Category Archives: lust

On the Beginning, Vibrantly

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Even though I am stunned by its suddenness, the seemingly fortuitous arrival in my life, I am embracing this tentative relationship wholeheartedly, spurred on by the feelings of comfort and the little flutters that start somewhere below my stomach and wrap their way up my spine to settle against my heart. More importantly, my mind is alive. Too alive, apparently, since I keep finding myself wide awake, mid-conversation, far too late into the night.

It is the reemergence of the bliss of youth, those nights that I thought would never end, the feelings accidental and organic and so real. They don’t carry with them the cautionary tales, the envious inquiries, the panic of potential neglect. I am no longer seventeen, waiting to hear from the boys who don’t yet know that they’ll never grow into better men.

There are whispers of this continuing to grow. But I, in all of my awkward glory, have sidestepped the conversations. I cannot imagine what he must be like, what he ultimately wants, whether or not our pleasantly contentious conversations about feminism and military will lead to many happy disagreements or the bitter resentment of difference. But I do know that each of us is captivated by the other.

And for now, that’s enough.

On Breakfast in Bed and Bitches, Pragmatically

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I changed my mind about the potential chauvinism deal. I mean, I didn’t change my mind, exactly.

You’ll get your chance to explain where you’re coming from. You will bring over brownie mix, and he’ll make brownies. You’ll watch movies, ones that you haven’t seen but that he thinks you’ll like. He’ll be right. You won’t sleep because you will be too excited. You will talk about everything. You will tease each other. You will make plans. You will talk politics and find some common ground. You will fall asleep and when you open your eyes, he will be walking through the door with the bacon and eggs that he woke up early to make just for you. You will be so happy. You will do the dishes as quietly as you can, since he’s asleep. You think feminist thoughts while you’re doing the dishes. You will leave him cherries in a bowl in the fridge. You will awkwardly say hello to his landlady on the way out, then panic and wonder if you should have made better conversation than “Hi!” as you shut the door.

***

I have been working at the same office building for a year and a half. I have never had an assigned parking spot, but every day, I park in the same spot. For the past week or so, I’ve been noticing that if I don’t get to the office early enough (ha, my definition of early is much different from yours, I’ll imagine), someone will be in “my” spot.

So yesterday, I had to park in a different spot. Our parking system is totally unintelligible and strange, so when you see a spot that has no number painted into the concrete at its opening, you assume that it’s free. So I parked in one.

I went to my car after work to see a note. “THIS IS A RESERVED PARKING SPACE.” Pssh, like hell it is. So I texted my boss and told him that it is probably time to see about getting me a real parking spot. My lovely lady boss went down to greet the very scary building secretary today, and was met with resistance. Lots of resistance.

And, to top off that resistance, the scary building secretary said something to my lady boss about how she recognized my license plate and also the fact that my car had duct tape on it. What exactly does that have to do with anything?

My car took a beating in Chicago. I was the hit part of a hit-and-run, leaving a giant jagged wound in my back bumper. My windows were spray painted. (For like a month, I had to roll down my window to turn left because the word “PAIN” was in my way. I eventually paid a guy $8 to razor-blade the paint off.) My front side bumper was hit. I was driving along a narrow street and a man opened his door, shattering my side-view mirror.

All of these things are parts of Chicago that I will carry with me until my car dies, because even though I pay Allstate a significant amount of money each month in “full-coverage” insurance and have never been in an accident that they had to pay any money for, it’s going to cost me my full deductible to fix each individual incident of damage, which at current count is 2 new bumpers and whatever else they decide that they’ll need. Duct tape, on the other hand, is $4/roll, and every time I buy it, my insurance doesn’t go up.

With the transmission starting to get janky – through no fault of my own, it’s a 3rd gear pressure switch thing, whatever that means – I’m making important decisions and stocking away money to fix that when it goes rather than keeping up with your needless aesthetic expectations.

So, scary building secretary, the reason that my car looks like it belongs to an undesirable is merely because of the financial advantages to not fixing my car (plus, no one wants to steal a car that’s not worth chopping up and selling). Don’t think that I haven’t looked into it, because I have. Stop judging people for what their cars look like. The quality of their hearts and souls is of far greater importance.

The conclusion here? I now have an assigned parking spot. I am annoyed about it. But…the parking spot coupled with my brand new dual monitors (46 inches of computer screen!) means that I am having a great week. I am so blessed to work where I do. I am so grateful. Currently bitchy, but so incredibly happy.

On Male Chauvinism, Attractively

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Let’s say that you’re “dating” someone new. (I’m using the term loosely, just like the rest of my generation. I was going to make a bad pun, but I’ll leave that alone.)

Let’s say that person makes comments that may lead you to conclude that they probably fall somewhere between “Hardcore” and “Might just be a defense mechanism” on the Male Chauvinism Scale that I haven’t made up yet. (Which is why the scale segments are strange. Deal with it.)

Deal breaker?

Usually, yes.

Your analyst/therapist might tell you that you should probably break the habit of dating guys that you want to change. Exactly right, but you might not one to listen to advice, no matter how right it is.

But you’re not one to turn down a challenge, especially not one that attractive. The red flag has been raised. It was raised that night in the bar when he made those jokes that irked you.

It’s not like you’re naturally inclined towards excelling at being a traditional woman anyway, so it’s not like he’ll last very long unless he can learn to love who you are. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get bored first and it’ll be a future crisis averted. But in the meantime, you’re not one to waste an opportunity to learn new things, try new things, and have life adventures, so have fun and remember: don’t let anything slide!

On thinking about love, a little

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(Denver in snow)

The capacity for emotion is one of the most beautiful parts of being human, but it’s also one of the absolute worst. Relationships are a funny thing. It’s not like you can compartmentalize your life so that something ends neatly, with all the loose ends tied up. There is really no such thing as a clean break. What your heart feels isn’t 100% or nothing. There is a lot of love that happens when you’re busy loving something else.

It is my firm belief that you never fall out of love with anybody. You never stop loving someone that you once loved, not entirely. Those feelings can shift and grow, shift and change, shift and decrease, but the impact of that love leaves deep grooves on your soul. If you’re loving properly, then you’re loving with your full self. Just because that relationship, that affair, that whatever may have ended doesn’t mean that your heart understands that. It doesn’t think in finite terms. It thinks in moods, in experiences, in memories.

Love is the best part of being human. For me, it’s the ultimate in life experiences. It will change you. It will shape your paths, your mindsets, your beliefs. And at the end of the day, it will either leave you sated or leave an indescribably empty hole.  You keep feeling it until you don’t feel it anymore.

It’s also curious to me how timing plays such a large role in all of this human-emotion-loving that’s going on. Sometimes, things align. And sometimes they don’t. I often wonder how many great relationships never came to fruition because of bad timing. Of course, you can sit here and say, “If it was meant to be…” but that’s not always true. There is no one right person for you, and if you’re lucky enough to find someone who matches that description, you’ve been handed an incredible gift. The rest of us have to muddle around until we figure something out.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what constitutes a good match lately. I’ve been analyzing how my own relationship fills my needs. I remember speaking to someone once who talked about how two out of three (emotional support, intelligence, looks) needed to be met in order for someone to have a functional relationship. I think that I have that triangle but then another laid on top of it.

(This is where i tried to draw a diagram and failed sort of miserably….)

So here’s how it goes:  You need two out of three of Intelligence, Emotional Intelligence, Physical Attraction. And for me, you also need probably two out of three of Energy Level (Willingness to Adventure), Motivation (this usually means having a job), and a weird combination of Tolerance, Morality and Are You a Good Person? to round it out. So that’s sort of difficult to find because I’m not a two-dimensional human being. I need you to be smart enough to call me on my bullshit, caring enough to love me even when I’m being weird, and semi-good looking. More than that though, I need you to love something – that’s your motivation: I need you to have a strong work ethic, a sense of responsibility, pride in what you do, etc.; I need you to be willing to try new things and travel new places; and I need you to be a generally wonderful person – open to new cultures, new people, kind-hearted, giving, etc.

This is the challenge set before every single person who desires to someday have a mate: Find someone who matches you on your requirements. I was thinking about all of that this weekend, because I was doing some serious analyzing (and embracing some serious happy).

(Denver Art Museum: free every 1st Saturday. Worth it!)

I spent the entire weekend with Kevin. We worked from home quite happily on Friday. There were laptops and papers and cords all over the living room and the two of us were on the couch watching the news. It was perfect, except for Carlos walking all over Kevin’s keyboard a couple of times. We tried new restaurants (eggs benedict twice for me, and fried pickles), we went to a bakery that we’ve never been to (delicious lavender-infused, lemon, red velvet, and coconut cupcakes…I’m hooked), we ran errands, we went to the Art Museum (briefly), we hung out with my family for the Super Bowl, we argued about politics (finally!), and we had plenty of down time. It was wonderful. It made me feel incredibly positive about our relationship – which apparently has been going on for quite awhile. It still feels new sometimes. It’s comfortable. It’s secure. It’s real. And I can dig that. I have someone who adores me, respects me, and genuinely enjoys spending time with me. These are all good things. I am a very lucky girl.

On Upward Mobility, at 23.

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[this is a really pathetic post. If you’re not in the mood for serious self-pity, please don’t read any further…]

It has been a rough few days. Right now, I feel like the part of me that feels anything but that strange apathetic misery has disappeared.
I’ve been prone to bouts of tears. They come at random times.
Last night, Kevin brought home Chinese food (I’d been camping out on his couch, feeling sorry for myself and watching Mission Impossible) and I cried. So that was awkward. For a man who has no idea how to deal with the waves of feminine emotions, it might have been too much to handle.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked.
Well. About that.

But let’s rewind.
5pm Friday.
I was seriously excited to see Katie, who was in town for the weekend. We were going to meet up, grab drinks, and meet up with her/our friend Mark after he got off work.
I’m driving home. 6th and Colorado (I always get held up at the light.) One of my Gmail accounts dings. Mail. I open it.
UCD rejects me swiftly, before the light changes.
I catch my breath. Humiliation sinks in. Shame.
I had considered many scenarios. Many. None of them included being rejected. Flippantly, I’d been saying that if I didn’t get into grad school, I’d have no idea what to do with my life. But those statements were made with the underlying assumption that I’d get in.
What?!?!? The email said that while they couldn’t tell me why, blah blah blah, something about recommendation letters. I may have ignored one of their requirements that I have two letters of recommendation from former professors. I had one. It was a beautiful letter, but I neglected to get the second, and instead used a family that I babysit for.
Idiotic move, in hindsight.
But regardless of my disregard for the stated process, I am still not good enough for UCD. So, wow.
Of course, I handled it incredibly maturely and proceeded to get absolutely, ridiculously drunk. Classy, I know. Sloppy. And to make matters so much worse, I wore heels.
Now, if you’ll remember the incident in Chicago in mid-2010…the one where upon being denied entry to a club due to my status as a “liability”, I told the bouncer that I wasn’t drunk, I just had double-jointed ankles that prevented me from walking straight. (I actually do have double-jointed ankles, for the record. Should probably stay away from heels any time my BAC is above .08.) It was basically like that.

I’m now a walking failure. Just completely lost. Doomed to pull a tiny salary for the rest of my life. I’m so upset. I can’t even tell you the last time I felt this lack of optimism. (Actually, I can. The last time this happened, I got a cat. So about two years ago. But don’t worry, I have enough cats [one is always enough cats] and I don’t have the cash for anything wild.)

I know that life is a funny place.
I get that.
But watching everyone else around me find contentment and success professionally, personally, romantically, academically…it’s all just too much.

I’m just in a position in my life where nothing is going right. When Heidi Klum and Seal announced their divorce last week, I was uncharacteristically shaken. If they can’t do it, who can? My own relationship is shaky, at best. It’s not meeting my needs, and it’s frustrating. I so badly want it to work. I don’t think he’s willing to meet me halfway. I don’t think he quite understands what I need and I’m not sure how to tell him. My job is fine. I love my company, I really do. But it’s hard to see a future where I still only pull $1800 month after taxes. It’s hard to make a life like that. I want to own a home. My future is uncertain. I hate that uncertainty. That’s the worst part.

And don’t start with the “but you’re young” bullshit. I’m almost 24. I get that I’m young. But when you were 24, did that seem so young? No. It’s that precarious time where the shedding of our adolescent predilections is finalized and our adulthood settles in. I was out with a friend and he started in with the “you’re young” business. Well, I’m not young enough that you can’t take me home with you, so don’t patronize me. I can and will play ball on your level. You just need to realize that your level is the same as everybody else’s.

I get that I’m foolish and full of thoughts. But I don’t think that those stem from my youth. I think that some of us are eternally doomed to steep in our emotions, in our thoughts, in our heads. There are plenty of people at all ages who are just as lost as I am right now. And there are plenty of people at all ages who will never have the qualities that I have. At my core, I am a beautiful person. I know that I’m fiercely intelligent. I’m open to new experiences; I’m polite (situationally, of course); I’m beautiful; I’m funny; I’m kind-hearted; I’m sarcastic; I’m an excellent maker of French toast; yes, I’m hyper-aware of my emotions – it’s the greatest gift and ultimate worst curse. I’m constantly growing and changing, becoming more and more the person that I want to be. But at my core, I’ll always be a little wild. And I like that.

I’ve been making a list of things that I can be instead of a therapist, because the door just got slammed hard on that one. But I won’t list them here, because they’re basically the primetime lineup for A&E and History channel: logger, pawn shop owner, swamp person, etc. (I’m way too much of a girl to be a swamp person, just for the record. And I refuse to eat squirrel.)

And please don’t think that I’m not grateful. I may be wallowing (I need a few days to really embrace the depths of the sadness before I can kick my way out), but I’m still aware of the blessings in my life. Sort of. Mostly. Maybe.

On Them and You.

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J always makes me smile:
We are talking about the communication. It was not odd, just out of the blue.
“I mean, I just don’t get it,” I’m saying. “She’s way out of my league. She’s beautiful.” I draw out the beautiful, lingering on each syllable.
J agrees. “She’s gorgeous!” He says. He extolls her physical virtues for way too long.
“Seriously, J,” I snap good-naturedly (I rarely snap good-naturedly. I’m in a great mood.) “Enough! I know how much better looking than me she is.”
“Oh,” he says, pausing. “Sorry.”
We laugh.
“Do you think he fell in love with you?” he asks.
My turn to laugh alone. “No,” I say, certain.
Our conversations now revolve around the usual things. Work. School, when I’m thinking about it. My inability to find a suitable mate; his ability to find the best ones. It’s a good pattern. We used to meet for platonic margaritas. I miss that.
I wish girlfriends were more lenient. But I get that too. I always hated when H would let his ex get weird around me, which always happened. There’s nothing worse than the awkward run in with an ex. She and I faked a good friendship for so long that eventually it started to become real.

But it’s gotten me thinking. Can you really be friends with an ex? Should you be?

R(2) invited me to climb Kilimanjaro with him a few weeks ago. Then he invited me to the Bahamas. Such a tease – he knew I couldn’t take time off work. I would have gone in a heartbeat. He texts me to comment on my horrible date blogs. He thought the one about him was especially hilarious – he found it when we were still dating. It was all about how to talk to someone sixteen years older than you, the high suicide rate of CPAs, and the fact that I had no idea what I was doing. I loved that post. I would later come to adore the man. We still meet for dinners, drinks, whatever. He still beats me at Scrabble every time. I still love that we drank a bottle of wine from the year I was born. (I love that about men – that they actually have wine from the year you were born.) He always teases me about the bookshelf. He built the first one, I still need him to come and build the second one – it’s been nine months. I’ll never get around to it.
I still see his friends sometimes. They’re great people. Sometimes I’m with him when we all hang out, sometimes I run in to them at bars. We always exchange pleasantries. It’s all good on the surface.

You date. You separate. You re-acclimate. Then your relationship becomes something new and beautiful.

E and I have been trying to meet up to hang out for the longest time, going on months now. We should have gone out tonight, but I begged off, still sick and tired. I never want to have fun when I’m sick-grumpy. I wanted to take him to the 1Up, since he’s never been, and I think the nerd in him will geek out so hard over life-size Jenga. We’re excited to be friends with each other. We had a long conversation a few weeks ago. He’d just run another marathon (gross) and rocked it. I love this. I love that even though we have literally nothing in common (except our love for his dog), we can still sit there and be fun people. Next week. I’ve entered it into my calendar, to make it real.

My boyfriends always hate that I’m still friends with most of my exes. I don’t get why. I think that’s a good sign.

I keep bringing up Portland in front of K, for some reason. It stemmed first from public transportation (theirs is so much like ours), then it was the homeless youth, then it was the spiders (HUGE!). He finally asked me what it was about Portland and I had to explain. College, I told him, for a year I did the long distance hell with a kid from Denver who went to school out there.

It was the first time I’d brought up any of the past. I was nervous. I haven’t felt the way I do since my junior year of college. I want to keep him. Therefore, I can’t just let anything slip out my mouth like it usually does. I want to tread carefully with the past. I have nothing to hide, but, still… I want this exploration of each other to be organic (and USDA approved).

I’m talking to E about it today.
“I can’t read him,” I say, frustrated.
“You’re hard to read, too,” she says.

For now, it’s wonderful. I’d like for it to stay like this. Nothing’s official – it’s still in those weird tingly stages. (That was a really gross adjective, I apologize. But I’m sticking with it.) But I like where it’s going. I like what it is. I like that he likes me for who I am – awesome.

(Also, and seriously never tell him this because it comes out so creepy unless I explain it properly, he totally fits into my life plan of having my last name hyphenated to B-S. I think it’s so badass. Today, my favorite professor from college was telling me to go get my doctorate instead of just my masters and I had the sign in my head: Dr. Barry-Something. And it was beautiful. I will only date people whose last name begins with S from now on. I’m already on my third “S” of the year. This may be a strange 2011 trend, though. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.)

Now that I sound absolutely insane, I’m off to bed.
Work is crazy this week, and I have a half-completed marketing plan that’s due by like 10am. Oh great, deadlines. Yay.

On the Week and Randomness

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Your video for the day is Pearl Jam’s Just Breathe. Because it always makes me cry, but in a good way.

This week was wonderful because it went so fast.
I’ve been busy every night, but I haven’t felt tired until today.
Last night, I tossed and turned and tossed and turned some more. By the time I was finally ready to really be asleep, the alarms were going off.

We went sledding on Wednesday! I haven’t been in what feels like forever, so it was really nice to trek over to the sledding hill and go for it. E’s yellow lab came with us and had fun chasing the saucer sleds, as though she thought they were giant frisbees – they sort of are, but they don’t get as much air.
Sledding, followed by hot chocolate and pasole, was amazing! We all curled up in E’s basement. It reminded me of college.

Last night, instead of going to trivia, K and I ordered Thai (again – we panicked and couldn’t think of anything else) and stayed in. I think I’d like to keep him. We’ll see how this works out, but I find him to be incredibly interesting. He’s funny – deadpan sarcastic at all times; he’s super sweet; he wants a Burmese mountain dog AND he likes artificial banana flavor. What more does a girl need? I’ve had a really nice couple of weeks and am terrified that I’ll jinx it somehow.

Tonight, J is DJing at a gay techno party, so I’m headed there in time to see his set. I can’t stay late because I have to be a responsible human being all day tomorrow. But hopefully there can be wild shenanigans tomorrow night (i don’t know) and then snowboarding on Sunday, followed by the mad dash to the Avs games for H’s birthday.

It should be fun!

Again, I can’t stress enough how important it is to do self-breast exams. Please, please, please know their topography. Talk to your doctor at the first sign of any change. It could save your life.

On [has] been

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He is not my forever mate.

I think I figured that out some time between our second date and now. The first two dates were really great. But then again, drunk me likes most things.

I’m realizing that there is a lot of stuff he hates. (I don’t like hate. I think we shouldn’t hate so much. I really only hate a few things. Toe-walkers and mouth-breathers, mostly.)

Fat people, for instance. One of the things he likes about me is that I’m skinny. Great. Flash forward seven years, to the birth of our first child and subsequent divorce based on the baby-weight that I haven’t had a chance to lose.

He also hates wiggling. R once told me that me and his six-year old self would have gotten along famously because he once told his mom that “if you aren’t moving, it doesn’t count.” I wonder what kind of strange six-year old snuggler he was.  I wiggle while we’re snuggling, or before we fall asleep.I’ll be adjusting, slowly shifting myself into sleep, and he’ll say, “Just sleep!” as though I’m that obedient. The other night he said that and I kept wiggling long after I was comfortable just to annoy him.

When we’re watching tv, if I say something – anything – he’ll grab the remote, pause it, then go “shh!” at me and rewind to before I talked. If you want to hang out alone, do that. If you want to hang out with me, you’re going to have to deal with side commentary. Especially when you’ve seen the episode at least once before.

He makes his bed every morning. Not usually a red flag, but if you know me, you know that this might present problems. Although, for the last week, I’ve been trying to at least return my bed to some semblance of order and have been successful. Worse than the making of the bed is the sheet tucking. He tucks it into the bottom like you’re in a hotel. We switched spots one night for television-screen viewing purposes and I went to pull the sheets out and he screamed. Actually yelled “NO!”

But to be honest, it’s not any of those things that proved to be the deal breaker. Minus the remote aggression and the fat-people-hating, there are compromises that exist. I’m a very adaptive person. I’ll mimic your habits, tune in to your needs, find myself a niche in your life and fill it pleasantly.

It really ended for me when he moved my toothbrush.

I don’t like the way he talks to me. I find his patronizing attitude frustrating. We argued about how your credit score is calculated and I found myself backing down because I wasn’t 100% sure. I should have held my ground. I wasn’t wrong.

So when he told me that he moved my toothbrush under his cabinet because he didn’t want it to get dusty, I got mad. That’s not even a smooth lie. I hope by “dusty” he meant “noticed by the other girl I’m bringing home” because that’s how I translated it.

I woke up at his place at 5:57 that morning. I wandered around in the pre-dawn, unable to close my eyes again. I stood in the kitchen and watched the sun rise on another wonderful day. It was a moment of utter calm.

Nobody puts my toothbrush under the sink…

(…unless it’s to prevent it from being literally contaminated by strange things. I personally don’t like exposed toothbrushes, but that is beside the point.)

We went out together, rode the elevator in silence, and I kissed him goodbye.

Also, sidenote: Band of Horses is awesome. So awesome.

Sublimation. Or the Gray Area I Call Home.

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When you’re younger, the answer is always easy.

Second grade math problems are just like all others: there is only one answer.
You’re either right.
Or you’re wrong.
You learn the opposites. Hot. Cold. High. Low. But you never really learn about the states in between.
Adulthood is a great languishing.
Of course, there are highs and lows and hots and colds. But mostly, there’s a lot of nothingness. It’s the kind of nothingness that stems from the fact that you thought it would be all hots or colds. Or highs or lows. It’s not always a bad nothingness, not at all. It just is. There’s certainly room for debate, for argument, for decision making (steak or chicken? reply today or tomorrow?), for progressive thought. All of these are followed by fits and starts of manic activity (sometimes solely contained within the still hopeful mind).
The melancholic side of the nothingness brings about the inevitable introspection, which leads to planning, which leads….back. And sometimes, a little change is enacted and you’ve suddenly reverted from melancholic nothingness to that blissful nothingness, where everything is calm and smooth and beautiful.
For a time.
Alas, we’ve arrived back in the gray area.
There are no answers.
There exists no right, no wrong. We’re all waging war against opinions.
After pining and creating this odd little relationship (that isn’t one, he’ll be quick to add), everything has fallen into place.
Or out of place, perfectly.
Whichever is a more apt statement.
He came this weekend.
He met Mom and Dad and Mike and G and AJ.
I met his friends.
He stayed at my house five nights (all except for Friday) – which was something I definitely did not expect and something that wildly pleased me.
He told me he wasn’t going to be with any other girls.
I smiled.
We began to think ahead (a bit), based on the thought that he may end up back in Denver as soon as January. Would I be his girlfriend then?
The cracks appeared, began to show and spread.
With my detective hat on, I began putting clues together.
It’s a minor incident, but it may very well be the deal breaker that ends it all.
It’s seriously little better than an episode of the children’s show Blue’s Clues.
Clue #1 was a chance glance, a peek. Too bad I’m an incredibly quick reader.
Intrigued but not irate, I put it aside.
Clues #2 and #3 were more tangible. A story of a meeting, an incorrect name. There it was again, my brain flagged it. And three pushed me over the edge.
What’s wrong? he asked me as I sat slumped, nauseous from the ill-advised blood donation without any food. I guess he gets points for discerning anger through nausea.
We talked. He told me she was a girl he knew in college.
I’m no moron.
Our night continued with his promise of some modern form of long-distance fidelity.
After he left, I spoke to one of my co-workers, a woman I have mad respect for, who told me, “Honey, let me tell you something. They never grow up. Trust me.” Great.
I spoke to one of my dear friends in Chicago. “You need someone who impresses you. Who gets you. Who respects every single inch of you.” I asked her why it is that I have such terrible taste in men. She laughed. “Daddy issues. You can totally blame it all on him. I certainly do.” We commiserated over the fact that there are so few intelligent, mature, responsible, fun, adventurous, adorable, assertive-yet-not-an-asshole men.
I called him on it last night. I told him that it wasn’t the other woman (but it is, and we all know that) but it was the lie (that’s a serious violation for me. I don’t lie, cheat, or steal, and I expect the people I associate with to do the same). The words “trust” “respect” and “honesty” dominated my appeal. I remained calm, collected and clear (odd, right?). I laid out the situation. I laid out why I was angry. I listened to his responses, called him on his bullshit, and told him I didn’t know how I wanted him to fix it. I told him I was too angry with him to cry. I pushed him. I’m glad I did.

Frustrated and tired, I told him I had to sleep. Of course I didn’t. I stared at the dim screen of my laptop while it played reruns of 30 Rock.
Today, I woke up numb and even more exhausted, if that’s at all possible.
Dragging through the morning, doing my very first support bit – eek! I’m going to have to start handling technical issues with our product, and as exciting as it is, it’s really scary, too! – and then it came. The buzzing of my phone. I didn’t look. Three more buzzes lead me to believe something catastrophic may have happened or that I’d just received a novella.
It was in fact that latter.
A novella of contrition. Of admission. Of (his) understanding (of the situation). A little bit of my anger melted away when he admitted that he’s been taking me for granted, and that last night made him realize how much he stands to lose if I bail. (duh, I’m Katie Barry)
I’m still hurt, still annoyed, still frustrated. But it’s salvageable, I think. We spoke again at lunch today, a soft, quiet conversation. But positive. Communication is not a bad thing. But my bullshit meter is on high alert (threat level orange).
And while I am well aware that this may be one of my more fantastic mistakes, I also think it’s a fantastic adventure. Sorry, Mom, I know you’ve tried tactfully to hide your disapproval, but it’s going to be awhile before this is over.
Welcome to life in the Gray Area (I’m imagining that it must be something like the Twilight Zone, although I’m not entirely certain).

The Weekend Wrap Up: Nightmares and Expectations

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The twins that I babysit for always use “sleeps” as a way to countdown to things, like the next time you’ll see someone.

Two sleeps until S comes! I’ve been out of sorts (and in my head) about this whole ordeal for the past few days, and it will be nice to reset all of that.
Ready for last night’s real live nightmare?
I was at G and G’s house – but it was all dark, just like you’d imagine a dungeon. And M, Dad, and I were all sitting stiffly at the table. I had my hands clenched in my lap.
We were talking to G and G and there were Christmas decorations everywhere.
Then, she told us the reason she’d invited us. She spread her arm out, bent at the elbow, sweeping toward the living room.
Our heads turned in unison.
There, in the living room, were the scattered remains of their Christmas celebration. Papers, boxes, plates of food, all glinting under the eerily twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. She’d invited us over to clean it up.
I woke up breathing heavily, convincing myself it wasn’t real.
It’s not real.
It’s oddly telling, though.
I wish my brain could stop chewing on it, though, and just swallow it so I don’t have to taste my own bitterness every day.
*breathes deeply, thinks inner peace*
On a positive note, I went to IKEA this weekend! Emily and I woke up early on Sunday and headed out there before they opened (good call – no lines, parking, etc.). We went into the cafe to have $1.99 breakfast and .50c coffee, then somehow ended up going through IKEA backwards. But it was lovely. I got a new duvet – white with gray flowers on it – and new gray sheets. I also picked up wineglasses so I won’t have to serve guests in my everyday drinking glasses anymore.
It was fun and busy.
I really enjoy all of their odds and ends and kitchen things more than I enjoy anything else.
$5 for 6 wineglasses will get me every time.
I was at Mom’s house yesterday doing my 1800 loads of laundry for the week, and we were chatting. It’s nice to have someone so wizened to bounce ideas off of. I came away from our conversation reminding myself that I’m 23. I think I forget that sometimes. It’s not so much that I’d like to be older, it’s that I measure myself against people who have five or ten years on me and wonder why I don’t match up. So for today, I am trying to embrace 23, however one embraces something intangible like that.
I also came away from our conversation very curious about what other G has to say about S.
But let’s save that for after his visit – I can only imagine how this going to go. He’s meeting Dad and J on Wednesday, and I haven’t told him that yet. And then he’s meeting Mom on Thursday. Ah, well, surprise surprise!