This must be a black Baptist thing. Yeah.
In any case, I refuse to conform to it. And then people can marvel at my unconventional happiness.
As well as kiss my ass.
...
In related news - related to my sister's marriage and my and M-'s relationship - I had been thinking that this would be the summer I bring a boy home. Yeah, sort of a big thing. But not really. Folks go on trips all the time!
But with the destructin of my sister's marriage, where the hell will we stay?!
Yeah. It's all about me. It IS!
I said we were going strong and he said something like, 'You two will be screaming at each other like all the rest.’
‘Uh, no,’ I said. ‘I think I'm doing pretty well here; we actually talk. We're honest.’
Dad snorted. ‘Honest. I’m honest.’
‘Whatever, Dad. M- and I actually talk about how we feel and we don’t wait for shit to blow up before we do. I know exactly why I’m in this relationship and so does he. If that changes anytime soon it won’t be the end of the world for us.’
‘We’ll see,’ Dad said.
It’s funny; Dad has seen how repressive and strangling the conventional rules of marriage are, and have been for a lot of people. He even admits it. But it’s a weird sort of reflex to not only see people conform to that convention, but see them twist in it and suffer. Maybe that's a Baptist thing. For all that the folks I went to church with clapped and congratulated each other for marrying, they practically salivated with pleasure when those marriages cracked and crumbled.
There was this strange mentality: 'You thought you were so special. So different. But you're not. You're just as miserable as I am. You're no different.'
This must be a black Baptist thing. Yeah.
In any case, I refuse to conform to it. And then people can marvel at my unconventional happiness.
As well as kiss my ass.
...
In related news - related to my sister's marriage and my and M-'s relationship - I had been thinking that this would be the summer I bring a boy home. Yeah, sort of a big thing. But not really. Folks go on trips all the time!
But with the destructin of my sister's marriage, where the hell will we stay?!
Yeah. It's all about me. It IS!
Monday, March 01, 2010
my espresso bean mood...lifting
Reasons for the sudden uplift:
1. M- and I are still going strong. We've both admitted to minor, ridiculous jealousies; we don't need to fill the air with chatter; we're still the most boring couple ever; the sex is still...good god; we're both frakking adults about shit (like work stress, scheduling, my HoboMouth, listening to the other person) and I'm getting better at being part of a public couple. My travel schedule to Springfield isn't as horrendous as some have to endure, but for me, it's annoying as hell; the best part about coming back is emailing him from the train and telling him how I missed him while I was down there.
He noted, "You always miss me more when you go to Springfield." (Then he makes a problematic joke about thalidomide, which never fails to make me guffaw, which is equally problematic. I know. I'll repent later.)
And I do miss him more. I've found that he steadies me when work makes me nuts. The idea of not having him to quiet my crazy mind almost brings tears to my eyes. I wouldn't want to deal with what I'm dealing with at work if I didn't have him to come back to.
Uh. Yeah. Anyway...
2. I was accepted into the 2010 Spring Leadership and Policy Institute through the NWLC! I'm so excited about this opportunity! I've said to myself that if I was going to be serious about a public office career, then chances like this would be key. And, they paid for my lodging! AND - the White House Project bootcamp is coming to Chicago in May! Maybe I'll go after that, too.
3. I'm realizing how my satisfaction is so often connected to my core strengths. As a leadership exercise, we were given this book and my 5 core strengths turned out to be: Ideation, Input, Focus, Achiever, and Connectedness. Apparently, when things go out of whack or I feel that these needs of mine aren't being met, I go to my Dark Side: my dark, sarcastic, bitter, negative, highly critical side. It's not pretty. But I'm becoming aware of it - and how it can really negatively impact a team. So I'm trying really hard to not indulge in my fits of grrrr! It's not productive. (Though I still really like the Stockholm Syndrome analogy. It's apt.)
So there you have it. I'm coming back into the light - and I achieved something I never would have achieved a year ago! (And, clearly, my revamped resume rocks.)
1. M- and I are still going strong. We've both admitted to minor, ridiculous jealousies; we don't need to fill the air with chatter; we're still the most boring couple ever; the sex is still...good god; we're both frakking adults about shit (like work stress, scheduling, my HoboMouth, listening to the other person) and I'm getting better at being part of a public couple. My travel schedule to Springfield isn't as horrendous as some have to endure, but for me, it's annoying as hell; the best part about coming back is emailing him from the train and telling him how I missed him while I was down there.
He noted, "You always miss me more when you go to Springfield." (Then he makes a problematic joke about thalidomide, which never fails to make me guffaw, which is equally problematic. I know. I'll repent later.)
And I do miss him more. I've found that he steadies me when work makes me nuts. The idea of not having him to quiet my crazy mind almost brings tears to my eyes. I wouldn't want to deal with what I'm dealing with at work if I didn't have him to come back to.
Uh. Yeah. Anyway...
2. I was accepted into the 2010 Spring Leadership and Policy Institute through the NWLC! I'm so excited about this opportunity! I've said to myself that if I was going to be serious about a public office career, then chances like this would be key. And, they paid for my lodging! AND - the White House Project bootcamp is coming to Chicago in May! Maybe I'll go after that, too.
3. I'm realizing how my satisfaction is so often connected to my core strengths. As a leadership exercise, we were given this book and my 5 core strengths turned out to be: Ideation, Input, Focus, Achiever, and Connectedness. Apparently, when things go out of whack or I feel that these needs of mine aren't being met, I go to my Dark Side: my dark, sarcastic, bitter, negative, highly critical side. It's not pretty. But I'm becoming aware of it - and how it can really negatively impact a team. So I'm trying really hard to not indulge in my fits of grrrr! It's not productive. (Though I still really like the Stockholm Syndrome analogy. It's apt.)
So there you have it. I'm coming back into the light - and I achieved something I never would have achieved a year ago! (And, clearly, my revamped resume rocks.)
Monday, February 01, 2010
reasons why having M- isn't such a bad idea
1. He has a beer waiting when I come home from the office at 10 pm.
2. He is my buffer between me and the crazies when I'm not in the mood.
3. The first thing he says when I come thru the door is, 'Hey, there's my girlfriend!'
4. He's not jealous of my job, which he knows I love.
5. He actually pays attention to my job even though he isn't that clear on what I do.
6. He protects my space.
7. He warms up the freezing cold spots in bed.
8,9,10. Other stuff one probably shouldn't say publicly on a blog. Cough.
2. He is my buffer between me and the crazies when I'm not in the mood.
3. The first thing he says when I come thru the door is, 'Hey, there's my girlfriend!'
4. He's not jealous of my job, which he knows I love.
5. He actually pays attention to my job even though he isn't that clear on what I do.
6. He protects my space.
7. He warms up the freezing cold spots in bed.
8,9,10. Other stuff one probably shouldn't say publicly on a blog. Cough.
Monday, November 23, 2009
the most boring couple in the world
a quick M- vignette to tide you over the Thanksgiving hols:
you know you might be in it for the long haul when your guy's head is in your lap while you're watching an old Mexican horror movie and he's letting you pluck his crazy italian stray eyebrow hairs, and you marvel at them together ('wow, that one's huge') before blowing them away.
you know you might be in it for the long haul when your guy's head is in your lap while you're watching an old Mexican horror movie and he's letting you pluck his crazy italian stray eyebrow hairs, and you marvel at them together ('wow, that one's huge') before blowing them away.
Monday, October 26, 2009
another milestone of the kidney kind
Around the time that M- dropped the L-word for the first time, and I was feeling a little weird about it, someone suggested going through an 'emergency room' scenario, a mental exercise to clarify my own feelings.
We have exchanged L-words (I just can't say it, can I?) but this weekend sort of cemented things. In other words, you know you love someone when you rush from your cozy apt on a cold rainy night to go to the ER all the way on the north side because a nurse called and said 'Your boyfriend needs you.'
He had called from his house earlier:
He called from the hospital parking lot (yes, despite fetal position-inducing pain, he *drove* himself): 'I'm about to check in (groan) so I'll call you later. I'm at Swedish Covenant.'
Really trying not to fret I watched tv, looked up kidney stones on the web, ate a sandwich and checked my Blackberry. When an unknown 773 number popped up, I grabbed it.
'Your boyfriend needs you.'
'Tell him I'm coming and I'll be there as soon as I can.'
I texted my friends ('M- is in the ER with kidney stones! I'm out!'), dressed, grabbed keys, blew out candles, flagged a cab, grabbed cash, and rushed to the hospital, where I overtipped the cabbie.
It was a novel feeling to rush in and breathlessly say 'My boyfriend was just admitted and I'm here to see him.' Even more novel was the feeling that I *really* did not want anything to happen to this guy. This was beyond the 'gee, I hope things are ok' feeling; this was 'oh, god, it's only kidney stones but if something happens this will wreck me.'
Weird, huh?
Things fall immediately into place when you face what you really feel. The class bullshit I was still holding onto ('we don't match, he's not like anyone I've gone out with before, I graduated from college and he didn't, I don't know if he fits my circle...'), I dropped.
Priorities realign pretty quickly when you see your guy wearing a sad little hospital gown, hooked up to monitors, drugged out of his head, smiling woozily up at you in front of the nurse, and slurring, 'Gimme some sugar.'
Not once did I think 'Let me examine the gender, class and race implications of my brown self being here while these doctors and nurses look at me hold his lily white hand.'
Maybe that's why I didn't mind spending the whole weekend at his place, getting to recognize what it sounds like when he's feeling a 5 mm stone squeeze its way down his ureter. Or feeling gently sympathetic standing in the 45-min line at the high school haunted house, watching him go to the restroom every 10 min or so. Or watching how his gait changes when he's in pain or listening intently at the bathroom door for a tell-tale thump to make sure he didn't faint.
We hid out, reading comic books, watching classic horror movies, eating ice cream and making jokes about the sexiness of peeing into a filter. Silently, I counted to myself how many glasses of water he drank, if he was taking his pills on time, and in a rare moment of domesticity, I even made breakfast. (Who cares if it took me 2 freaking hours and I made enough pancakes for a whole football team?)
When I got back to my place last night, I even had a little bit of a cry, for some reason.
It's frakking brutal, this falling in love thing.
[And if you need a more timely political frame for this post, because you don't want to read pointless, girly, journal entries from Ding, shouldn't *everyone* have this same right to rush into an ER and say to the admitting nurse 'My partner is in there and I need to see him/her!'? Civil rights for all is really just that simple. How the world works for me, as a member of the dominant group, is how it should work for everyone.]
We have exchanged L-words (I just can't say it, can I?) but this weekend sort of cemented things. In other words, you know you love someone when you rush from your cozy apt on a cold rainy night to go to the ER all the way on the north side because a nurse called and said 'Your boyfriend needs you.'
He had called from his house earlier:
M-: So babe. What are the symptoms of a kidney stone? (groan)
D : Sharp pain, hurts to pee, and blood in your urine. (my old lady television viewing habits come in handy, sometimes.)
M-: I might have a kidney stone. I have to pee all the time. No blood, though.
D: Wow. Are you sure? Sharp pain in your lower back?
M-: Yeah, but I'm ok. Maybe it'll go away. (groan)
D: Kidney stones don't go away unless they leave your penis. I think you should go to the ER.
M-: Maybe I'll take a tylenol and then come over for our date when the pain passes.
D : Whatever. Our date is off. You need to go to the ER.
M-: (GROAN)
D: You need to be at the doctor; tell me where to meet you.
M-: (GROAN MOAN) Uh, I gotta go, babe. I just tried to pee and almost passed out.
He called from the hospital parking lot (yes, despite fetal position-inducing pain, he *drove* himself): 'I'm about to check in (groan) so I'll call you later. I'm at Swedish Covenant.'
Really trying not to fret I watched tv, looked up kidney stones on the web, ate a sandwich and checked my Blackberry. When an unknown 773 number popped up, I grabbed it.
'Your boyfriend needs you.'
'Tell him I'm coming and I'll be there as soon as I can.'
I texted my friends ('M- is in the ER with kidney stones! I'm out!'), dressed, grabbed keys, blew out candles, flagged a cab, grabbed cash, and rushed to the hospital, where I overtipped the cabbie.
It was a novel feeling to rush in and breathlessly say 'My boyfriend was just admitted and I'm here to see him.' Even more novel was the feeling that I *really* did not want anything to happen to this guy. This was beyond the 'gee, I hope things are ok' feeling; this was 'oh, god, it's only kidney stones but if something happens this will wreck me.'
Weird, huh?
Things fall immediately into place when you face what you really feel. The class bullshit I was still holding onto ('we don't match, he's not like anyone I've gone out with before, I graduated from college and he didn't, I don't know if he fits my circle...'), I dropped.
Priorities realign pretty quickly when you see your guy wearing a sad little hospital gown, hooked up to monitors, drugged out of his head, smiling woozily up at you in front of the nurse, and slurring, 'Gimme some sugar.'
Not once did I think 'Let me examine the gender, class and race implications of my brown self being here while these doctors and nurses look at me hold his lily white hand.'
Maybe that's why I didn't mind spending the whole weekend at his place, getting to recognize what it sounds like when he's feeling a 5 mm stone squeeze its way down his ureter. Or feeling gently sympathetic standing in the 45-min line at the high school haunted house, watching him go to the restroom every 10 min or so. Or watching how his gait changes when he's in pain or listening intently at the bathroom door for a tell-tale thump to make sure he didn't faint.
We hid out, reading comic books, watching classic horror movies, eating ice cream and making jokes about the sexiness of peeing into a filter. Silently, I counted to myself how many glasses of water he drank, if he was taking his pills on time, and in a rare moment of domesticity, I even made breakfast. (Who cares if it took me 2 freaking hours and I made enough pancakes for a whole football team?)
When I got back to my place last night, I even had a little bit of a cry, for some reason.
It's frakking brutal, this falling in love thing.
[And if you need a more timely political frame for this post, because you don't want to read pointless, girly, journal entries from Ding, shouldn't *everyone* have this same right to rush into an ER and say to the admitting nurse 'My partner is in there and I need to see him/her!'? Civil rights for all is really just that simple. How the world works for me, as a member of the dominant group, is how it should work for everyone.]
Monday, October 19, 2009
a week's worth of posts could be written about Black Dynamite (even though it made me laugh) but i'm having another one of those weeks.
...
on the good news front, my weird allergy is clearing up! yay, antibiotics! (boo, antibiotic-imposed celibacy.)
...
in M- news, he has found my father's website and hasn't run screaming into the night!
carry on.
...
on the good news front, my weird allergy is clearing up! yay, antibiotics! (boo, antibiotic-imposed celibacy.)
...
in M- news, he has found my father's website and hasn't run screaming into the night!
carry on.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Thursday, October 08, 2009
My Random 5
1. So I found 2 lumps under my right armpit. Just TWO frakking weeks after my 40th birthday!! This wouldn't freak me out so much if my 40th hadn't just happened; if my boss wasn't diagnosed with breast cancer in March and is walking all over the office wearing a baseball cap because she's going through chemo; and if a colleague wasn't also diagnosed last year and is about to undergo intense radiation. Signs, you know?
What I really hate? The fact that I'm so vain, all I can think about is losing my boobs. I really really like my boobs. They're two of my favorite features.
(And then all this thinking on how 40 really represents how your body rebels against you is making me wonder if I'm going to go nuts like my mom because she became menopausal in her 40s....the loop of crazy-thinking is endless, I tell you. All because of TWO freaking lumps.)
So, yeah. Get those tests. It's Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
2. One night we're at Nilda's and M- says, 'You know, I'm always talking about my job and my office but I want you to know that I think about your work, too.'
'Really?' No guy has ever indicated that he's ever thought about my work at all. B- thought it was an annoying barrier to his getting it on.
'Yeah. You're meeting all these important people, talking about things that matter to women and you're really doing something important for Chicago.'
'Really??' I couldn't tell if my skepticism was about him telling he thought this or that he actually thought it.
'Yeah. And I haven't said that to you and I wanted to. Your work is important to you and I'm really proud of what you do. I'm proud you're my girlfriend.'
How lame that I actually teared up because my boyfriend said he thinks my work is important and he's proud of me?
Swear to god, if I discover this is all some complicated psycho-mind-job, I will kill him.
3. When my sister was dating her husband in high school, I would make fun of the little bedroom shrine she had created with all of the things he'd given her. There were cards, notes, little toys, figurines, movie tickets, bits of ribbon, a dried flower or two, or random Spanish words that no one else could figure out. (Like, 'verde.' I know it's 'green' but what the hell does that mean??) The other morning, I was getting ready to leave his place and while I was slipping on my shoes, I looked over at the window sill by the couch and saw a card.
It was a card that I’d had for a while (waiting for the right person to give it to, I guess.) It said something snarky on the front like, ‘What if I call you up and ask you out and unleash upon you a volcano of lust?’ or something like that. Seeing it there was kind of a surprise. Because I leave so freaking early while he’s still in bed, I usually leave him a note under his keys or cigarettes. Do guys keep these things in a special box to rummage through later?
4. Yesterday, my CEO ran a resume past me of someone she’d like to recruit to a com’tee we’re putting together. It was an awesome resume – very academic and policy-oriented - and I gave it a hearty thumbs up. Then she BCC’ed me on an email to the owner of this resume inviting her to a coffee, as well as to run a job opportunity past her for external communications and relations. Instantly, my mood changes. My knee-jerk Competitive Queen Bee reaction kicked in. I know it’s totally irrational and petty. But it’s what I felt. I felt that someone was coming onto MY PATCH. This is what I DO. Why do we need her?? And HELL NO will I report to her!! Again, irrational. There’s more than enough work to go around and not enough people to do it.
So, to feel better, I went to get my whole face waxed. Laying there while a tiny lady spread hot wax on my hairy bits and ripped them off was cathartic. With each pinprick of pain, my crabbiness drained from my body and I went to the office feeling loads better.
5. Halloween is coming up and I’m thinking of dressing as Every Black Female Judge on Law & Order. M- might be Green Man. But then he sent me a pic of him last year as a glam rocker – fur coat, tall boots, long wig, spandex pants, belly shirt - and it made me flush with naughtiness.
We might have to save that for a special occasion.
What I really hate? The fact that I'm so vain, all I can think about is losing my boobs. I really really like my boobs. They're two of my favorite features.
(And then all this thinking on how 40 really represents how your body rebels against you is making me wonder if I'm going to go nuts like my mom because she became menopausal in her 40s....the loop of crazy-thinking is endless, I tell you. All because of TWO freaking lumps.)
So, yeah. Get those tests. It's Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
2. One night we're at Nilda's and M- says, 'You know, I'm always talking about my job and my office but I want you to know that I think about your work, too.'
'Really?' No guy has ever indicated that he's ever thought about my work at all. B- thought it was an annoying barrier to his getting it on.
'Yeah. You're meeting all these important people, talking about things that matter to women and you're really doing something important for Chicago.'
'Really??' I couldn't tell if my skepticism was about him telling he thought this or that he actually thought it.
'Yeah. And I haven't said that to you and I wanted to. Your work is important to you and I'm really proud of what you do. I'm proud you're my girlfriend.'
How lame that I actually teared up because my boyfriend said he thinks my work is important and he's proud of me?
Swear to god, if I discover this is all some complicated psycho-mind-job, I will kill him.
3. When my sister was dating her husband in high school, I would make fun of the little bedroom shrine she had created with all of the things he'd given her. There were cards, notes, little toys, figurines, movie tickets, bits of ribbon, a dried flower or two, or random Spanish words that no one else could figure out. (Like, 'verde.' I know it's 'green' but what the hell does that mean??) The other morning, I was getting ready to leave his place and while I was slipping on my shoes, I looked over at the window sill by the couch and saw a card.
It was a card that I’d had for a while (waiting for the right person to give it to, I guess.) It said something snarky on the front like, ‘What if I call you up and ask you out and unleash upon you a volcano of lust?’ or something like that. Seeing it there was kind of a surprise. Because I leave so freaking early while he’s still in bed, I usually leave him a note under his keys or cigarettes. Do guys keep these things in a special box to rummage through later?
4. Yesterday, my CEO ran a resume past me of someone she’d like to recruit to a com’tee we’re putting together. It was an awesome resume – very academic and policy-oriented - and I gave it a hearty thumbs up. Then she BCC’ed me on an email to the owner of this resume inviting her to a coffee, as well as to run a job opportunity past her for external communications and relations. Instantly, my mood changes. My knee-jerk Competitive Queen Bee reaction kicked in. I know it’s totally irrational and petty. But it’s what I felt. I felt that someone was coming onto MY PATCH. This is what I DO. Why do we need her?? And HELL NO will I report to her!! Again, irrational. There’s more than enough work to go around and not enough people to do it.
So, to feel better, I went to get my whole face waxed. Laying there while a tiny lady spread hot wax on my hairy bits and ripped them off was cathartic. With each pinprick of pain, my crabbiness drained from my body and I went to the office feeling loads better.
5. Halloween is coming up and I’m thinking of dressing as Every Black Female Judge on Law & Order. M- might be Green Man. But then he sent me a pic of him last year as a glam rocker – fur coat, tall boots, long wig, spandex pants, belly shirt - and it made me flush with naughtiness.
We might have to save that for a special occasion.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
calling all M- fans: ding is clueless
so, i need to plan more, and i'm really bad at planning.
for almost the entirety of our dating history (all whopping 5-6 months), M- has been the main Date Planner. he's way more into logistics than i am and i'm bad at it. (and, frankly, i'm really lazy.)
but i don't want to burn M- out, so give me your date ideas, Fans of M-.
i'm desperate.
for almost the entirety of our dating history (all whopping 5-6 months), M- has been the main Date Planner. he's way more into logistics than i am and i'm bad at it. (and, frankly, i'm really lazy.)
but i don't want to burn M- out, so give me your date ideas, Fans of M-.
i'm desperate.
Monday, September 28, 2009
pork belly for everyone
what an exhausting weekend. (oh, listen to me complain about all the fun i had.) so here's a list instead of a perfectly tuned out post:
1. i keep walking past the card from M- and opening it to hear it blare 'Brick House' and i can't stop giggling. (he wrote inside that he hoped he'd be with me for all the rest of my birthdays and every time i read it, my underarms itch a little.)
2. if you're in chicago, you really need to eat at Perennial. order the pork belly. or the halibut. you must.
3. for a woman w/o cable or the intewebs, is getting a wii really that prudent? (even though said woman is now hooked on wii bowling? and loves sweating during the Super Slice? maybe a Wii Fit?)
4. it's scary how well my friends know me. how did they know that the perfect topper for my cake would be a teeny microwave with some scorched panties inside?
5. birthday resolution #1: this is the year i will rework my tattoo.
6. birthday resolution #2: this is the year i will (cough) get my drivers license.
7. birthday resolution #3: this is the year i will really, really eat better and exercise more. really.
8. i think i have the nicest AND dirtiest boyfriend ever. i mean, DIRTY. let your imaginations run amok. that's all i'm saying.
9. the art is beautiful.
10. i need a new couch.
1. i keep walking past the card from M- and opening it to hear it blare 'Brick House' and i can't stop giggling. (he wrote inside that he hoped he'd be with me for all the rest of my birthdays and every time i read it, my underarms itch a little.)
2. if you're in chicago, you really need to eat at Perennial. order the pork belly. or the halibut. you must.
3. for a woman w/o cable or the intewebs, is getting a wii really that prudent? (even though said woman is now hooked on wii bowling? and loves sweating during the Super Slice? maybe a Wii Fit?)
4. it's scary how well my friends know me. how did they know that the perfect topper for my cake would be a teeny microwave with some scorched panties inside?
5. birthday resolution #1: this is the year i will rework my tattoo.
6. birthday resolution #2: this is the year i will (cough) get my drivers license.
7. birthday resolution #3: this is the year i will really, really eat better and exercise more. really.
8. i think i have the nicest AND dirtiest boyfriend ever. i mean, DIRTY. let your imaginations run amok. that's all i'm saying.
9. the art is beautiful.
10. i need a new couch.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
NewGuy or...NewMan?
The other night, the young kids next door decided it was time to rehash all their roommate issues at 5 am. My first-floor bedroom window was open to let in the heavy late summer air so it was as if the two of them were standing at the foot of my bed arguing about who was going to be the one to move out.
Next to me, M- turned from his back to his front. He put the pillow over his head. He snorted. He grumbled. I rubbed his back, drifting in and out of my own dream state. I wished that a flaming meteorite would land on these kids and incinerate them both.
M- got up, climbed over me, shuffled into the living room. For a minute, I thought he was going to charge outside in his underwear and yell at the kids. But he came back with a glass of water, drank some, handed it to me, went back into the kitchen and came back.
The arguing continued and it was clear that our sleep was irrevocably broken. I could tell the sky was going to lighten soon. We'd both have to go to work. I tossed. M- tossed.
Then M- sat up, wrenched off the comforter and boomed out the window in his Chicago guy voice, 'Take it inside or we're calling the police!'
Silence. A screen door slammed. Silence.
'Thanks, sweetie,' I mumbled, patting his arm as he got back in bed. Grumbling, he pulled me close and said, 'Well, now I can't go back to sleep.' And we waited for 6.15 am (when he had to leave) and spent the dawn talking and complaining about how frakking rude 20-somethings are in this neighborhood.
At the door, he said he appreciated how I didn't get mad at him for yelling out the window.
'Why would I get mad at you for yelling at them? I call the cops on those damn kids all the time.'
'Just...thanks for letting me take care of that.'
'Uh, ok.'
I get the feeling that these things are important to him - taking care of things, being the Guy. Or is it being the Man? I don't know.
According to this Modern Love, M- looks like a Guy but acts like a Man. Or is it the other way around?
Because it's all over the place.
Modern Love - Forget the Men. Pick a Guy. - NYTimes.com
Next to me, M- turned from his back to his front. He put the pillow over his head. He snorted. He grumbled. I rubbed his back, drifting in and out of my own dream state. I wished that a flaming meteorite would land on these kids and incinerate them both.
M- got up, climbed over me, shuffled into the living room. For a minute, I thought he was going to charge outside in his underwear and yell at the kids. But he came back with a glass of water, drank some, handed it to me, went back into the kitchen and came back.
The arguing continued and it was clear that our sleep was irrevocably broken. I could tell the sky was going to lighten soon. We'd both have to go to work. I tossed. M- tossed.
Then M- sat up, wrenched off the comforter and boomed out the window in his Chicago guy voice, 'Take it inside or we're calling the police!'
Silence. A screen door slammed. Silence.
'Thanks, sweetie,' I mumbled, patting his arm as he got back in bed. Grumbling, he pulled me close and said, 'Well, now I can't go back to sleep.' And we waited for 6.15 am (when he had to leave) and spent the dawn talking and complaining about how frakking rude 20-somethings are in this neighborhood.
At the door, he said he appreciated how I didn't get mad at him for yelling out the window.
'Why would I get mad at you for yelling at them? I call the cops on those damn kids all the time.'
'Just...thanks for letting me take care of that.'
'Uh, ok.'
I get the feeling that these things are important to him - taking care of things, being the Guy. Or is it being the Man? I don't know.
According to this Modern Love, M- looks like a Guy but acts like a Man. Or is it the other way around?
Because it's all over the place.
Modern Love - Forget the Men. Pick a Guy. - NYTimes.com
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