When it comes to things between me and M- I would say that those things are going pretty well. Right now, we're juggling my increased work schedule (I now have business meetings, dinners and trips!) and I'm struggling just to wash the dishes in my sink.
I wouldn't say things are totally ok, though. Conversations about moving in together have stepped up and are triggering GirlFriend Separation Anxiety (GFSA) and Boys Are Messy and Gross Anxiety (BAMGA), which is also related to Boys Hog the TV Remote Irritation (BHTVRI). A friend who recently moved in with, and married, her boyfriend has struggled sharing her condo with him, his duffel bag collection, his sports gear, his records and his snoring.
She said to me today, 'Oh, that irritation and anxiety is real. It is not all in your head. Do not underestimate that.'
And what is interesting about this to me is how my anxiety bucks the female nesting stereotype. The image of the woman who can't wait to get her hands on some man's space and fill his drawers with her bras and panties is blown to pieces. I don't want my hands on his space. That's his space. And this is mine!
The other night I actually paused while brushing my teeth thinking about how we will probably need an armoire and what if he hates going to Ikea to get one and what if I don't have enough closet space and what if his things clash with my things? And what if we can't find a place with at least two bathrooms? And I walked to my cramped bedroom where my bras, socks and various sundries were all helter skelter, and felt a little sad.
Goodbye, girl space.
Of course, this is my Libra/Capricorn tendency to over-think.
I think I'll handle everything ok if I just keep myself grounded. And think of how my other coupled friends balance their together/apart time and how, generally, change is always good and moving in with a guy does not mean that I will never see my girls but that I'll have to be more intentional about seeing them on a regular basis, and that I've had two roommates before and living with them well always came down to open communication.
Then again, maybe I'll need to start seeing a therapist again once a month.
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
Friday, November 19, 2010
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.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Dad gets another lesson in feminism: on raising strong daughters
Talking with my dad allows me to say some things kids and parents normally don't have a chance to say to one another unless one of them is on a deathbed. So today, I told him how his and mom's messages about our bodies basically created some of the issues my sister and I have with intimacy. And his brain exploded.
"What did you expect, Dad?" I said. "We grew up in a religiously strict Baptist home, we were taught Satan was real, we were going to hell if we touched ourselves, our bodies were dirty, sex was bad and that boys were rapists. So, yeah - we're gonna have some issues with men when we grow up!"
"Ahhh, well. I don't know," he stammered. "I don't know if I agree with all of that. But we can talk about that later."
"Dad, L- and I still talk about how traumatized we were when you told us about sex. It was graphic!"
"I was just trying to protect you from the little knuckleheads down the street!"
"We were eight! Don't tell us about being snatched off the streets, thrown on a dirty mattress in a van and having some little boy put their fingers in our bodies! That was terrifying!"
"I was being a father! We lived in South Central - not some fairy land."
"Well, congratulations, Dad! You told us our bodies were fodder for rapists - who, apparently, lived down the street, went to school with us and walked the sidewalks! Nice going." I said. "We were EIGHT! Dude, didn't anyone back then read books about child development? Didn't you guys have Good Touch/Bad Touch?"
"What's that mess?"
And so on.
Anyway, things are not going well with my sister's marriage; she has admitted to Dad that she has hated how men look at her, which has prompted Dad to ask where her attitude comes from.
"Are you kidding me?"
"I'm serious, Delia Christina. I don't understand it."
I tried to explain what it's like growing up a girl where you're taught that Bad Things will happen to you because of what's between your legs, how this reduces a girl to an object and tells her that SHE is the cause for a man's violence and perversion; but he didn't get it, quite.
So I said, "You raised us to be afraid, not strong. See the difference?"
My sister and I heard the same messages growing up. But I know what made the difference for me. Feminism. If that kind of awakening hadn't happened to me, I would still be struggling with my body, my value, my worth. I know that I've had a reputation for being a ball-busting man-hater, but I'd rather be a so-called man-hater than a woman afraid of her own body and desire.
But this, I think, is the conundrum of raising daughters. If you know that this patriarchal world is full of violence against women and girls (which it is, in horrible, horrific ways) then how do you prepare your daughter to face it? And then, how do you raise them to face it without making them afraid of themselves, of their bodies - how do you raise a daughter to be without shame?
Mothers and fathers raising daughters, I'd love to hear from you on this one.
"What did you expect, Dad?" I said. "We grew up in a religiously strict Baptist home, we were taught Satan was real, we were going to hell if we touched ourselves, our bodies were dirty, sex was bad and that boys were rapists. So, yeah - we're gonna have some issues with men when we grow up!"
"Ahhh, well. I don't know," he stammered. "I don't know if I agree with all of that. But we can talk about that later."
"Dad, L- and I still talk about how traumatized we were when you told us about sex. It was graphic!"
"I was just trying to protect you from the little knuckleheads down the street!"
"We were eight! Don't tell us about being snatched off the streets, thrown on a dirty mattress in a van and having some little boy put their fingers in our bodies! That was terrifying!"
"I was being a father! We lived in South Central - not some fairy land."
"Well, congratulations, Dad! You told us our bodies were fodder for rapists - who, apparently, lived down the street, went to school with us and walked the sidewalks! Nice going." I said. "We were EIGHT! Dude, didn't anyone back then read books about child development? Didn't you guys have Good Touch/Bad Touch?"
"What's that mess?"
And so on.
Anyway, things are not going well with my sister's marriage; she has admitted to Dad that she has hated how men look at her, which has prompted Dad to ask where her attitude comes from.
"Are you kidding me?"
"I'm serious, Delia Christina. I don't understand it."
I tried to explain what it's like growing up a girl where you're taught that Bad Things will happen to you because of what's between your legs, how this reduces a girl to an object and tells her that SHE is the cause for a man's violence and perversion; but he didn't get it, quite.
So I said, "You raised us to be afraid, not strong. See the difference?"
My sister and I heard the same messages growing up. But I know what made the difference for me. Feminism. If that kind of awakening hadn't happened to me, I would still be struggling with my body, my value, my worth. I know that I've had a reputation for being a ball-busting man-hater, but I'd rather be a so-called man-hater than a woman afraid of her own body and desire.
But this, I think, is the conundrum of raising daughters. If you know that this patriarchal world is full of violence against women and girls (which it is, in horrible, horrific ways) then how do you prepare your daughter to face it? And then, how do you raise them to face it without making them afraid of themselves, of their bodies - how do you raise a daughter to be without shame?
Mothers and fathers raising daughters, I'd love to hear from you on this one.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
my friends are silly
last night:
T- : so what if M- proposes over dinner on Friday?
Ding: what??
XRoomie: come on. you know there's a possibility.
Ding: no way. i already know what he's getting me. art.
T- : really?
Ding: yeah. i mentioned i liked this guy at the craft fair, he asked for his website and later he mentioned that he ordered something for me online. so it's art.
XRoomie: you are so bad at reading these things. reading everything.
Ding: he's not going to propose. it's - what - month #5, 6? don't be crazy.
XRoomie: what are you going to do if he does? you'll have to tell him to back off.
Ding: SIGH. he's NOT going to propose! he's getting me art for my birthday! hiroshi akiyama!
T- : what if he gives you a promise ring.
Ding: i'm going home.
We are in our blasted 40s (or at least late 30s) but you wouldn't think it to hear us. If folks want to see a ring, they better look in H-'s direction.
But to clear the air, how do I know M- won't suddenly go insane and pull a Bill the Vampire on Friday over dinner at Perennial?
Because he's not that type of guy. He'd want to do things traditionally: meet the family, ask permission. We haven't even exchanged keys (though that, lately, has crept into conversation); we don't even have personal drawers or closet space at the other person's house (though he left a white t-shirt the other day and where am I supposed to put that?)
Maybe this is something my friends haven't considered, but we've actually talked about this. We're not at the ring-popping stage. Saying 'Love you!' at the end of phone conversations? Sure. Ring-popping? No.
If romantic comedies are useful, they provide a handy guide to relationship progression. (Just think of every montage in every movie you've ever seen.) There's the shopping together, cooking together, hanging out with each others' friends, long walks through trees, the weekend away, the road trip, the real vacation together, the visit to the family, the holidays with the family, the crisis, the big fight, the big reconciliation, THEN the velvet box comes out.
See? We're not even close to that.
(However, we are now publicly 'out' as a couple on Facebook. We are no longer 'dating.' We are in a 'relationship.' I guess movies haven't caught up to that, yet.)
Has a corner been turned? Yes. Things have settled into...something and it feels nice. I like it. I'm struggling with my schedule (and he gets that) but, so far, what's not to enjoy about this? I really don't need the specter of some bullshit, hetero-coercive ring messing up my head.
Whatever. He's getting me art for my birthday.
T- : so what if M- proposes over dinner on Friday?
Ding: what??
XRoomie: come on. you know there's a possibility.
Ding: no way. i already know what he's getting me. art.
T- : really?
Ding: yeah. i mentioned i liked this guy at the craft fair, he asked for his website and later he mentioned that he ordered something for me online. so it's art.
XRoomie: you are so bad at reading these things. reading everything.
Ding: he's not going to propose. it's - what - month #5, 6? don't be crazy.
XRoomie: what are you going to do if he does? you'll have to tell him to back off.
Ding: SIGH. he's NOT going to propose! he's getting me art for my birthday! hiroshi akiyama!
T- : what if he gives you a promise ring.
Ding: i'm going home.
We are in our blasted 40s (or at least late 30s) but you wouldn't think it to hear us. If folks want to see a ring, they better look in H-'s direction.
But to clear the air, how do I know M- won't suddenly go insane and pull a Bill the Vampire on Friday over dinner at Perennial?
Because he's not that type of guy. He'd want to do things traditionally: meet the family, ask permission. We haven't even exchanged keys (though that, lately, has crept into conversation); we don't even have personal drawers or closet space at the other person's house (though he left a white t-shirt the other day and where am I supposed to put that?)
Maybe this is something my friends haven't considered, but we've actually talked about this. We're not at the ring-popping stage. Saying 'Love you!' at the end of phone conversations? Sure. Ring-popping? No.
If romantic comedies are useful, they provide a handy guide to relationship progression. (Just think of every montage in every movie you've ever seen.) There's the shopping together, cooking together, hanging out with each others' friends, long walks through trees, the weekend away, the road trip, the real vacation together, the visit to the family, the holidays with the family, the crisis, the big fight, the big reconciliation, THEN the velvet box comes out.
See? We're not even close to that.
(However, we are now publicly 'out' as a couple on Facebook. We are no longer 'dating.' We are in a 'relationship.' I guess movies haven't caught up to that, yet.)
Has a corner been turned? Yes. Things have settled into...something and it feels nice. I like it. I'm struggling with my schedule (and he gets that) but, so far, what's not to enjoy about this? I really don't need the specter of some bullshit, hetero-coercive ring messing up my head.
Whatever. He's getting me art for my birthday.
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.
Monday, May 18, 2009
something new
i have a new 25 Things post almost ready to go but i'm going to delay it to gaze at my navel a little bit.
in 2nd grade i had a massive crush on ivan e., a blond egyptian kid with long surfer hair whose father was a professor at USC.
in 3rd grade i crushed out on stephen t., another teutonic youth, who shared my table and encouraged me to sneak books under the table during our math lesson.
in 6th grade, i returned to my crush on ivan e., who was then a minor god at our school.
in 7th, 8th and 9th grade, bobby b. became my obsession.
in high school, my crushes were several: john m. (the quarterback), dana j. (the tennis star), as well as andrew the punk rocker, whose parents taught at UCLA (and who once asked me out but i totally thought he was joking.)
i didn't care they didn't know about me - weird looking, chubby and with the kind of eyebrows only a russian dictator would love. it was enough that they simply walked the playgrounds or the quad. i was glad to peer at them from behind a book in the library, from behind a shelf, from under a bleacher or perhaps through a crack in our shared school counselor's door.
ah, shadowy, nerdy, and unrequited love. the journals from that period still make me cringe.
you'd think i would have outgrown this, but then, you'd be dead wrong. in grad school, my virginal infatuations were longer lived and became a team endeavor. i enlisted spies of my own who kept me apprised of teaching schedules, office hours, gym visits as well as important sartorial changes. (if you haven't fallen into limerance with a creamy-skinned white guy in a kilt then you haven't lived, my friends.) these journal entries are, in the rereading, comic and farcical.
what ties all these objects of my affection, from elementary to grad school, together is the process by which i fell for them and then began to hate them.
Stage 1: The Thunderbolt. It usually happened at the beginning of the semester, during roll call or picking squads for PE. Or the first day of new TA orientation or perhaps while impatiently showing him how to use the copier and you happen to glance up. That first choking gasp. The dazed stare. The flush at first sight of The Beloved. It's devastating, isn't it? I have made elaborate mental meals of reliving the first moments of charged non-contact.
(And before you all start thinking I'm some delusional psychopath, I knew this was wholly one-sided. It was delicious anyway.)
Stage 2: The Thread. In Jane Eyre, which I love, Rochester says to Jane they are connected by a string, one that binds them across distance, mental illness, locked up wives and Britain's social crevasses. Such was my feeling. In this stage, I'd connect everything about them to me, until our 'relationship' map resembled a nutty god's-eye. 'Ivan likes OP shorts! Me, too!' 'Bobby is in my creative writing class! We're perfect!' (Though he wasn't very good at all.) 'Knightley reads Neruda! See??!!'
The Thread was enduring and, depending on the enabling antics of friends, could last for at least a year or two. But one can't really sustain that kind of one-sided intensity without some strain.
Stage 3: Threats. Oh, not verbal threats from me to my Object of Affection, but external threats to the infatuation I had built up. In other words, Reality. Friends, tired of being on stakeout, would slowly begin to sabotage the fantasy. One friend put it to me bluntly: "He is a tool. An Irish sweater-wearing tool who fakes a Scottish accent. You are being ridiculous." Or, as a result of friends' machinations, one realizes their Beloved can only clap on the 1-3 instead of the 2-4. Such knowledge is a killer.
(Of course, the rumor that the Beloved already has an out of state girlfriend as well as a girlfriend in another department is just another rotten cherry on my sundae of disappointment.)
Stage 4: Disdain. Where once I listed their virtues I now canvassed every one of their shortcomings. 'He's not in AP English.' 'His Spanish pronunciation is so gringo.' 'He has no rhythm.' 'Gymnastics is stupid.' 'He's sort of a paranoid freak, isn't he?' 'Only retirees wear cable knit sweaters!' Love, or limerance, is on the wane. Where once my Beloved walked with a golden nimbus of divinity, now he is a duffer who won't dare to eat a peach and wears his trouser bottoms rolled.
...
so in this richter scale of infatuation, where am i with NewGuy? am i in the Thunderbolt stage? am i frantically weaving threads to tie us to one another, no matter how fragile? or is the golden halo already growing dim?
i don't know. it's an odd feeling, being requited.
if desire is lack, then what is it when you already feel full?
in 2nd grade i had a massive crush on ivan e., a blond egyptian kid with long surfer hair whose father was a professor at USC.
in 3rd grade i crushed out on stephen t., another teutonic youth, who shared my table and encouraged me to sneak books under the table during our math lesson.
in 6th grade, i returned to my crush on ivan e., who was then a minor god at our school.
in 7th, 8th and 9th grade, bobby b. became my obsession.
in high school, my crushes were several: john m. (the quarterback), dana j. (the tennis star), as well as andrew the punk rocker, whose parents taught at UCLA (and who once asked me out but i totally thought he was joking.)
i didn't care they didn't know about me - weird looking, chubby and with the kind of eyebrows only a russian dictator would love. it was enough that they simply walked the playgrounds or the quad. i was glad to peer at them from behind a book in the library, from behind a shelf, from under a bleacher or perhaps through a crack in our shared school counselor's door.
ah, shadowy, nerdy, and unrequited love. the journals from that period still make me cringe.
you'd think i would have outgrown this, but then, you'd be dead wrong. in grad school, my virginal infatuations were longer lived and became a team endeavor. i enlisted spies of my own who kept me apprised of teaching schedules, office hours, gym visits as well as important sartorial changes. (if you haven't fallen into limerance with a creamy-skinned white guy in a kilt then you haven't lived, my friends.) these journal entries are, in the rereading, comic and farcical.
what ties all these objects of my affection, from elementary to grad school, together is the process by which i fell for them and then began to hate them.
Stage 1: The Thunderbolt. It usually happened at the beginning of the semester, during roll call or picking squads for PE. Or the first day of new TA orientation or perhaps while impatiently showing him how to use the copier and you happen to glance up. That first choking gasp. The dazed stare. The flush at first sight of The Beloved. It's devastating, isn't it? I have made elaborate mental meals of reliving the first moments of charged non-contact.
(And before you all start thinking I'm some delusional psychopath, I knew this was wholly one-sided. It was delicious anyway.)
Stage 2: The Thread. In Jane Eyre, which I love, Rochester says to Jane they are connected by a string, one that binds them across distance, mental illness, locked up wives and Britain's social crevasses. Such was my feeling. In this stage, I'd connect everything about them to me, until our 'relationship' map resembled a nutty god's-eye. 'Ivan likes OP shorts! Me, too!' 'Bobby is in my creative writing class! We're perfect!' (Though he wasn't very good at all.) 'Knightley reads Neruda! See??!!'
The Thread was enduring and, depending on the enabling antics of friends, could last for at least a year or two. But one can't really sustain that kind of one-sided intensity without some strain.
Stage 3: Threats. Oh, not verbal threats from me to my Object of Affection, but external threats to the infatuation I had built up. In other words, Reality. Friends, tired of being on stakeout, would slowly begin to sabotage the fantasy. One friend put it to me bluntly: "He is a tool. An Irish sweater-wearing tool who fakes a Scottish accent. You are being ridiculous." Or, as a result of friends' machinations, one realizes their Beloved can only clap on the 1-3 instead of the 2-4. Such knowledge is a killer.
(Of course, the rumor that the Beloved already has an out of state girlfriend as well as a girlfriend in another department is just another rotten cherry on my sundae of disappointment.)
Stage 4: Disdain. Where once I listed their virtues I now canvassed every one of their shortcomings. 'He's not in AP English.' 'His Spanish pronunciation is so gringo.' 'He has no rhythm.' 'Gymnastics is stupid.' 'He's sort of a paranoid freak, isn't he?' 'Only retirees wear cable knit sweaters!' Love, or limerance, is on the wane. Where once my Beloved walked with a golden nimbus of divinity, now he is a duffer who won't dare to eat a peach and wears his trouser bottoms rolled.
...
so in this richter scale of infatuation, where am i with NewGuy? am i in the Thunderbolt stage? am i frantically weaving threads to tie us to one another, no matter how fragile? or is the golden halo already growing dim?
i don't know. it's an odd feeling, being requited.
if desire is lack, then what is it when you already feel full?
Friday, May 08, 2009
Hm. The NewGuy.
Not sure if I want to write about him, yet.
But of course I am.
I'm surprised by a lot of things and if I was still seeing Dr. C-, she'd tell me to explore these surprises.
I'm surprised he makes me nervous. Not nervous in a 'omg, he's going to kill me!' way but that buzzy nervousness of...something else.
I'm surprised at how quickly I liked him. Usually, there's a period of 'wait and see to confirm that, indeed, I am not into him.' I'm into him.
I'm surprised I told him that (of course, waiting until he said it first.)
I'm surprised that I took down my profile on Match, the day after I met him.
I'm surprised that, so far, the incomunicado walls I erected with LTF/B- don't exist. We're usually in contact throughout the day. He texts and I'm glad. He sends email and I'm glad. He calls and I actually answer the phone. I actually call him.
I've forgotten that this is the way liking someone is supposed to feel. If I'm totally honest, I haven't liked someone like this since 1998. And now that I recognize what 'liking' is, what the hell was I doing with LTF??
(But despite all this positive navel gazing, I'm still not going to 'friend' him on Facebook. Baby steps.)
Not sure if I want to write about him, yet.
But of course I am.
I'm surprised by a lot of things and if I was still seeing Dr. C-, she'd tell me to explore these surprises.
I'm surprised he makes me nervous. Not nervous in a 'omg, he's going to kill me!' way but that buzzy nervousness of...something else.
I'm surprised at how quickly I liked him. Usually, there's a period of 'wait and see to confirm that, indeed, I am not into him.' I'm into him.
I'm surprised I told him that (of course, waiting until he said it first.)
I'm surprised that I took down my profile on Match, the day after I met him.
I'm surprised that, so far, the incomunicado walls I erected with LTF/B- don't exist. We're usually in contact throughout the day. He texts and I'm glad. He sends email and I'm glad. He calls and I actually answer the phone. I actually call him.
I've forgotten that this is the way liking someone is supposed to feel. If I'm totally honest, I haven't liked someone like this since 1998. And now that I recognize what 'liking' is, what the hell was I doing with LTF??
(But despite all this positive navel gazing, I'm still not going to 'friend' him on Facebook. Baby steps.)
Monday, February 23, 2009
this was really a work dream. really.
in this dream, i'm sitting next to LTF on his lumpy couch.
we have to talk, he says.
ok, i say.
we need to communicate better, he says. i'm not happy with just seeing you on the weekends, when you send me a message or text. i think we could do better.
uh-huh, i say.
i'm not happy with just this little slice of a relationship, he says.
oh? i say.
because, he says, i think that we could really lo--
and that's when i woke up.
perfect timing, huh?
we have to talk, he says.
ok, i say.
we need to communicate better, he says. i'm not happy with just seeing you on the weekends, when you send me a message or text. i think we could do better.
uh-huh, i say.
i'm not happy with just this little slice of a relationship, he says.
oh? i say.
because, he says, i think that we could really lo--
and that's when i woke up.
perfect timing, huh?
Monday, December 22, 2008
what she said: the freakily accurate tarot lady
Scene: friday late afternoon - dimly lit nightclub - office party - tarot reader's table
TarotLady: love your glasses!
Ding: thanks!
TL: so this will be a brief reading for the next 6 months or 1 year; we can talk about relationships, work, health, family. whatever you want.
Ding: i've been dealing with work all week so how about relationships.
TL: think about what you want to know and shuffle these.
(Ding thinks and shuffles)
TL: (slapping down cards) hm. are you...in a relationship?
Ding: it's (sigh) complicated.
TL: i'll say. (looks at all the upside down cards) is he married? involved? somehow not available? i'm getting that someone is really wrapped up in their career.
Ding: uh, that would be me. and no, he's just as single as i am. though he could be seeing someone else, i don't really know. (shrug)
TL: huh. this has been happening for a long time now, hasn't it? like a merry-go-round. but there's something there. intensity.
Ding: yeah. you could say that. it's been...7, 8 years? we actually have a lot in common and works. it's like having a long distance relationship but in the same city.
TL: i see. (slaps another card down) well. not for long. you two have an old soul thing going on but it's more habit than anything else. and 2009 is when you break the habit.
Ding: really?
TL: oh, yes. you break the habit. (another card) you move on. you learn what you can, and you're very sefl-aware, you know what's happening, and what you've been practising for happens in 2009. this guy is gone by march or april. march.
Ding: huh. wow. and there's someone else?
TL: yes. (slaps a card down) the one you actually want. the one you don't have to hide from your friends.
Ding: whoa.
TL: yes. he actually wants to be in your life, meet your family, friends, talk with you, spend time with you and will make the effort for you. but you know that you don't get married, right?
Ding: really?
TL: oh, yes. (slaps another card down) you don't get married. you'll be committed, but you're not the marrying kind. so if that was what you were hoping for, it's not in the cards.
Ding: no worries. (actually feeling some kind of relief)
TL: it'll be something that you and he understand. very unconventional and non traditional because that's who you are.
Ding: wow. thanks.
TL: you're not really surprised by this, are you?
Ding: no, i kinda knew. except for meeting someone new.
TL: 2009. it'll be a new year and you'll have a serious change.
Ding: good to know. do you have a card?
TarotLady: love your glasses!
Ding: thanks!
TL: so this will be a brief reading for the next 6 months or 1 year; we can talk about relationships, work, health, family. whatever you want.
Ding: i've been dealing with work all week so how about relationships.
TL: think about what you want to know and shuffle these.
(Ding thinks and shuffles)
TL: (slapping down cards) hm. are you...in a relationship?
Ding: it's (sigh) complicated.
TL: i'll say. (looks at all the upside down cards) is he married? involved? somehow not available? i'm getting that someone is really wrapped up in their career.
Ding: uh, that would be me. and no, he's just as single as i am. though he could be seeing someone else, i don't really know. (shrug)
TL: huh. this has been happening for a long time now, hasn't it? like a merry-go-round. but there's something there. intensity.
Ding: yeah. you could say that. it's been...7, 8 years? we actually have a lot in common and works. it's like having a long distance relationship but in the same city.
TL: i see. (slaps another card down) well. not for long. you two have an old soul thing going on but it's more habit than anything else. and 2009 is when you break the habit.
Ding: really?
TL: oh, yes. you break the habit. (another card) you move on. you learn what you can, and you're very sefl-aware, you know what's happening, and what you've been practising for happens in 2009. this guy is gone by march or april. march.
Ding: huh. wow. and there's someone else?
TL: yes. (slaps a card down) the one you actually want. the one you don't have to hide from your friends.
Ding: whoa.
TL: yes. he actually wants to be in your life, meet your family, friends, talk with you, spend time with you and will make the effort for you. but you know that you don't get married, right?
Ding: really?
TL: oh, yes. (slaps another card down) you don't get married. you'll be committed, but you're not the marrying kind. so if that was what you were hoping for, it's not in the cards.
Ding: no worries. (actually feeling some kind of relief)
TL: it'll be something that you and he understand. very unconventional and non traditional because that's who you are.
Ding: wow. thanks.
TL: you're not really surprised by this, are you?
Ding: no, i kinda knew. except for meeting someone new.
TL: 2009. it'll be a new year and you'll have a serious change.
Ding: good to know. do you have a card?
Monday, December 15, 2008
intimacy = epic fail
what a weird day: shoes thrown at Shrub, a good friend let go from my office, massive project about to descend on my shoulders and having weird, sudden, totally bizarre and *couple-like* thoughts about giving a christmas token (ok, gift, whatever) to LTF (Long Term Frolic) who would probably freak if he knew what i was thinking.
exchanging gifts is what couples do.*
LTF and i are not a couple. but i'd like to acknowledge the years (count 'em) we've known each other, show that i'm fond of him and to wish him a good holiday.
or is this guilt?**
what do you get someone who's been your lover for the past 7-8 years but who you've put in a tiny little box and never invited to meet your friends, family, spend a night at your place or read a single piece of your writing? (all 5 of my readers see more of my life than he does.)
a poinsettia? an ornament? an itunes gift card? a set of plushy bath towels***?
_____
* Not that i'd expect anything in return. geez, no.
** Which is what my old coach, Dr. C-, would ask me to explore. But I won't.
*** Or is that too girl-friendy, even though he really really needs them?
exchanging gifts is what couples do.*
LTF and i are not a couple. but i'd like to acknowledge the years (count 'em) we've known each other, show that i'm fond of him and to wish him a good holiday.
or is this guilt?**
what do you get someone who's been your lover for the past 7-8 years but who you've put in a tiny little box and never invited to meet your friends, family, spend a night at your place or read a single piece of your writing? (all 5 of my readers see more of my life than he does.)
a poinsettia? an ornament? an itunes gift card? a set of plushy bath towels***?
_____
* Not that i'd expect anything in return. geez, no.
** Which is what my old coach, Dr. C-, would ask me to explore. But I won't.
*** Or is that too girl-friendy, even though he really really needs them?
Monday, October 20, 2008
eeny meeny miny...tired.
I used to have a fantasy about dating a steady rotation of 3-4 guys who met different needs: the 'meet me at ComicCon' guy, the intense 'good lord, you make me break into a sweat' guy, the 'let's talk about politics and deep thoughts' guy, and the 'you look good in a suit/tux and know how to do cocktail chatter' guy.
In reality, bifurcating desires, chopping needs into little bundles, and then distributing to the appropriate person, is exhausting.
It's like being the understudy for everyone in a play and then, one night, most of the cast gets sick.
Matt Nathanson, a sensitive singer boy whose songs make me want to stab my eyes out, has a line about wanting to drown in his girl's love after getting all woozy about the swivel of her hips. Every time my girl friend plays his CD in her car I groan.
How about just pouring a little cup of love and I'll sip from it at will?
(On the other hand, I will get all dewy and soft for a Ray LaMontagne panty-dropping ditty. Go figure.)
This is not to say that I would change the way I'm organizing my social life. (This one gets the naughty, those ones get the chaste. It actually relieves me to separate them this way.)
But scheduling is getting to be a little bit of a bitch.
In reality, bifurcating desires, chopping needs into little bundles, and then distributing to the appropriate person, is exhausting.
It's like being the understudy for everyone in a play and then, one night, most of the cast gets sick.
Matt Nathanson, a sensitive singer boy whose songs make me want to stab my eyes out, has a line about wanting to drown in his girl's love after getting all woozy about the swivel of her hips. Every time my girl friend plays his CD in her car I groan.
How about just pouring a little cup of love and I'll sip from it at will?
(On the other hand, I will get all dewy and soft for a Ray LaMontagne panty-dropping ditty. Go figure.)
This is not to say that I would change the way I'm organizing my social life. (This one gets the naughty, those ones get the chaste. It actually relieves me to separate them this way.)
But scheduling is getting to be a little bit of a bitch.
Friday, August 15, 2008
on dating and hobos
prepare for a whiny, 'woe is me' mini-rant on the travails of dating while in your late 30s. 'travail' might be too strong. dating is no hardship (not compared to strategizing how to help launch a statewide legislative campaign) but it's not exactly filling me with light and joy. instead, what i feel is something akin to gas.
at this point in my life i'm thinking that celibacy might be the new black.
...
The Girl and the Hobo (as told to me by Roomie):
Roomie: So I'm waiting for my chiropractor and the door opens and this woman walks out. She's in a suit, pretty, very Lincoln Park lawyer type. So he opens the door and he's giggling and he says, 'Hurry up hurry up.' So I get on the table and he starts working on me and he's laughing so much I say what's up?
He says, 'So you saw that woman who just left? She comes into my office and the first thing she says to me is 'Oh my god. I fucked a hobo last night!''
Ding: Shut up! She fucked a hobo?!
Roomie: Oh, yeah. Apparently, she was at Friar Tucks -
Ding: Well, there you go. Friar Tucks is disgusting. No wonder she fucked a hobo. That's where they hang out! When I lived up there, we used to call it Tired Fucks.
Roomie: (snort) Tired Fucks! Classic. Anyway, she got plowed and woke up the next morning, naked, at her place, next to this guy.
Ding: Shut up!
Roomie: Wait for it. She wakes up and the guy is like, Hey, can I hang out here...today? She says, No fucking way! I'm taking a shower, going to work and I'll drop you off at your place. So they get in her car and - he gave her the address to the homeless shelter in Uptown!! She saw him get in the breakfast line!
Ding: Girl, no.
Roomie: Uh-huh. Fucked a hobo. She told Dr. X she thought he was a surfer!!
Ding/Roomie: Bwa ha ha ha ha!!!
at this point in my life i'm thinking that celibacy might be the new black.
...
The Girl and the Hobo (as told to me by Roomie):
Roomie: So I'm waiting for my chiropractor and the door opens and this woman walks out. She's in a suit, pretty, very Lincoln Park lawyer type. So he opens the door and he's giggling and he says, 'Hurry up hurry up.' So I get on the table and he starts working on me and he's laughing so much I say what's up?
He says, 'So you saw that woman who just left? She comes into my office and the first thing she says to me is 'Oh my god. I fucked a hobo last night!''
Ding: Shut up! She fucked a hobo?!
Roomie: Oh, yeah. Apparently, she was at Friar Tucks -
Ding: Well, there you go. Friar Tucks is disgusting. No wonder she fucked a hobo. That's where they hang out! When I lived up there, we used to call it Tired Fucks.
Roomie: (snort) Tired Fucks! Classic. Anyway, she got plowed and woke up the next morning, naked, at her place, next to this guy.
Ding: Shut up!
Roomie: Wait for it. She wakes up and the guy is like, Hey, can I hang out here...today? She says, No fucking way! I'm taking a shower, going to work and I'll drop you off at your place. So they get in her car and - he gave her the address to the homeless shelter in Uptown!! She saw him get in the breakfast line!
Ding: Girl, no.
Roomie: Uh-huh. Fucked a hobo. She told Dr. X she thought he was a surfer!!
Ding/Roomie: Bwa ha ha ha ha!!!
Monday, July 28, 2008
Jitter jitter jitter.
What's with this free-floating anxiety today? I've had this feeling before - right before prelims.
There doesn't seem to be a reason for it. I had a wonderful weekend (loved the Randolph Antique Market and caught a movie with Roomie), cocktailed a little bit yesterday while watching TV and, this morning, woke up bright and early, managing to pull together an unexciting, yet serviceable, outfit; once in the office, I even managed to fob off a tedious project onto an intern. The day is golden!
What could possibly be bothering me??
Could it be the rather long Monday to-do list over there on my work notebook?
Could it be my body's way of marking the halfway point of the summer?
Could it be my body's way of telling me I'm kind of bored with stuff right now?
Or could it my body telling me I don't want to have coffee with MM on Wednesday but would rather get my eyebrows done? Hm. Coffee with MM, eyebrows. Eyebrows, MM.
So hard to tell. Clearly, I need to play tennis tonight to relax.
...
Two coworkers today sent me two articles from the Trib about race. I can't take it anymore (which is why I'm not linking to them - my head will explode.) I am declaring a month's moratorium on all things racial as of now. I have one month left of summer and I don't want to spend it gnashing my teeth about people's inability to make friends with brown people.
Because that's what needs to happen. If folks want to see this country's racial issues die down, then folks need to make friends with some other people in another ethnic group.
...
Back to my anxiety.
It's not bills (which are paid.)
It's not health (though it is time for my Pap.)
It's really not sex (which should be taken care of this weekend.)
It's not friends (who are all super busy like me this summer.)
It's not family (even Dad's sort of normal this time.)
And it's not future fears (I'm back to being cool about future change.)
What is it??
Now my stomach is burning. Frak. Maybe it's just heartburn.
Or, maybe it's PMS. I feel like I should either have a good crying jag, punch someone in the face or romp around on a bed of marshmallows while eating Doritos. Hm. It's starting to feel like PMS.
There doesn't seem to be a reason for it. I had a wonderful weekend (loved the Randolph Antique Market and caught a movie with Roomie), cocktailed a little bit yesterday while watching TV and, this morning, woke up bright and early, managing to pull together an unexciting, yet serviceable, outfit; once in the office, I even managed to fob off a tedious project onto an intern. The day is golden!
What could possibly be bothering me??
Could it be the rather long Monday to-do list over there on my work notebook?
Could it be my body's way of marking the halfway point of the summer?
Could it be my body's way of telling me I'm kind of bored with stuff right now?
Or could it my body telling me I don't want to have coffee with MM on Wednesday but would rather get my eyebrows done? Hm. Coffee with MM, eyebrows. Eyebrows, MM.
So hard to tell. Clearly, I need to play tennis tonight to relax.
...
Two coworkers today sent me two articles from the Trib about race. I can't take it anymore (which is why I'm not linking to them - my head will explode.) I am declaring a month's moratorium on all things racial as of now. I have one month left of summer and I don't want to spend it gnashing my teeth about people's inability to make friends with brown people.
Because that's what needs to happen. If folks want to see this country's racial issues die down, then folks need to make friends with some other people in another ethnic group.
...
Back to my anxiety.
It's not bills (which are paid.)
It's not health (though it is time for my Pap.)
It's really not sex (which should be taken care of this weekend.)
It's not friends (who are all super busy like me this summer.)
It's not family (even Dad's sort of normal this time.)
And it's not future fears (I'm back to being cool about future change.)
What is it??
Now my stomach is burning. Frak. Maybe it's just heartburn.
Or, maybe it's PMS. I feel like I should either have a good crying jag, punch someone in the face or romp around on a bed of marshmallows while eating Doritos. Hm. It's starting to feel like PMS.
Friday, July 11, 2008
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, April 14, 2008
un pájaro en la mano vale dos en el arbusto?
a dating question:
what's the etiquette if you've gone on two dates with someone, and a third is in the offing, but you still wanna date around? do you make that a point of conversation to fully outline and manage expectations? or do you assume that he's dating around, too?
i mean, i liked the two dates (as did he) but we're not committed to anything, right?
this stuff is hard and my not knowing the answers is giving me some anxiety.
what's the etiquette if you've gone on two dates with someone, and a third is in the offing, but you still wanna date around? do you make that a point of conversation to fully outline and manage expectations? or do you assume that he's dating around, too?
i mean, i liked the two dates (as did he) but we're not committed to anything, right?
this stuff is hard and my not knowing the answers is giving me some anxiety.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
my frakkin' luck
so i'm on my second date with B3 (we'll introduce him later); we've had a lovely dinner in bucktown, ingested way too much chocolate and now we're in a local joint in humboldt park listening to a honky tonk band. (i know. honky tonk. but they weren't bad!) when we were looking for parking i thought, 'hm. looks familiar. i remember that chain link fence. i believe there is probably where i lost my purse...' and, looking ahead, i saw the street name from that undiginified morning Walk of Shame.
'with my luck,' i thought, 'Frakkin' Trader will be inside.' but then i thought, no. the universe doesn't hate me that much.
so imagine my chagrin when Frakkin' Trader walks into my view, stops, turns, looks right at me, stares and circles our booth through the crowd. he's still looking at me and i'm still staring at him over the heads of very young hipsters, thinking, 'frakking universe hates me!' of course, i excuse myself to go to the restroom and send a frantic text to my Roomie, the gist of which was "WTF??"
about an hour later, when we leave, he's still at the bar and i avoid catching his gaze in the mirror behind the bar as we pass.
at home, Roomie said, 'come on, Ding. Bar A is four blocks away, Bar B is one, and his place is right in the middle! he's gonna drink somewhere! did you really think you wouldn't see him tonight? really?'
i said, 'well, i thought there was a chance but i was hoping i wouldn't!'
don't blame me for thinking the odds were in my favor; there at least 10 other people in this city with whom i've froliced (sp? that doesn't look right) and i have never run into them - anywhere - after the frolic has ended. (it was like the universe did me a favor and killed them for me.) why would i expect to run into the Frakkin' Trader now?
Roomie said, 'well, it's clear he's avoiding you like you're avoiding him but you're bound to run into him again. the 'hood is just too small.' indeed, it is. and if i keep going out with B3, and his haunts cross FT's, this neighborhood is going to seem as big as my living room.
anyway, the sorta good news is i've made it to date #3, the farthest i've gone in the hetero-normative ritual called 'dating.' Dr. C- would be happy i've made such progress.
'with my luck,' i thought, 'Frakkin' Trader will be inside.' but then i thought, no. the universe doesn't hate me that much.
so imagine my chagrin when Frakkin' Trader walks into my view, stops, turns, looks right at me, stares and circles our booth through the crowd. he's still looking at me and i'm still staring at him over the heads of very young hipsters, thinking, 'frakking universe hates me!' of course, i excuse myself to go to the restroom and send a frantic text to my Roomie, the gist of which was "WTF??"
about an hour later, when we leave, he's still at the bar and i avoid catching his gaze in the mirror behind the bar as we pass.
at home, Roomie said, 'come on, Ding. Bar A is four blocks away, Bar B is one, and his place is right in the middle! he's gonna drink somewhere! did you really think you wouldn't see him tonight? really?'
i said, 'well, i thought there was a chance but i was hoping i wouldn't!'
don't blame me for thinking the odds were in my favor; there at least 10 other people in this city with whom i've froliced (sp? that doesn't look right) and i have never run into them - anywhere - after the frolic has ended. (it was like the universe did me a favor and killed them for me.) why would i expect to run into the Frakkin' Trader now?
Roomie said, 'well, it's clear he's avoiding you like you're avoiding him but you're bound to run into him again. the 'hood is just too small.' indeed, it is. and if i keep going out with B3, and his haunts cross FT's, this neighborhood is going to seem as big as my living room.
anyway, the sorta good news is i've made it to date #3, the farthest i've gone in the hetero-normative ritual called 'dating.' Dr. C- would be happy i've made such progress.
Monday, April 07, 2008
spring dating: where i also think about the 'lost weekend'
Spring is here and you know what that means: boys.
Despite an unfortunate glitch two weeks ago (wherein I woke up in an apartment that was not my own and discovered I had lost a purse, phone, keys, cash, eyeglasses, dignity and memory of the previous 9 hours) I predict this dating season will be fairly mature, sober and, hopefully, boring.
You hear that, universe? I am now OK with boring.
Why, just Saturday, I met an older, sober, divorced father by the park for lunch. It was a gorgeous day and, while my expectations were suitably managed, the weather encouraged me to think this would be the beginning of an exciting spring. Well, at least the wine we had with lunch was nice.
To be fair, he was a perfectly nice guy: smart, mildly funny, successful and tanned. But...he was the size of a jockey. I'm no towering inferno of feminine hotness but even I dwarfed him. And then we started talking about therapy (he brought it up) and he admitted to some issues. Angry, bitter, confrontational issues. So we wrapped up lunch, walked into the park, shook hands at the Bean and went our separate ways.
As I walked down Michigan I told myself that the past 90 minutes would have been better spent browsing the comic book store around the corner.
...
I've been thinking about that Friday night before last and the responses a story like mine usually elicits from people who feel awfully comfortable turning judgmental on women who may drink one too many and then things happen to them.
Hell, I can even remember saying those things: "What did they think was going to happen? Didn't they think? Why didn't they prepare? Why weren't they careful? How dumb do you have to be..."
Judgment, judgment, judgment.
Taking a look back at that evening, I wonder, Where did my judgment falter? Was it when we were walking to his place? Was it when I ordered the second martini? (A martini that normally would have left me totally unaffected, btw.) Was it when I suggested stopping for a nightcap earlier that night after the event instead of stopping at McDonalds for several Big Macs? Was it when I rushed to get dressed that evening for the event and decided not to grab a bite to eat? Or was it when I had that last glass of white wine at the event and thought a plate of nibblies would do me?
(And these are rhetorical questions. I'm totally not interested in folks telling me how I should turn back the hands of time and not done this or that when, really, the ground zero of that whole night was a skipped meal.)
Though I'm abashed at the amount of fallout that one lost Friday night created, I'm fairly happy that I took care of everything speedily and with a minimum of fuss - credit cards and ID recovered, new phone, new keys/locks paid for, heartfelt apologies to friends made, and Plan B contraception taken. Yay, responsibility.
(And let's give a hearty shout out to Plan B, purchased at CVS immediately the following Saturday morning. With no problem or interference at all, I shelled out $50, took the pills and endured a whole day of nausea and dizziness.)
Anyway, this was all supposed to be about the hot Israeli locksmith who helped me Friday but turned into something else. Oh, well.
Despite an unfortunate glitch two weeks ago (wherein I woke up in an apartment that was not my own and discovered I had lost a purse, phone, keys, cash, eyeglasses, dignity and memory of the previous 9 hours) I predict this dating season will be fairly mature, sober and, hopefully, boring.
You hear that, universe? I am now OK with boring.
Why, just Saturday, I met an older, sober, divorced father by the park for lunch. It was a gorgeous day and, while my expectations were suitably managed, the weather encouraged me to think this would be the beginning of an exciting spring. Well, at least the wine we had with lunch was nice.
To be fair, he was a perfectly nice guy: smart, mildly funny, successful and tanned. But...he was the size of a jockey. I'm no towering inferno of feminine hotness but even I dwarfed him. And then we started talking about therapy (he brought it up) and he admitted to some issues. Angry, bitter, confrontational issues. So we wrapped up lunch, walked into the park, shook hands at the Bean and went our separate ways.
As I walked down Michigan I told myself that the past 90 minutes would have been better spent browsing the comic book store around the corner.
...
I've been thinking about that Friday night before last and the responses a story like mine usually elicits from people who feel awfully comfortable turning judgmental on women who may drink one too many and then things happen to them.
Hell, I can even remember saying those things: "What did they think was going to happen? Didn't they think? Why didn't they prepare? Why weren't they careful? How dumb do you have to be..."
Judgment, judgment, judgment.
Taking a look back at that evening, I wonder, Where did my judgment falter? Was it when we were walking to his place? Was it when I ordered the second martini? (A martini that normally would have left me totally unaffected, btw.) Was it when I suggested stopping for a nightcap earlier that night after the event instead of stopping at McDonalds for several Big Macs? Was it when I rushed to get dressed that evening for the event and decided not to grab a bite to eat? Or was it when I had that last glass of white wine at the event and thought a plate of nibblies would do me?
(And these are rhetorical questions. I'm totally not interested in folks telling me how I should turn back the hands of time and not done this or that when, really, the ground zero of that whole night was a skipped meal.)
Though I'm abashed at the amount of fallout that one lost Friday night created, I'm fairly happy that I took care of everything speedily and with a minimum of fuss - credit cards and ID recovered, new phone, new keys/locks paid for, heartfelt apologies to friends made, and Plan B contraception taken. Yay, responsibility.
(And let's give a hearty shout out to Plan B, purchased at CVS immediately the following Saturday morning. With no problem or interference at all, I shelled out $50, took the pills and endured a whole day of nausea and dizziness.)
Anyway, this was all supposed to be about the hot Israeli locksmith who helped me Friday but turned into something else. Oh, well.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
cue dorky squeal here: X-Files movie!
`X - Files' Creator Spills Film Details - New York Times
Do I need to reveal that I loved The X-Files with a passion that not even BSG has been able to tap? (Home is still my very very favorite episode.)
Do I need to confess that I taped a big photo of David Duchovny inside my medicine cabinet because I wanted to wake up to his visage every morning?
Do I need to admit that I catalogued every taped and watched episode in a special spreadsheet on my computer?
Do I need to repent of writing some very very bad erotic fan fic, once upon a time?
Do I also need to say that the only reason (well, one of the only reasons) I crushed out on a certain kilt-wearing guy in my grad program was because of his resemblance to David Duchovny?
Because I will! I am that unashamed of my stalkerish love.
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