Sunday, for me, was rough. In my typical, pessimistic form, I somehow convinced myself that I was falling apart. My health issues got the better of me, and I spent the majority of Sunday tucked in bed feeling sorry for myself.
With Billy away for the weekend on a boat with his cousins, I was the only one in attendance at my pity party. But I was the best guest EVER. I watched Fever Pitch for the second time and cried my way through parts that didn't even require tears. I cried when I realized there was nothing else on all of our 600 channels that I wanted to watch. I drank water and smoked too many cigarettes, getting up only a few times to either visit the ladies' room or change my laundry from the washer to the dryer.
A number of events led me to where I was on Sunday - Where I was being in our bed, in our un-airconditioned bedroom, with the window fan pointed directly at me, alternately staring at our TV and flicking my cigarette ash into an over-filled ashtray - but they were all minute. My ovaries, for one. The fact that it was hot. A long wait earlier that morning to get my nails done. A zit blossoming on my face that was no-doubt stress induced. The fact that Billy would come home from his three day boat trip to me, with my weird ovaries and a huge pimple. The dress shirts of Billy's that I washed and dried, but accidentally left haphazardly draped over a chair downstairs and forgot to hang up, leaving me the options of either drying them again, or ironing them. A small stomach bug I'd apparently picked up the night before. And, of course, the Alpha and Omega of my problems these days: My ovaries.
Mind you, I didn't yet know that I'd need surgery. I just felt like something was wrong. And I was scared. And earlier that morning, I had just suffered through another woman (the client my nail lady had before me) telling me that it was no big deal. And I'd been light-hearted about it for long enough. I needed my breakdown.
So I did what I always do when things get to be a little too much. I shut myself away from the world for a couple of hours, and I feel sorry for myself. Why me and I can't handle this being just a few of my favorite strains of commentary that run through my head. Sure, it's melodramatic, and unnecessary, but it's what I do.
By the early evening, I continued to follow my pattern of self-repair, and I called my mom. And she let me cry to her, let me complain and whine and be truly, utterly pathetic. She invited me over for dinner. And when their menu for the evening (hamburgers) didn't sound appetizing, she agreed to make me spaghetti and sauce. Just for me. So I drove the four minutes it takes to get me from my house to hers, in my I'm-Feeling-Like-A-Bum clothes, and collapsed on her couch.
I ate my pasta. I chatted with my family. And then Chase and I decided that a situation like this only calls for one thing: Dairy Queen.
So we hit the road, in his beat up Altima. The windows were down and he played me the CDs he'd just made. The CDs were mixes of some of his favorite songs. Older ones that I'd introduced him to (Like my favorite band, 311) and newer ones that I can't help but love (Panic! At the Disco). I sang along while the wind blew my hair all over my head, speeding down the rural roads that take us to ice cream.
My mood started to lift in earnest. Although not entirely absent, I noticed the decrease in my sadness, my self-pity. At least I wasn't crying.
After Dairy Queen, we went to rent movies. Something funny, something that would lift me out of my doldrums whether I liked it or not. But there was nothing. Except...
Except, there they were: The entire series of Sex and the City. Our digital cable company provides roughly six episodes of that show every month, but whenever I see the new episodes showing on the list, I gorge on them that moment, forgetting that I'll be without anything new for another thirty days. Naturally, I'd already watched every episode playing On Demand for the month of June (Okay. TWICE.), so I stared at the boxes of the episodes I hadn't seen yet with lust in my eyes. Nevermind that I've already seen the entire series, start to finish, at least twice over the course of my life. I needed it. So I picked up the final season and walked to the register.
"How many nights?" The teenaged counter girl asked me, terribly bored with her job, obviously eager to get out.
"Just one."
So what it was eight episodes? So what it was already 10:00 at night? I needed this.
Chase and I drove back to my parents' house, but I made my exit almost as soon as we pulled into the driveway. With my family having made significant chips in my horrible mood, it was up to me and Carrie Bradshaw to get rid of the rest.
I know how stereotypical it is of me to love Sex and the City. I know it's cliché. But I can't help it. I love it. It hits me somewhere that's very true. I get lost entirely in each episode, seeing myself in one, if not all, of the characters portrayed there. I forget all about me for the half hour or so that those girls traipse around New York, dressed in their awesome shoes. I escape me for a bit. And that's exactly what I needed.
That night, that's what I did. I watched as many episodes as I could, stopping the DVD only when I knew my eyes would refuse to stay open much longer. The next morning, I finished the series.
And though my eyes were a little puffy from the crying, I felt better. So much better. My zit was going down. My ovaries weren't hurting so much. The world, which had seemed so off-kilter only one day ago, and shifted back into place.
I don't need a psychiatrist to treat my fleeting depression. I need alone time. My parents. My brother and his music. A trip to Dairy Queen. Some chick programming. A good cry. Because after all of that, I felt better than normal.
I felt like me again.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Dependence Day
Fourth of July always finds me with my family. As a group of four people whose lives have always revolved around the military, the patriotic theme of the fourth always resonates with us. The Fourth means charcoal-grilled hamburgers, my dad smelling like the grill's thick smoke. It means beer, and killing time until the sun finally goes down. It means my little brother Chase and I running around like idiots, lighting fireworks and applauding loudest and longest for the most disappointing ones. It means Mom and Dad and Sammy, our Golden Retriever, sitting on the porch, watching us making fools of ourselves, warning against the perils of firecrackers ("Not so close to the house! Watch your fingers! Throw some water on that! Don't point those at each other!") in their good-natured way, while they remember the days they had to light the wicks for us.
This year, nothing was different. Except that my Billy was there with us. He cheered for the mediocre fireworks, he twirled sparklers with us. He fit right in.
This year, nothing was different. Except that my Billy was there with us. He cheered for the mediocre fireworks, he twirled sparklers with us. He fit right in.
Mmmm....Sparklers! And Daddy makes an appearance in the background. Like Bigfoot, but way cuter.
Me and my "Little" brother.
Not only is our love incredible, but it's also patriotic!
With Mom behind the camera (hence her noticeable absence in the pictures), we giggled our way through an evening of cheap fireworks sold at one of the many makeshift vendors stationed all around our fair town. The night was incredible.
But, funny that we were celebrating Independence, when that night reminded me of how much I need those people, how much I depend on them. All of them have made arrangements to sit in the waiting room while my doctor digs inside me and rids me of my pesky cysts. They will all help take care of me during my probably brief, but certainly painful, recovery, even though I hate to admit that I need anyone. And I know them: They won't ask questions, they won't begrudge my helplessness. They'll help me for no other reason than because they love me. Pure and simple.
My surgery is a one-day thing. No overnight stays, no lengthy rehab or anything. A simple procedure that will allow me to leave the hospital with nary a stitch hours after being admitted. The doctor assures me that she will glue my incisions back together rather than stitch them to avoid scarring, but my recovery will be a number of days. And these are the people I've counted on my whole life, with one new addition in the form of a handsome six-foot-four man that I never imagined I'd be fortunate enough to find. And they will all be there for me.
Sure, cysts, and their surgical removal, suck. But look at how fucking lucky I am.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Crying Wolf
"Oh. That's nothing," she said, dismissing my news with a flip of her hand. "Everybody gets those."
I sat there, stunned. It wasn't nothing to me. "Well, yeah, I know that, but considering my history, there's room for concern," I explained, trying to convey the seriousness of the matter.
"Yeah, but, really, I mean cysts on your ovaries are common. Every woman gets them."
It's a conversation I've had with every woman I know in the past week. My new doctor, the Romanian one, found a number of cysts on my ovaries and immediately scheduled a sonogram. It's been weighing on my mind since my annual appointment last week, so people notice the fog around my mood. They ask what's the matter, and I tell them "Oh, my doctor found some cysts on my ovaries and I have to get them checked out." And it's at that point where everybody I know chimes in with "That's no big deal."
But it is a big deal. A troublesome past with my reproductive organs dictates that it is a big deal. And that's where I say "Yeah, well, I've had a coupla cysts before, and they ruptured, and so my doctor's just sort of worried."
"Everybody's cysts rupture." That's what I'm always met with. And, sure, it may be true. But my ruptures caused me an immense amount of pain that left me crying in the fetal position for hours, sitting in emergency rooms waiting to be seen, terrified that something had gone horribly wrong with my body, only to be told by the overly tired doctor on call that there's really nothing they can do for the pain, just wait it out, and go to the gynecologist.
So that's what I did, every time I had a rupture. And the doctor, at that point, told me there was really nothing he could do either because, obviously, the cyst had ruptured, so there was really nothing to see. So he'd send me home with some paperwork to schedule my own sonogram and get my innards checked out.
But that was his mistake, to leave me to get it scheduled and looked at. Everytime I left his office with the thick referral form in hand, I'd set it down in my passenger seat and go back to work with every intention of getting it checked out, only to forget about it in a matter of hours. The fact that I wasn't actually feeling any pain allowed me to displace it from my mind altogether.
Yes, I'll admit the fault was mine; my lack of follow-through can't be blamed on the fact that he didn't schedule an appointment for myself. But he also told me "There's no need to worry, you're not in any pain, so chances are there's nothing to be concerned about." He put me on birth control to control my extreme cramping and outrageous flow, and said the birth control all but eliminates cysts. So I chalked it up to just being a cool, dramatic story that I could tell when people were exchanging medical oddities ("I had some ovarian cysts burst!"), and left it alone.
But last week, at a new doctor for my annual exam, I mentioned some fairly constant pain I was having on my right side. While I detailed my past experience with ruptured cysts, she moved the paper-like cover down my abdomen and placed her cold hand just beside my hipbone and pressed down. I winced immediately, nodding to confirm that she'd found the spot. "Yes," she said, looking up at the ceiling while pressing down on my ovary. "Zere is a cyst dere. It may be a leetle large," she continued. She moved her hands around, hitting a few more spots that made me curl up in reaction to the sharp pain she produced. "Zere too?" she questioned, surveying my reactions.
"Yeah. There too," I replied, eyes squeezed shut.
She wouldn't let me leave without scheduling a sonogram. I was terrified.
I'd have to wait a week to be get thoroughly probed, but she told me it was good that they were there now, that she would actually be able to get a look at them before they burst and caused me any more unnecessary pain. I left with an appointment, but not peace of mind.
There was concern. A lot of concern. Because the cysts should be eliminated by birth control. And because there were a number of them, not just one. And because of my history with what appeared to be endometriosis (again, undiagnosed because I never made the follow up appointments). And because they appeared to be large.
And all week, I was worried. Scared. Concerned. But each time I expressed that, to friends or coworkers, I was met with the same thing. "It's nothing." But I knew. I knew that it was something.
And frankly, I was irritated. Irritated that my worry, my fear, was being invalidated by all of these people who had no idea what my history entailed. That they would dismiss my heavy heart by saying it's common did not, by any means, make me feel better. It made me angry. How dare you say it's nothing. You have no idea what this means to me. Don't make me feel like I'm stupid for being worried. I have every right to be worried. Don't make me feel like an idiot for being scared, for being concerned. If you cared enough to actually ask me more, as opposed to giving me your completely unfounded diagnosis, then maybe you'd be able to talk about it. But they never asked, just dismissed. And so I never told. Because, first of all, who really wants to hear the Reproductive Organ History of Laurie? And, beyond that, do they really care? I mean, maybe their dismissing it was just their way of ending a possibly uncomfortable conversation.
But there were people - close friends, my family, Billy - who got the whole story. The people who were concerned with me all the way through. Who reassured me that I would be okay, but allowed me to be worried and a little sad, who didn't make me feel like I was making a mountain out of a molehill.
Today, I went for that sonogram. And, luckily, the doctor was able to review it and discuss it with me a few hours later.
Billy and I sat across from her at her desk. He held my hand, rubbing my fingers with his thumb, while she shuffled papers and went through my file. Billy kissed me on the cheek. "Stop crying," he said softly into my ear. I blinked my watery eyes and smiled, shrugging my shoulders, telling him I wasn't quite sure why I was crying already.
"About ze cysts," the doctor said, looking up from the papers before her. "Zey are quite large. Quite. And, it ees concerning becoos normal ones are only supposed to be between 4.5 and 5, vile your largest one, on de right side, ees 6.9." I don't recall the unit of measurement associated with the cysts, and I don't recall how big the other ones were. But I do recall that they were all above-averate, and her telling me that it's not good to have a cyst that large. That the cyst could twist and cause a great problem in my abdomen, or it could simply overtake my ovary completely. "And you are so young. Why lose an ovary?" She said. My eyes widened. "So, vat I zink we should do is drain dem."
"Is that an outpatient procedure?" Billy asked.
She giggled. "No, it's not. It ees an operation."
I have to have surgery.
I've never had surgery before. Never even entertained the possibility. But now, here it is. Two weeks from now, I have all four of the large hopefully fluid-filled cysts removed from my abdomen, by way of a laparoscopic procedure. Most likely, they'll just drain the fluid from the cyst, and that will be it. Possibly, they will remove the capsule of the cyst. It's possible, though, that once they actually see my insides, it could be worse than we think. "Vit the sonogram, ve can't truly see the ovary, so ve vill know more ven ve operate." They could be fibrous, they could require more surgery. But, most likely, it's a simple, one-day surgery.
And I know that's good news. It's nothing life-threatening, it just sucks. It's a simple procedure that my doctor has done "hundreds of times," that will only require three days off of work, some rest, and possibly some good drugs. And that's it. It's a relief, of sorts.
But only of sorts, because she's a little concerned. Why do I have cysts if I'm on The Pill, which is supposed to eradicate the cysts? How did they get so big? Why haven't they ruptured, like they do in normal women? And it's scary, to know that there's something wrong enough to operate on me. Even though it's minor task to perform, they still have to make incisions. And even though chances are that I'll have this surgery and never have to think about it again, I still have to have surgery. And that frightens me.
But, also, it's a relief because it is something. Because I get to tell all of those people who thought I was just being dramatic or overly reactionary that it is serious. That I scheduled a surgery already. That I have to go for bloodwork and pre-op appointments. That I knew me well enough to know that there was something not normal about what was going on with my body. That I wasn't just crying wolf.
I sat there, stunned. It wasn't nothing to me. "Well, yeah, I know that, but considering my history, there's room for concern," I explained, trying to convey the seriousness of the matter.
"Yeah, but, really, I mean cysts on your ovaries are common. Every woman gets them."
It's a conversation I've had with every woman I know in the past week. My new doctor, the Romanian one, found a number of cysts on my ovaries and immediately scheduled a sonogram. It's been weighing on my mind since my annual appointment last week, so people notice the fog around my mood. They ask what's the matter, and I tell them "Oh, my doctor found some cysts on my ovaries and I have to get them checked out." And it's at that point where everybody I know chimes in with "That's no big deal."
But it is a big deal. A troublesome past with my reproductive organs dictates that it is a big deal. And that's where I say "Yeah, well, I've had a coupla cysts before, and they ruptured, and so my doctor's just sort of worried."
"Everybody's cysts rupture." That's what I'm always met with. And, sure, it may be true. But my ruptures caused me an immense amount of pain that left me crying in the fetal position for hours, sitting in emergency rooms waiting to be seen, terrified that something had gone horribly wrong with my body, only to be told by the overly tired doctor on call that there's really nothing they can do for the pain, just wait it out, and go to the gynecologist.
So that's what I did, every time I had a rupture. And the doctor, at that point, told me there was really nothing he could do either because, obviously, the cyst had ruptured, so there was really nothing to see. So he'd send me home with some paperwork to schedule my own sonogram and get my innards checked out.
But that was his mistake, to leave me to get it scheduled and looked at. Everytime I left his office with the thick referral form in hand, I'd set it down in my passenger seat and go back to work with every intention of getting it checked out, only to forget about it in a matter of hours. The fact that I wasn't actually feeling any pain allowed me to displace it from my mind altogether.
Yes, I'll admit the fault was mine; my lack of follow-through can't be blamed on the fact that he didn't schedule an appointment for myself. But he also told me "There's no need to worry, you're not in any pain, so chances are there's nothing to be concerned about." He put me on birth control to control my extreme cramping and outrageous flow, and said the birth control all but eliminates cysts. So I chalked it up to just being a cool, dramatic story that I could tell when people were exchanging medical oddities ("I had some ovarian cysts burst!"), and left it alone.
But last week, at a new doctor for my annual exam, I mentioned some fairly constant pain I was having on my right side. While I detailed my past experience with ruptured cysts, she moved the paper-like cover down my abdomen and placed her cold hand just beside my hipbone and pressed down. I winced immediately, nodding to confirm that she'd found the spot. "Yes," she said, looking up at the ceiling while pressing down on my ovary. "Zere is a cyst dere. It may be a leetle large," she continued. She moved her hands around, hitting a few more spots that made me curl up in reaction to the sharp pain she produced. "Zere too?" she questioned, surveying my reactions.
"Yeah. There too," I replied, eyes squeezed shut.
She wouldn't let me leave without scheduling a sonogram. I was terrified.
I'd have to wait a week to be get thoroughly probed, but she told me it was good that they were there now, that she would actually be able to get a look at them before they burst and caused me any more unnecessary pain. I left with an appointment, but not peace of mind.
There was concern. A lot of concern. Because the cysts should be eliminated by birth control. And because there were a number of them, not just one. And because of my history with what appeared to be endometriosis (again, undiagnosed because I never made the follow up appointments). And because they appeared to be large.
And all week, I was worried. Scared. Concerned. But each time I expressed that, to friends or coworkers, I was met with the same thing. "It's nothing." But I knew. I knew that it was something.
And frankly, I was irritated. Irritated that my worry, my fear, was being invalidated by all of these people who had no idea what my history entailed. That they would dismiss my heavy heart by saying it's common did not, by any means, make me feel better. It made me angry. How dare you say it's nothing. You have no idea what this means to me. Don't make me feel like I'm stupid for being worried. I have every right to be worried. Don't make me feel like an idiot for being scared, for being concerned. If you cared enough to actually ask me more, as opposed to giving me your completely unfounded diagnosis, then maybe you'd be able to talk about it. But they never asked, just dismissed. And so I never told. Because, first of all, who really wants to hear the Reproductive Organ History of Laurie? And, beyond that, do they really care? I mean, maybe their dismissing it was just their way of ending a possibly uncomfortable conversation.
But there were people - close friends, my family, Billy - who got the whole story. The people who were concerned with me all the way through. Who reassured me that I would be okay, but allowed me to be worried and a little sad, who didn't make me feel like I was making a mountain out of a molehill.
Today, I went for that sonogram. And, luckily, the doctor was able to review it and discuss it with me a few hours later.
Billy and I sat across from her at her desk. He held my hand, rubbing my fingers with his thumb, while she shuffled papers and went through my file. Billy kissed me on the cheek. "Stop crying," he said softly into my ear. I blinked my watery eyes and smiled, shrugging my shoulders, telling him I wasn't quite sure why I was crying already.
"About ze cysts," the doctor said, looking up from the papers before her. "Zey are quite large. Quite. And, it ees concerning becoos normal ones are only supposed to be between 4.5 and 5, vile your largest one, on de right side, ees 6.9." I don't recall the unit of measurement associated with the cysts, and I don't recall how big the other ones were. But I do recall that they were all above-averate, and her telling me that it's not good to have a cyst that large. That the cyst could twist and cause a great problem in my abdomen, or it could simply overtake my ovary completely. "And you are so young. Why lose an ovary?" She said. My eyes widened. "So, vat I zink we should do is drain dem."
"Is that an outpatient procedure?" Billy asked.
She giggled. "No, it's not. It ees an operation."
I have to have surgery.
I've never had surgery before. Never even entertained the possibility. But now, here it is. Two weeks from now, I have all four of the large hopefully fluid-filled cysts removed from my abdomen, by way of a laparoscopic procedure. Most likely, they'll just drain the fluid from the cyst, and that will be it. Possibly, they will remove the capsule of the cyst. It's possible, though, that once they actually see my insides, it could be worse than we think. "Vit the sonogram, ve can't truly see the ovary, so ve vill know more ven ve operate." They could be fibrous, they could require more surgery. But, most likely, it's a simple, one-day surgery.
And I know that's good news. It's nothing life-threatening, it just sucks. It's a simple procedure that my doctor has done "hundreds of times," that will only require three days off of work, some rest, and possibly some good drugs. And that's it. It's a relief, of sorts.
But only of sorts, because she's a little concerned. Why do I have cysts if I'm on The Pill, which is supposed to eradicate the cysts? How did they get so big? Why haven't they ruptured, like they do in normal women? And it's scary, to know that there's something wrong enough to operate on me. Even though it's minor task to perform, they still have to make incisions. And even though chances are that I'll have this surgery and never have to think about it again, I still have to have surgery. And that frightens me.
But, also, it's a relief because it is something. Because I get to tell all of those people who thought I was just being dramatic or overly reactionary that it is serious. That I scheduled a surgery already. That I have to go for bloodwork and pre-op appointments. That I knew me well enough to know that there was something not normal about what was going on with my body. That I wasn't just crying wolf.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Cation: This Could Induce Nausea
I'm really of no use today. I'm tired and I'm completely lovesick. It makes me act funny, all googly-eyed and dreamy, my stomach doing somersaults and my face flushing every time I think of my other half.
It's just that, when you realize that someone really loves you - the kind of love you never expected you'd find, the kind that you never thought you'd be lucky enough to have - you tend to lose yourself in the fortune of it. Yes, I've been dating Billy for almost a year. Yes, we've been saying I love you constantly since three months into our relationship. Yes, I know how crazy I am about him. But, I just always sort of figured that the scales were tipped in his favor. That, though he loves me, I would always love him just a little bit more. That the feelings coursing through me were so great they would shame the way he feels. That what I feel for him far outweighs what he could even fathom feeling for me. And then I see that it's not that way at all; That I have what I thought wasn't possible. That he loves me back. Fully and completely. I always wanted it, and here it is. And I'm in disbelief. I almost can't believe it's real; it's that amazing.
Because, for some reason, I felt destined to wade around in murky love, the kind that is fickle and unforgiving and fleeting. I thought I'd be forever sentenced to loving more, to doing more, to wanting more. I've spent so much of my life begging for love, and having it rationed to me. Bits and pieces, part of the whole package, but never everything at once. I chased, I followed, I was dropped. And something within me makes me believe that that's the way it will always be. I deny myself the faith in forever, the trust that I'm loved, that I'm worthy of the kind of emotion that makes someone actually want to be there for me. I've seen it, sure. In countless other relationships, and even once in a relationship of my own. But I just never thought I'd see it again. And here it is.
When I was young, Martina McBride had this song out on the radio called My Baby Loves Me. She sings that her husband/boyfriend thinks she's pretty and smart, he loves her when she's mad, silly and sad. "High heels or sneakers, he don't give a damn. My baby loves me just the way that I am." My grandmother told my mom it reminded her of my father, how he loves my mom. Years later, I'd hear that song on a country radio flashback and cry, thinking I'd never have that. Thinking to myself, that just being me would never be enough to make someone love me, and keep them with me.
But Billy thinks I'm sexiest right after I wake. He prefers no makeup to a polished look, and thinks I'm cutest when I run around the house barefoot. He loves my mind, and tells me that his favorite part of me is that I'm genuine. Our favorite moments are in bed, with the TV on, laughing together at something silly. We still, all this time after our beginning, spend every free minute with each other, failing to tire of one another's company. I still have a crush on him. He still kisses me for no reason, holds my hand in the car, and looks at me with eyes that tell me more than he could ever say.
I was talking with Billy's uncle the other night, out at a local restaurant, and we were discussing the family trip I'll be going on to Mexico in August. "Yeah, I told my mom that you're coming, and reminded her that she met you in Florida, back in October. I said 'Yeah, Billy's been dating a girl for a whole year, I can't believe it.' She can't either. She asked if you're using some kind of sorcery on him." I laughed, nodded, sipped my wine. "You bet," I said.
"He's not my type, I don't want to date him," his uncle mocked. "What happened to all that? Remember, this time last year, you were telling me you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him? Now you've been dating for almost a year. And he said the same thing: No, no, no. I don't want to date her. A year! What the hell?"
"I know, I know," I said. "I don't know what happened. I'm just really incredible, and he couldn't resist me. I took pity on him."
"No, really," his uncle said, seriously. "I told my mom, 'Yeah, they've been together almost a year. And this one...I mean, they really love each other. You just have to see it.'"
It's just that, when you realize that someone really loves you - the kind of love you never expected you'd find, the kind that you never thought you'd be lucky enough to have - you tend to lose yourself in the fortune of it. Yes, I've been dating Billy for almost a year. Yes, we've been saying I love you constantly since three months into our relationship. Yes, I know how crazy I am about him. But, I just always sort of figured that the scales were tipped in his favor. That, though he loves me, I would always love him just a little bit more. That the feelings coursing through me were so great they would shame the way he feels. That what I feel for him far outweighs what he could even fathom feeling for me. And then I see that it's not that way at all; That I have what I thought wasn't possible. That he loves me back. Fully and completely. I always wanted it, and here it is. And I'm in disbelief. I almost can't believe it's real; it's that amazing.
Because, for some reason, I felt destined to wade around in murky love, the kind that is fickle and unforgiving and fleeting. I thought I'd be forever sentenced to loving more, to doing more, to wanting more. I've spent so much of my life begging for love, and having it rationed to me. Bits and pieces, part of the whole package, but never everything at once. I chased, I followed, I was dropped. And something within me makes me believe that that's the way it will always be. I deny myself the faith in forever, the trust that I'm loved, that I'm worthy of the kind of emotion that makes someone actually want to be there for me. I've seen it, sure. In countless other relationships, and even once in a relationship of my own. But I just never thought I'd see it again. And here it is.
When I was young, Martina McBride had this song out on the radio called My Baby Loves Me. She sings that her husband/boyfriend thinks she's pretty and smart, he loves her when she's mad, silly and sad. "High heels or sneakers, he don't give a damn. My baby loves me just the way that I am." My grandmother told my mom it reminded her of my father, how he loves my mom. Years later, I'd hear that song on a country radio flashback and cry, thinking I'd never have that. Thinking to myself, that just being me would never be enough to make someone love me, and keep them with me.
But Billy thinks I'm sexiest right after I wake. He prefers no makeup to a polished look, and thinks I'm cutest when I run around the house barefoot. He loves my mind, and tells me that his favorite part of me is that I'm genuine. Our favorite moments are in bed, with the TV on, laughing together at something silly. We still, all this time after our beginning, spend every free minute with each other, failing to tire of one another's company. I still have a crush on him. He still kisses me for no reason, holds my hand in the car, and looks at me with eyes that tell me more than he could ever say.
I was talking with Billy's uncle the other night, out at a local restaurant, and we were discussing the family trip I'll be going on to Mexico in August. "Yeah, I told my mom that you're coming, and reminded her that she met you in Florida, back in October. I said 'Yeah, Billy's been dating a girl for a whole year, I can't believe it.' She can't either. She asked if you're using some kind of sorcery on him." I laughed, nodded, sipped my wine. "You bet," I said.
"He's not my type, I don't want to date him," his uncle mocked. "What happened to all that? Remember, this time last year, you were telling me you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him? Now you've been dating for almost a year. And he said the same thing: No, no, no. I don't want to date her. A year! What the hell?"
"I know, I know," I said. "I don't know what happened. I'm just really incredible, and he couldn't resist me. I took pity on him."
"No, really," his uncle said, seriously. "I told my mom, 'Yeah, they've been together almost a year. And this one...I mean, they really love each other. You just have to see it.'"
Friday, June 30, 2006
Lines
The Grand Union supermarket is completely out of place here in town. Large and bulky, it sits awkwardly on Milford's outskirts, its parking lot empty and longing for customers. Inside, hundreds of fruits and vegetables sigh in their refrigerated homes, just waiting to be fondled, thumped, felt. The aisles are all but deserted most of the time, a few cashiers and a stockboy wandering the aisles, straightening bags of potato chips and jars of jam that haven't been touched in ages.
It's not that people in Milford don't need food, it's just that Grand Union, time and time again, is passed over for its larger, newer, brighter counterparts. The Shop Rite, the Price Chopper, the Super Wal Mart. They're bigger, and cheaper, and they have more than one register open at all times. The selection they offer is grander, fresher, than the Grand Union's, their buildings are whiter and fancier, boasting bakeries and real butchers. Their rows throb with activity, shopping carts rolling in all directions, piloted by countless residents. The Grand Union has none of that. Muzak falls from hidden speakers, serenading the lonely store and its few shoppers, and the fluorescent lights hum overhead, passing the time until the hour of closing rolls around.
The clerks, most barely past sixteen, chat with one another over empty aisles, hardly paying attention to the few people who graze the store in search of the one last-minute item they forgot at one of the bigger stores. A bottle of Coke, a pack of hot dog buns, some Tylenol. Their big rush entails no more than five people, causing a delay in checking out that feels like hours. The cashiers know the customers, and people chat as the register beeps its way through the conveyor belt of purchases. They talk about family, school, work, or gossip while the customers dig for money and the cashier bags the items. The process takes forever.
But today, it's different. Today, our tri-state area is limited to only one grocery store. With a flood shutting down all other alternatives, people have no choice but to swarm the Grand Union and buy the things they were hoping to get at Price Chopper. The cashiers look at each other over lines that morph from one or two people to twenty, moving items over the scanner with a speed to which they are not accustomed. There are actual people in aisles, filling their carts with salad and dessert and feminine products.
Today, I needed Ginger Ale. That was it. And normally, I head to our Super Wal Mart for such purchases, because shopping at Wal Mart allows me to spend a minimum of fifty dollars on things I don't need. And, that, I enjoy. But a main road that leads to the now-flooded Wal Mart is closed, its yellow lines beneath the murky overflow of the Delaware. So I drove into Grand Union, the insides of a store that I've only ever seen when I was running low on something and needed it now. But I had to cruise a spot in the parking lot, and inside I had to wait while people surveyed the selection and blocked the row of soda. And, having secured my three bottles of Ginger Ale, I headed to check out.
Before me were five lanes open, an occurrence I've never - never - encountered in the GU. The lines leaked away from the registered and slithered through the passage between checkout and aisles. People leaned on their overstuffed carts, or shifted the weight of their purchases from one arm to another as they waited. The Express lane pulsed with people, their one or two items bobbing in their impatient arms, while they looked around in disbelief. Frustration set in on the customers, who rolled their eyes and checked for other cashiers. I can't believe it's taking this long. I only came in for one thing. Who are all these people? was written across their faces as plain as day. But with Milford being gateway to all points beyond it, what with the interstate and most main bridges closed, foreigners trickled in, stealing the time, and spaces in line, from us residents.
With my bottles cradled in my bare arms, I made my way to the shortest line. It had just been opened, and the purchases of the lady before me were steadily making their way over the scanner and into her bags. Perfect, I thought, as I noticed myself moving forward, and my fellow shoppers in their respective other lines standing still. I can't believe my luck.
And then, it happened.
"That'll be $32. 78," the teenaged cashier, who was so new she hadn't yet earned the rights to the navy blue Grand Union shirt worn by the rest of the employees, said to the woman in front of me.
"Okay," she said, setting her young son in the seat of her cart. She dug through her massive purse. And there it was: The Checkbook. She flipped the green checkbook case open while simultaneously clicking her pen to life. "Can I just sign it? I mean, do you guys fill it out?" Her pen hovered above her personalized checks, waiting for instruction.
"Uh, no?" the cashier replied, more questioning than telling, apparently confused by the notion of her filling out her customer's check.
"So, it's not like Wal Mart then? Where I can just, you know, sign it, and give it to you, and then the computer fills it out for me?"
"No," said the cashier, with more authority this time.
"Oh. Uh, well. Okay then." The customer nodded, apparently accepting the cashier's disappointing news. "Well. I'll just, uh, fill it out then."
My three bottles of Ginger Ale just sat there, inches away from being scanned, halted by this woman's confusion. I looked at them, so close, yet so far. I looked at the woman.
"How much did you say it was again?" She squinted her eyes at the register.
"$32.78," sighed the cashier. People were beginning to pile up behind us, their groceries gathering like angry villagers.
The lady ripped the check from her book and handed it to the cashier with a smile. The cashier, who had just begun staring into the distance, accepted it gladly, and furiously typed numbers into her machine.
"I'm gonna need your ID," she said.
We all waited while the lady pried it form her wallet.
The register beeped angrily, little number signs taking the place that just moments ago displayed the lady's total. She cashier looked past me, to the customer service desk behind me, and picked up a little white phone and waited for an answer. "It says over limit," she hissed into the receiver, "but it's only for, like, thirty dollars."
The customer service rep, who was right behind me, hung up her phone and spoke over me to the cashier. "You just need manager approval. Page Dave."
And she did. And we waited, each of us in the line madly surveying the store for Dave to appear. I watched the other customers in the other lines, the ones I was moving ahead of, as they collected their bagged items and strode through the automatic doors to their waiting cars. One line emptied entirely. AND CLOSED. A sigh traveled through our line.
Dave emerged from the juice aisle and ran up to our cashier. "It says over limit," she explained again, "but it's only for thirty bucks."
"I have money in my account," Check Lady announced, as though we were all doubting her financial health.
"Of course, ma'am. That's fine. Actually, it's because you wrote a check at our other store this week. That's all. No problem at all," said Dave, typing his override into the register. "Now," he said, turning his attention to the cashier, his smile and his pleasant demeanor remaining constant through the exchange, as though unaffected by the exponential rise in his daily traffic, "you just have to write over limit on here, and you're all set." He patted the cashier on the back and looked at those of us standing in line. "You guys have a nice day now."
The receipt printed, and the Lady of the Checks was on her way. In less than a minute, my bottles were scanned and paid for. All that waiting, for that.
The thing is, even if I had been in the Grand Union a few days ago, when it was all but deserted, I could almost guarantee that I still would've gotten stuck behind someone writing a check, or someone who picked the one jar of salsa without a barcode, thereby requiring a price check. I always pick the wrong goddamn line.
It's not that people in Milford don't need food, it's just that Grand Union, time and time again, is passed over for its larger, newer, brighter counterparts. The Shop Rite, the Price Chopper, the Super Wal Mart. They're bigger, and cheaper, and they have more than one register open at all times. The selection they offer is grander, fresher, than the Grand Union's, their buildings are whiter and fancier, boasting bakeries and real butchers. Their rows throb with activity, shopping carts rolling in all directions, piloted by countless residents. The Grand Union has none of that. Muzak falls from hidden speakers, serenading the lonely store and its few shoppers, and the fluorescent lights hum overhead, passing the time until the hour of closing rolls around.
The clerks, most barely past sixteen, chat with one another over empty aisles, hardly paying attention to the few people who graze the store in search of the one last-minute item they forgot at one of the bigger stores. A bottle of Coke, a pack of hot dog buns, some Tylenol. Their big rush entails no more than five people, causing a delay in checking out that feels like hours. The cashiers know the customers, and people chat as the register beeps its way through the conveyor belt of purchases. They talk about family, school, work, or gossip while the customers dig for money and the cashier bags the items. The process takes forever.
But today, it's different. Today, our tri-state area is limited to only one grocery store. With a flood shutting down all other alternatives, people have no choice but to swarm the Grand Union and buy the things they were hoping to get at Price Chopper. The cashiers look at each other over lines that morph from one or two people to twenty, moving items over the scanner with a speed to which they are not accustomed. There are actual people in aisles, filling their carts with salad and dessert and feminine products.
Today, I needed Ginger Ale. That was it. And normally, I head to our Super Wal Mart for such purchases, because shopping at Wal Mart allows me to spend a minimum of fifty dollars on things I don't need. And, that, I enjoy. But a main road that leads to the now-flooded Wal Mart is closed, its yellow lines beneath the murky overflow of the Delaware. So I drove into Grand Union, the insides of a store that I've only ever seen when I was running low on something and needed it now. But I had to cruise a spot in the parking lot, and inside I had to wait while people surveyed the selection and blocked the row of soda. And, having secured my three bottles of Ginger Ale, I headed to check out.
Before me were five lanes open, an occurrence I've never - never - encountered in the GU. The lines leaked away from the registered and slithered through the passage between checkout and aisles. People leaned on their overstuffed carts, or shifted the weight of their purchases from one arm to another as they waited. The Express lane pulsed with people, their one or two items bobbing in their impatient arms, while they looked around in disbelief. Frustration set in on the customers, who rolled their eyes and checked for other cashiers. I can't believe it's taking this long. I only came in for one thing. Who are all these people? was written across their faces as plain as day. But with Milford being gateway to all points beyond it, what with the interstate and most main bridges closed, foreigners trickled in, stealing the time, and spaces in line, from us residents.
With my bottles cradled in my bare arms, I made my way to the shortest line. It had just been opened, and the purchases of the lady before me were steadily making their way over the scanner and into her bags. Perfect, I thought, as I noticed myself moving forward, and my fellow shoppers in their respective other lines standing still. I can't believe my luck.
And then, it happened.
"That'll be $32. 78," the teenaged cashier, who was so new she hadn't yet earned the rights to the navy blue Grand Union shirt worn by the rest of the employees, said to the woman in front of me.
"Okay," she said, setting her young son in the seat of her cart. She dug through her massive purse. And there it was: The Checkbook. She flipped the green checkbook case open while simultaneously clicking her pen to life. "Can I just sign it? I mean, do you guys fill it out?" Her pen hovered above her personalized checks, waiting for instruction.
"Uh, no?" the cashier replied, more questioning than telling, apparently confused by the notion of her filling out her customer's check.
"So, it's not like Wal Mart then? Where I can just, you know, sign it, and give it to you, and then the computer fills it out for me?"
"No," said the cashier, with more authority this time.
"Oh. Uh, well. Okay then." The customer nodded, apparently accepting the cashier's disappointing news. "Well. I'll just, uh, fill it out then."
My three bottles of Ginger Ale just sat there, inches away from being scanned, halted by this woman's confusion. I looked at them, so close, yet so far. I looked at the woman.
"How much did you say it was again?" She squinted her eyes at the register.
"$32.78," sighed the cashier. People were beginning to pile up behind us, their groceries gathering like angry villagers.
The lady ripped the check from her book and handed it to the cashier with a smile. The cashier, who had just begun staring into the distance, accepted it gladly, and furiously typed numbers into her machine.
"I'm gonna need your ID," she said.
We all waited while the lady pried it form her wallet.
The register beeped angrily, little number signs taking the place that just moments ago displayed the lady's total. She cashier looked past me, to the customer service desk behind me, and picked up a little white phone and waited for an answer. "It says over limit," she hissed into the receiver, "but it's only for, like, thirty dollars."
The customer service rep, who was right behind me, hung up her phone and spoke over me to the cashier. "You just need manager approval. Page Dave."
And she did. And we waited, each of us in the line madly surveying the store for Dave to appear. I watched the other customers in the other lines, the ones I was moving ahead of, as they collected their bagged items and strode through the automatic doors to their waiting cars. One line emptied entirely. AND CLOSED. A sigh traveled through our line.
Dave emerged from the juice aisle and ran up to our cashier. "It says over limit," she explained again, "but it's only for thirty bucks."
"I have money in my account," Check Lady announced, as though we were all doubting her financial health.
"Of course, ma'am. That's fine. Actually, it's because you wrote a check at our other store this week. That's all. No problem at all," said Dave, typing his override into the register. "Now," he said, turning his attention to the cashier, his smile and his pleasant demeanor remaining constant through the exchange, as though unaffected by the exponential rise in his daily traffic, "you just have to write over limit on here, and you're all set." He patted the cashier on the back and looked at those of us standing in line. "You guys have a nice day now."
The receipt printed, and the Lady of the Checks was on her way. In less than a minute, my bottles were scanned and paid for. All that waiting, for that.
The thing is, even if I had been in the Grand Union a few days ago, when it was all but deserted, I could almost guarantee that I still would've gotten stuck behind someone writing a check, or someone who picked the one jar of salsa without a barcode, thereby requiring a price check. I always pick the wrong goddamn line.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Some Things
1) The Gynecologist, the one I was so worried about, was Romanian. Not Serbian, or Croation, or Bosnian, or any of the new, tinier countries Yugoslavia has dissolved into. All that fretting was for naught. But, see, this is the problem inherent in the American view of Eastern Europe. The former Yugoslavia and Romania, Russia, The Czech Republic, and Poland – for instance – are all, apparently, interchangeable. Like, when someone asks me where my family is from, the conversation typically goes like this:
“Your mom has such a cute little accent.”
“Oh? Really? She has an accent? I don’t even notice it.” It’s true. I don’t.
“Where’s she from?”
“Serbia.”
“Serbia?” Confused look.
“Yeah. It’s part of the former Yugoslavia.”
“Yugoslavia?” Another confused look. And then, a moment of enlightenment. “Oh! Russia!”
“Noooo. Yugoslavia. It’s on the Mediterranean.”
“Czechoslovakia?”
“Well, that’s not there anymore, either. It’s the Czech Republic now. But no. Not the Czech Republic. Yugoslavia.”
“Poland!”
“Nevermind.”
Sure, all the accents are similar, and even the languages resemble one another. But they are not one-in-the-same. It’s like you telling somebody you’re from America and they say “Mexico?” And you say, “No, The USA.” And they say “Costa Rica?” And you say “NO! NORTH AMERICA! NOT CENTRAL AMERICA!” And they say “Oh! Canada!” Sure, a majority of the aforementioned countries understand each other when speaking, but saying you're from Pennsylvania does not equate you saying you're from Guatemala. It irritates me.
2) My little brother, Chase, was working here for some extra money last week. His task was to be outside, raking thick red mulch into the appropriate places around the front of my building. It was obscenely hot out last week, so, halfway through the day, he started raking without his shirt on.
In the afternoon, we got our daily UPS delivery. The UPS man is a tall, skinny, 50-ish, borderline-creepy guy who comes in every day and compliments me in one way or another. He’s told me I’m always “Dressed to kill,” and has admitted his fondness for summer because I wear skirts on the hotter days. This, to me, is all just harmless flirtation and flattery. Sure, he’s a little weird, and gets a little too excited to see me (When I’m not around, he tells whomever must sign for the package that now his day is ruined because I’m not here), but it’s all in good fun. Right?
Well, Chase is out there raking, UPS man is delivering, and as the UPS man heads back to his truck, he says to Chase, “I sure wish it was Laurie out here raking without her shirt on,” figuring, I suppose, that Chase is a new guy around here and probably has a mild obsession with me, too. He probably sought camaraderie from this new guy.
Chase, of course, stops raking, and rests the rake against his massive frame. He crosses his arms in front of his 20 year old, Military Academy student, former-football player body, and looks at the guy. “Man, that’s my sister.”
UPS man goes all apologetic and scoots his way back into the truck and takes off. Chase tells my coworkers and me the story, and we all get a good laugh.
The next day, UPS comes again, and I’m chosen to go downstairs to sign for the day’s package.
“Did your brother tell you what I said to him yesterday?” UPS man asks, handing me the magic pen with which I’m supposed to sign.
I decide to play dumb, wondering how much he’ll admit to. “No, no. He didn’t mention anything,” I say, scrawling my name on his electronic book.
“I told him,” he says, leaning in to me, “that I’d rather see you out there raking with your shirt off.”
I finished my signature at the exact moment he finished his sentence. I held the pen in mid air and just looked at him. “Riiiight. That’s not creepy at all,” I say, recoiling a bit. I hand him back his pen like he has leprosy.
“Well,” he says, taking the pen back and not noticing how skeeved out I am, “I didn’t know he was your brother.”
“That doesn’t make it any better,” I say, disgusted.
“Yeah, I know! Have a good weekend!” he says, all smiles and laughter.
Should I be worried about this guy?
3) Seriously, I have the most amazing boyfriend ever.
4) It’s been raining here since Thursday of last week. It’s been hard at times, thundering, windy…Then it’ll break, go soft, the sun will come out and birds will sing for about thirty minutes, then the rain will start again.
Thing is, all of this on-and-off raining has tricked us into believing that it’s not that much rain. But it is.
In fact, Matamoras, a town just miles away from Milford, flooded. This happened two years ago. And it’s happening again. They’re evacuating homes. They’re warning against the same flood – if not worse – happening by tomorrow.
They said that the 2005 flood was a freak accident; A combination of Hurricane Ivan, melting snow, a released dam, and hard steady rainfall. They said it would never happen again.
It is.
I just feel so bad for the people who are about to go through the same trauma of just two years ago again.
5) I want to go to the gym tonight, but I don’t want to for a few reasons:
The Flood (which can be an excuse for many things for many months to come).
My stomach muscles are sore due to Monday’s workout.
And
Billy’s supposed to bring me home sushi tonight. I don’t want to WAIT for the sushi. It’s been too long since I’ve had it. So I'll want to eat it as soon as he walks in the door.
Decisions, decisions.
6) I really do have to get to work. But I can't stop monitoring the height/depth of the Delaware. It's become an obsession.
“Your mom has such a cute little accent.”
“Oh? Really? She has an accent? I don’t even notice it.” It’s true. I don’t.
“Where’s she from?”
“Serbia.”
“Serbia?” Confused look.
“Yeah. It’s part of the former Yugoslavia.”
“Yugoslavia?” Another confused look. And then, a moment of enlightenment. “Oh! Russia!”
“Noooo. Yugoslavia. It’s on the Mediterranean.”
“Czechoslovakia?”
“Well, that’s not there anymore, either. It’s the Czech Republic now. But no. Not the Czech Republic. Yugoslavia.”
“Poland!”
“Nevermind.”
Sure, all the accents are similar, and even the languages resemble one another. But they are not one-in-the-same. It’s like you telling somebody you’re from America and they say “Mexico?” And you say, “No, The USA.” And they say “Costa Rica?” And you say “NO! NORTH AMERICA! NOT CENTRAL AMERICA!” And they say “Oh! Canada!” Sure, a majority of the aforementioned countries understand each other when speaking, but saying you're from Pennsylvania does not equate you saying you're from Guatemala. It irritates me.
2) My little brother, Chase, was working here for some extra money last week. His task was to be outside, raking thick red mulch into the appropriate places around the front of my building. It was obscenely hot out last week, so, halfway through the day, he started raking without his shirt on.
In the afternoon, we got our daily UPS delivery. The UPS man is a tall, skinny, 50-ish, borderline-creepy guy who comes in every day and compliments me in one way or another. He’s told me I’m always “Dressed to kill,” and has admitted his fondness for summer because I wear skirts on the hotter days. This, to me, is all just harmless flirtation and flattery. Sure, he’s a little weird, and gets a little too excited to see me (When I’m not around, he tells whomever must sign for the package that now his day is ruined because I’m not here), but it’s all in good fun. Right?
Well, Chase is out there raking, UPS man is delivering, and as the UPS man heads back to his truck, he says to Chase, “I sure wish it was Laurie out here raking without her shirt on,” figuring, I suppose, that Chase is a new guy around here and probably has a mild obsession with me, too. He probably sought camaraderie from this new guy.
Chase, of course, stops raking, and rests the rake against his massive frame. He crosses his arms in front of his 20 year old, Military Academy student, former-football player body, and looks at the guy. “Man, that’s my sister.”
UPS man goes all apologetic and scoots his way back into the truck and takes off. Chase tells my coworkers and me the story, and we all get a good laugh.
The next day, UPS comes again, and I’m chosen to go downstairs to sign for the day’s package.
“Did your brother tell you what I said to him yesterday?” UPS man asks, handing me the magic pen with which I’m supposed to sign.
I decide to play dumb, wondering how much he’ll admit to. “No, no. He didn’t mention anything,” I say, scrawling my name on his electronic book.
“I told him,” he says, leaning in to me, “that I’d rather see you out there raking with your shirt off.”
I finished my signature at the exact moment he finished his sentence. I held the pen in mid air and just looked at him. “Riiiight. That’s not creepy at all,” I say, recoiling a bit. I hand him back his pen like he has leprosy.
“Well,” he says, taking the pen back and not noticing how skeeved out I am, “I didn’t know he was your brother.”
“That doesn’t make it any better,” I say, disgusted.
“Yeah, I know! Have a good weekend!” he says, all smiles and laughter.
Should I be worried about this guy?
3) Seriously, I have the most amazing boyfriend ever.
4) It’s been raining here since Thursday of last week. It’s been hard at times, thundering, windy…Then it’ll break, go soft, the sun will come out and birds will sing for about thirty minutes, then the rain will start again.
Thing is, all of this on-and-off raining has tricked us into believing that it’s not that much rain. But it is.
In fact, Matamoras, a town just miles away from Milford, flooded. This happened two years ago. And it’s happening again. They’re evacuating homes. They’re warning against the same flood – if not worse – happening by tomorrow.
They said that the 2005 flood was a freak accident; A combination of Hurricane Ivan, melting snow, a released dam, and hard steady rainfall. They said it would never happen again.
It is.
I just feel so bad for the people who are about to go through the same trauma of just two years ago again.
5) I want to go to the gym tonight, but I don’t want to for a few reasons:
The Flood (which can be an excuse for many things for many months to come).
My stomach muscles are sore due to Monday’s workout.
And
Billy’s supposed to bring me home sushi tonight. I don’t want to WAIT for the sushi. It’s been too long since I’ve had it. So I'll want to eat it as soon as he walks in the door.
Decisions, decisions.
6) I really do have to get to work. But I can't stop monitoring the height/depth of the Delaware. It's become an obsession.
Clarity
Extreme Makeover Home Edition played on the large TV in front of us as Billy and I nestled into our new couch. Having caught the show from the middle, instead of the beginning, I only knew that the mother of the family receiving the home makeover had cancer. I didn't know what kind it was. But, as they revealed room after remodeled room, not knowing the root of her disease didn't stop me from crying. That show always makes me cry: Always, without fail, no question. By the time the busdriver has moved that bus, my face is soaked in tears. Billy watches me whenever we watch it, his mouth turned into a slight grin, just waiting for the waterworks. He thinks it's cute, he says, that I cry over those shows. He knows exactly which moments will push me over the edge, and waits for that moment to wrap me up in his arms, simultaneously comforting me and taking little jabs at my over-active tear ducts.
This Sunday was no different. As the parents thanked Extreme Makeover for making their children smile for the first time in months, he looked at me. I saw his grin from the corner of my tear-filled eyes, and reached out to hit him half-heartedly. "They haven't fallen yet," I said, keeping my eyes glued to the screen, "so technically, I'm not crying." But the pre-commercial previews of what would happen when they returned proved to be my breaking point. The mother was talking about her husband, their love, their relationship.
"That's gonna push you over the edge, huh?" Billy said as the show faded into an ad for a new ABC series.
"Yes. Yes it will."
And so we waited for the show to come back, and for me to cry. Sure enough, the master bedroom was revealed to the couple, who, I learned, have battled not only cancer, but a low-life contractor who stole $44,000 from the family while "remodeling" their home earlier in the year. The husband and wife took tentative, reverent steps into their new master bedroom, touching the walls and the new sheets, looking at the art work and the accessories, and as they did this, they cut away to an interview with the mother. She talked about her cancer, and how she's fighting all the time, and she's tired and frustrated and angry. She doesn't know what she'd do, she said, without her husband. He allows her to be depressed and angry and sad, but he also gives her the days where she's just feels lucky. To have someone who loves me more than he loves himself, who takes care of me, who gives me strength, she said, was what has kept her going. Of course, I cried, large, appreciative teardrops for the husband she'd found, who, while her voice-over spoke, knelt before her in their new bedroom and kissed her operation-scarred neck. I held a kleenex under my eye, catching the tears I couldn't keep from falling and scooted a little closer into Billy's chest.
"That's how I feel about you," Billy whispered, holding me just a little tighter.
I giggled at him through my tears, a sarcastic "yeah" falling from my lips as I cleaned up the tears that had rolled down my cheeks. When the moment was over, when she was done extolling the virtues of her husband and how he loves her, I turned my face into Billy's neck. "That's probably one of the sweetest things you've ever said," I told him, "even if you were just messing around."
"I wasn't. It's the truth."
That was three days ago. Since then, I've needed Billy. Not just needed like I had a bad day and I needed someone to bitch to. Not needed like my overly-dramatic way of saying I wanted him around. Needed like Keep me from falling apart. And you know what? He was there. He left work and he rushed to my side and he held me while I cried and kept my fragile being together when I was on the verge of shattering. He told me what I needed to hear, he kept me rational, he made it better. He gave me strength.
I didn't believe him when he said that, when he claimed to love me like that man loves his wife: Putting himself before me, being there for me when I need it, giving me what I needed to push forward. I don't know if I was short-changing him or me. But, either way, I just didn't believe that he was capable of loving me that way; the way that I love him. I always just assume that I'm the only one who loves that deeply, that emotion of that magnitude will never be reciprocated. Whether I thought I don't deserve it, or that he just wouldn't want to, I don't know. But, either way, I didn't expect it.
Until his car pulled into the driveway, and he rushed upstairs and wrapped me in his arms and just held me like that for a bit and let me cry.
"Thank you for being here," I said into this chest.
"When are you going to realize that I love you?"
I always knew he loved me. I just didn't give him enough credit. Until now.
This Sunday was no different. As the parents thanked Extreme Makeover for making their children smile for the first time in months, he looked at me. I saw his grin from the corner of my tear-filled eyes, and reached out to hit him half-heartedly. "They haven't fallen yet," I said, keeping my eyes glued to the screen, "so technically, I'm not crying." But the pre-commercial previews of what would happen when they returned proved to be my breaking point. The mother was talking about her husband, their love, their relationship.
"That's gonna push you over the edge, huh?" Billy said as the show faded into an ad for a new ABC series.
"Yes. Yes it will."
And so we waited for the show to come back, and for me to cry. Sure enough, the master bedroom was revealed to the couple, who, I learned, have battled not only cancer, but a low-life contractor who stole $44,000 from the family while "remodeling" their home earlier in the year. The husband and wife took tentative, reverent steps into their new master bedroom, touching the walls and the new sheets, looking at the art work and the accessories, and as they did this, they cut away to an interview with the mother. She talked about her cancer, and how she's fighting all the time, and she's tired and frustrated and angry. She doesn't know what she'd do, she said, without her husband. He allows her to be depressed and angry and sad, but he also gives her the days where she's just feels lucky. To have someone who loves me more than he loves himself, who takes care of me, who gives me strength, she said, was what has kept her going. Of course, I cried, large, appreciative teardrops for the husband she'd found, who, while her voice-over spoke, knelt before her in their new bedroom and kissed her operation-scarred neck. I held a kleenex under my eye, catching the tears I couldn't keep from falling and scooted a little closer into Billy's chest.
"That's how I feel about you," Billy whispered, holding me just a little tighter.
I giggled at him through my tears, a sarcastic "yeah" falling from my lips as I cleaned up the tears that had rolled down my cheeks. When the moment was over, when she was done extolling the virtues of her husband and how he loves her, I turned my face into Billy's neck. "That's probably one of the sweetest things you've ever said," I told him, "even if you were just messing around."
"I wasn't. It's the truth."
That was three days ago. Since then, I've needed Billy. Not just needed like I had a bad day and I needed someone to bitch to. Not needed like my overly-dramatic way of saying I wanted him around. Needed like Keep me from falling apart. And you know what? He was there. He left work and he rushed to my side and he held me while I cried and kept my fragile being together when I was on the verge of shattering. He told me what I needed to hear, he kept me rational, he made it better. He gave me strength.
I didn't believe him when he said that, when he claimed to love me like that man loves his wife: Putting himself before me, being there for me when I need it, giving me what I needed to push forward. I don't know if I was short-changing him or me. But, either way, I just didn't believe that he was capable of loving me that way; the way that I love him. I always just assume that I'm the only one who loves that deeply, that emotion of that magnitude will never be reciprocated. Whether I thought I don't deserve it, or that he just wouldn't want to, I don't know. But, either way, I didn't expect it.
Until his car pulled into the driveway, and he rushed upstairs and wrapped me in his arms and just held me like that for a bit and let me cry.
"Thank you for being here," I said into this chest.
"When are you going to realize that I love you?"
I always knew he loved me. I just didn't give him enough credit. Until now.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Help Me Up
I’m having the kind of morning Mondays are infamous for. The coffee I could’ve sworn I set to start before I woke today wasn’t brewed when I plodded, first thing after waking, downstairs. And so I made it. It was still dark out, even at almost 7 this morning, no sunshine, no birds chirping. Just rain. Lots and lots of rain. The kind that breeds sticky air, just warm enough to remind you that it’s summer, but just cool enough to make you uncomfortable. I went back downstairs to prepare the coffee for Billy and me, only to notice neither Billy nor I had cleaned out our travel mugs from our excursion yesterday. And Billy, bruit that he is, apparently used his superhero grip to put his lid on. Freshly lotioned from the shower, my fingers slid around the twist-on lid of his Borders mug, refusing to let loose and uncap. Old coffee sloshed from the half-full mug when I finally – using a paper towel and a hand towel – manage to get the lid off. After washing out our cups, I realized that someone had used the last of the sugar from the diner-esque glass dispenser we use, and didn’t feel like filling it back up. So I pulled the new bag of sugar from the cabinet to refill the container. And, of course, while I did that, sugar spilled everywhere. After cleaning up the million granules all over the counter, I stirred the cream and sugar into our coffees. Naturally, in my haste to get upstairs and finish getting ready, I stirred too vigorously, splashing my creamy coffee down the side of my travel mug, and all over the counter I’d just cleaned. The sleeve of my robe got caught on a drawer as I left the kitchen, cursing all the way.
Once upstairs, I realized that Billy was still in bed. He was supposed to be in the shower by now. So I roused him from sleep, presented him with his coffee and pulled out my makeup bag. Perhaps he saw it on my face, or perhaps it was just the first question he could think of, but “How are you today?” were the first words out of his mouth.
“Fine, fine,” I said, quickly and quietly, feeling the tears behind my eyes. He was walking around the bed, preparing for the shower, as I spoke. I appeared to very interested in finding something in my makeup bag as he came toward me. Why the fuck am I crying? I thought, while trying to hide my face from him.
“Are you sure?” he said, his voice concerned, as he kneeled toward me.
“I’m fine,” I replied, clipping my words short to keep my voice from betraying me. I didn’t want him to see me crying. What an asshole I am, I thought. Crying? First thing in the morning?
“No you’re not.” He moved the covers on the bed and sat in front of me. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t even know!” I said, half laughing, half crying, finally revealing my watery eyes. “I don’t. Really. I don’t.”
“What’s a word for how you’re feeling?”
“Frustrated.” I reached for a kleenex.
“Why?”
I recounted the story of the coffee, the unmade pot, the unwashed mugs, the unfilled container, the spilled sugar, the spilled coffee… “But, I don’t know, I mean, that shit happens to me all the time. I don’t know why I’m so upset…” I trailed off.
“Is it the zit?”
I have a pimple the size of fucking France on my face right now. It’s been there since Friday, but, until now, it’s been all but invisible. Resting squarely between my lip and my nose, it hurts with every smile, every frown, every move of my mouth. It’s deep, rooted somewhere miles below the surface of my skin, which is why no one but me even knew it was there. Until last night, when I decided it was ready to be picked on. Which was a bad move on my part. Because although I did relieve some of the pressure, I really only served to make it red and obvious. This is very bad. This morning, staring back at me from the mirror was, not my face, but an angry red bruise. It’s all I can see. And it still sort of hurts. But what hurts me more is the way it looks. Yeah, I’m vain. So what.
“Well, it doesn’t help,” I said, my bottom lip quivering uncontrollably. “And now I’m going to have puffy eyes from crying over nothing,” I continued, throwing my hands up in helplessness.
“Well I think you’re beautiful,” he said, kissing me gently on the mouth.
“Thanks.” My voice was barely above a whisper, my eyes stared down at my makeup bag. I was embarrassed and sad and frustrated. And I knew I was overreacting, but I couldn’t stop it.
After his shower, when he entered the room to find me dressing, my posture told him that I felt sad and dejected. He waited for me to notice him. “It’s just a zit, babe," he said. "And you can’t even see it anymore.”
I must admit, I’m a whiz with the makeup. I had made it pretty much disappear. But I still knew it was there. I felt gross.
“I know,” I said, pulling my shirt on over my head. “But I just don’t feel very…sexy.”
“You are sexy,” he said, pulling me to him. “Always.” He bent down to kiss me, but stopped. “I assume I’m not allowed to kiss you, huh? To preserve the makeup?”
“You can kiss me,” I said, “but gently.”
And he did.
We parted ways for the day, and when I got to work, I noticed a text message from him. Our exchange was quick and funny, just a short set of messages. That’s it. But they said what I needed to hear. And they made me laugh. In essence, he took my hand, helped me up and dusted me off from the fall. And I needed that. Desperately
And I love that, when I need him, he’s there for me. Even though I’m too proud to admit that I need him to help me put me together sometimes, he’s there. Without my asking, without my urging. Because he knows I need it. And it’s in those moments when I realize that I’m wasting my time, questioning and worrying and fretting over Us and The Present Tense and Does He Feel The Same and all of my typical insecurity-induced quandaries. It takes energy to help me up, even if the thing that got me down was something small, and that’s what you do when you love someone. And that’s what he did for me.
Some days, despite the fact that things aren’t going my way, I just feel lucky.
Once upstairs, I realized that Billy was still in bed. He was supposed to be in the shower by now. So I roused him from sleep, presented him with his coffee and pulled out my makeup bag. Perhaps he saw it on my face, or perhaps it was just the first question he could think of, but “How are you today?” were the first words out of his mouth.
“Fine, fine,” I said, quickly and quietly, feeling the tears behind my eyes. He was walking around the bed, preparing for the shower, as I spoke. I appeared to very interested in finding something in my makeup bag as he came toward me. Why the fuck am I crying? I thought, while trying to hide my face from him.
“Are you sure?” he said, his voice concerned, as he kneeled toward me.
“I’m fine,” I replied, clipping my words short to keep my voice from betraying me. I didn’t want him to see me crying. What an asshole I am, I thought. Crying? First thing in the morning?
“No you’re not.” He moved the covers on the bed and sat in front of me. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t even know!” I said, half laughing, half crying, finally revealing my watery eyes. “I don’t. Really. I don’t.”
“What’s a word for how you’re feeling?”
“Frustrated.” I reached for a kleenex.
“Why?”
I recounted the story of the coffee, the unmade pot, the unwashed mugs, the unfilled container, the spilled sugar, the spilled coffee… “But, I don’t know, I mean, that shit happens to me all the time. I don’t know why I’m so upset…” I trailed off.
“Is it the zit?”
I have a pimple the size of fucking France on my face right now. It’s been there since Friday, but, until now, it’s been all but invisible. Resting squarely between my lip and my nose, it hurts with every smile, every frown, every move of my mouth. It’s deep, rooted somewhere miles below the surface of my skin, which is why no one but me even knew it was there. Until last night, when I decided it was ready to be picked on. Which was a bad move on my part. Because although I did relieve some of the pressure, I really only served to make it red and obvious. This is very bad. This morning, staring back at me from the mirror was, not my face, but an angry red bruise. It’s all I can see. And it still sort of hurts. But what hurts me more is the way it looks. Yeah, I’m vain. So what.
“Well, it doesn’t help,” I said, my bottom lip quivering uncontrollably. “And now I’m going to have puffy eyes from crying over nothing,” I continued, throwing my hands up in helplessness.
“Well I think you’re beautiful,” he said, kissing me gently on the mouth.
“Thanks.” My voice was barely above a whisper, my eyes stared down at my makeup bag. I was embarrassed and sad and frustrated. And I knew I was overreacting, but I couldn’t stop it.
After his shower, when he entered the room to find me dressing, my posture told him that I felt sad and dejected. He waited for me to notice him. “It’s just a zit, babe," he said. "And you can’t even see it anymore.”
I must admit, I’m a whiz with the makeup. I had made it pretty much disappear. But I still knew it was there. I felt gross.
“I know,” I said, pulling my shirt on over my head. “But I just don’t feel very…sexy.”
“You are sexy,” he said, pulling me to him. “Always.” He bent down to kiss me, but stopped. “I assume I’m not allowed to kiss you, huh? To preserve the makeup?”
“You can kiss me,” I said, “but gently.”
And he did.
We parted ways for the day, and when I got to work, I noticed a text message from him. Our exchange was quick and funny, just a short set of messages. That’s it. But they said what I needed to hear. And they made me laugh. In essence, he took my hand, helped me up and dusted me off from the fall. And I needed that. Desperately
And I love that, when I need him, he’s there for me. Even though I’m too proud to admit that I need him to help me put me together sometimes, he’s there. Without my asking, without my urging. Because he knows I need it. And it’s in those moments when I realize that I’m wasting my time, questioning and worrying and fretting over Us and The Present Tense and Does He Feel The Same and all of my typical insecurity-induced quandaries. It takes energy to help me up, even if the thing that got me down was something small, and that’s what you do when you love someone. And that’s what he did for me.
Some days, despite the fact that things aren’t going my way, I just feel lucky.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
The State of the Union
I'm not sure I believe in forever anymore. I know it sounds pessimistic, and harsh, and overall negative, but I just don't know.
I was going through my old email account yesterday, the one I've used since before my 20th birthday. It's 68% full of emails dating back to 2001. In an effort to do some long overdue housekeeping, I clicked on a folder I didn't even recognize to empty it. As the screen loaded, I saw what it was: My ex's full name stared back at me, over and over; a full page worth of emails that he had sent in a month's time. It was from back in 2003, when we were getting back together after a breakup. Our reunion is documented through these emails: My reticence, and his promises to be a better boyfriend. Along with promises to love me forever.
That was just over two years ago. My, how brief forever can be. It's not that I'm saying I wish it had worked out with him. I'm grateful that my relationship with him led me to where I am now. I'm a better girlfriend, a better person because of my relationship with him. Sure, I came out of it with some work to do on myself, but overall, it's made me more patient, more understanding, less unrelenting, more willing to give. But we were both so sure that this was forever. And it wasn't. Not even close.
The emails are peppered with phrases like "I can't wait to wake up to you every morning," and I look back at it now, knowing the emotion behind it was forgotten mere months after it was written. Promises of a future, a family, the love I was denied being paid to me. You're my life, I love you so much, I want to spend forever with you. And now I don't know where he is - hell, I don't even know him now - and I'm waking up to Billy every morning. Look where those promises got me.
It makes me fret, prematurely, in my relationship with Billy. Maybe forever to him means a few months, too. But we haven't even discussed forever. I'm too afraid to bring it up. Not to mention that I feel it's too soon to wade into that subject (another thing I brought with me out of my last relationship: A concept of too soon.). But, to me, it doesn't matter anyway. He could tell me anything, and I'll still believe it's only a matter of time before he changes his mind.
That's why fights bother me so much, why a slight chill in his voice is enough to make me believe he's through with me. Because, for me, forever isn't a reality. I know that, in doubt like this, I should look at examples of success, not my own proof of failure. I should look at my parents, 34 years and going strong. My grandparents on both sides. The way my dad's father kissed my grandmother when she lay in her coffin the day of her funeral. How he kissed her on each cheek and the lips and said goodbye, just as he had done before work every morning for the 50-odd years they were married before she died. The way my mom's mom has missed her husband every day since he passed away seven years ago. The way she still talks about him. I should think about that. But when I do, I just see it as something I won't be lucky enough to have.
My masochistic curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to read through a few of the emails he had sent me. He had just shown me the house be bought for us. And he explained his purchase, saying "I guess it's just my way of showing you that I'm not going anywhere, that you can count on me not to flee now or anytime in the future."
I put a lot of faith in what people say to me. Or I used to, I guess. You tell me you love me, that you're going to stay around forever, then I believe you. I think you're being honest. And you probably are. But I don't depend on the changing of your mind, I depend on your sticking to the statement you just made.
And so I put all of my faith in what he said. And I wonder why I'm so scared now, of bringing up the future, of believing in one at all, and then I see that and I remember: I feel like I was lied to. Like all he said was said just to keep me around until he'd had enough. And who knows? Maybe that's all anyone does. We don't know for sure how long we're going to love someone. We don't know, unequivocally, that we're going to stay enamored of them, hopelessly infatuated, attracted to, in love with the people we share "I love you"s with right now. There's no way.
Which makes me miserable.
It comes down to faith: How much faith you have in your relationship, in your partner, but - mostly - in yourself. And I guess I lost mine somewhere along the line. I just don't believe anymore. And I counsel myself: Just be happy right now. Don't concentrate on the future, just enjoy what you have while you have it. Is that sick, or hopelessly self-destructive? I don't know.
But when it comes down to it, it's not an issue of whether or not Billy and I will last for forever. It's an issue of me believing that he loves me in the here and now. And, that, I believe.
I was going through my old email account yesterday, the one I've used since before my 20th birthday. It's 68% full of emails dating back to 2001. In an effort to do some long overdue housekeeping, I clicked on a folder I didn't even recognize to empty it. As the screen loaded, I saw what it was: My ex's full name stared back at me, over and over; a full page worth of emails that he had sent in a month's time. It was from back in 2003, when we were getting back together after a breakup. Our reunion is documented through these emails: My reticence, and his promises to be a better boyfriend. Along with promises to love me forever.
That was just over two years ago. My, how brief forever can be. It's not that I'm saying I wish it had worked out with him. I'm grateful that my relationship with him led me to where I am now. I'm a better girlfriend, a better person because of my relationship with him. Sure, I came out of it with some work to do on myself, but overall, it's made me more patient, more understanding, less unrelenting, more willing to give. But we were both so sure that this was forever. And it wasn't. Not even close.
The emails are peppered with phrases like "I can't wait to wake up to you every morning," and I look back at it now, knowing the emotion behind it was forgotten mere months after it was written. Promises of a future, a family, the love I was denied being paid to me. You're my life, I love you so much, I want to spend forever with you. And now I don't know where he is - hell, I don't even know him now - and I'm waking up to Billy every morning. Look where those promises got me.
It makes me fret, prematurely, in my relationship with Billy. Maybe forever to him means a few months, too. But we haven't even discussed forever. I'm too afraid to bring it up. Not to mention that I feel it's too soon to wade into that subject (another thing I brought with me out of my last relationship: A concept of too soon.). But, to me, it doesn't matter anyway. He could tell me anything, and I'll still believe it's only a matter of time before he changes his mind.
That's why fights bother me so much, why a slight chill in his voice is enough to make me believe he's through with me. Because, for me, forever isn't a reality. I know that, in doubt like this, I should look at examples of success, not my own proof of failure. I should look at my parents, 34 years and going strong. My grandparents on both sides. The way my dad's father kissed my grandmother when she lay in her coffin the day of her funeral. How he kissed her on each cheek and the lips and said goodbye, just as he had done before work every morning for the 50-odd years they were married before she died. The way my mom's mom has missed her husband every day since he passed away seven years ago. The way she still talks about him. I should think about that. But when I do, I just see it as something I won't be lucky enough to have.
My masochistic curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to read through a few of the emails he had sent me. He had just shown me the house be bought for us. And he explained his purchase, saying "I guess it's just my way of showing you that I'm not going anywhere, that you can count on me not to flee now or anytime in the future."
I put a lot of faith in what people say to me. Or I used to, I guess. You tell me you love me, that you're going to stay around forever, then I believe you. I think you're being honest. And you probably are. But I don't depend on the changing of your mind, I depend on your sticking to the statement you just made.
And so I put all of my faith in what he said. And I wonder why I'm so scared now, of bringing up the future, of believing in one at all, and then I see that and I remember: I feel like I was lied to. Like all he said was said just to keep me around until he'd had enough. And who knows? Maybe that's all anyone does. We don't know for sure how long we're going to love someone. We don't know, unequivocally, that we're going to stay enamored of them, hopelessly infatuated, attracted to, in love with the people we share "I love you"s with right now. There's no way.
Which makes me miserable.
It comes down to faith: How much faith you have in your relationship, in your partner, but - mostly - in yourself. And I guess I lost mine somewhere along the line. I just don't believe anymore. And I counsel myself: Just be happy right now. Don't concentrate on the future, just enjoy what you have while you have it. Is that sick, or hopelessly self-destructive? I don't know.
But when it comes down to it, it's not an issue of whether or not Billy and I will last for forever. It's an issue of me believing that he loves me in the here and now. And, that, I believe.
Friday, June 23, 2006
New York City Bar
"You wanna get a drink while we're here?" Billy said, adjusting his coat. I glanced over at the bar, at the one chair at the end.
"Sure." I was unsure, uncomfortable. Being in big cities always makes me feel like a country bumpkin. Like I should be chewing straw and missing my teeth.
Billy ordered for us and excused himself to the restroom.
"Is this seat taken?" I asked softly, placing my hand gingerly onto the back of a vacant chair next to a man with his back to me.
He turned around, looked me over. He smiled and pushed the seat toward me. "It's all yours. But I'm warning you, if you sit in it, I may ask you to marry me."
I giggled and sat in the chair. "Well, I'll take that chance. I'm short on marriage proposals these days."
"God. You smell terrific," he said, his hands around his small glass of dark liquor.
"That's horrible." I said, my voice disappointed. "'You smell terrific'? Can't you come up with something better?" He laughed.
He was much older than me, probably in his fifties. "Nah. It's the truth. What is that?"
"Well, it could be the perfume I put on at eight this morning, about twelve hours ago. Or it could be my apple gum." I wasn't shutting him down, I was engaging in banter. It felt good.
"What's the perfume?"
"Chanel, Chance."
He considered it. "I don't know which one it is. But you smell great. And you're so beautiful. God. Your boyfriend is a lucky man." I laughed and accepted the glass of wine the bartender placed in front of me. "And look at that smile," he said. He slapped the much younger man to his left on the arm. "Great orthodontia."
"Or orthodontics," countered the new stranger.
"Nope. This is all natural, baby," I said, circling my mouth with my finger.
I learned that the two men were father and son. They were funny. They were good conversationalists. While Billy spoke with a waitress about her art, I spoke to the guys, trading jabs and sipping my wine, delighting in the attention from strangers.
And it was peculiar, how wonderful I felt about myself. A little bit of attention and I'm off and running. Suddenly, I didn't feel so countrified. So hopelessly outclassed. I felt desirable and good.
And the weird thing is, it doesn't matter who the attention comes from. Sometimes, a girl just needs to feel wanted.
"Sure." I was unsure, uncomfortable. Being in big cities always makes me feel like a country bumpkin. Like I should be chewing straw and missing my teeth.
Billy ordered for us and excused himself to the restroom.
"Is this seat taken?" I asked softly, placing my hand gingerly onto the back of a vacant chair next to a man with his back to me.
He turned around, looked me over. He smiled and pushed the seat toward me. "It's all yours. But I'm warning you, if you sit in it, I may ask you to marry me."
I giggled and sat in the chair. "Well, I'll take that chance. I'm short on marriage proposals these days."
"God. You smell terrific," he said, his hands around his small glass of dark liquor.
"That's horrible." I said, my voice disappointed. "'You smell terrific'? Can't you come up with something better?" He laughed.
He was much older than me, probably in his fifties. "Nah. It's the truth. What is that?"
"Well, it could be the perfume I put on at eight this morning, about twelve hours ago. Or it could be my apple gum." I wasn't shutting him down, I was engaging in banter. It felt good.
"What's the perfume?"
"Chanel, Chance."
He considered it. "I don't know which one it is. But you smell great. And you're so beautiful. God. Your boyfriend is a lucky man." I laughed and accepted the glass of wine the bartender placed in front of me. "And look at that smile," he said. He slapped the much younger man to his left on the arm. "Great orthodontia."
"Or orthodontics," countered the new stranger.
"Nope. This is all natural, baby," I said, circling my mouth with my finger.
I learned that the two men were father and son. They were funny. They were good conversationalists. While Billy spoke with a waitress about her art, I spoke to the guys, trading jabs and sipping my wine, delighting in the attention from strangers.
And it was peculiar, how wonderful I felt about myself. A little bit of attention and I'm off and running. Suddenly, I didn't feel so countrified. So hopelessly outclassed. I felt desirable and good.
And the weird thing is, it doesn't matter who the attention comes from. Sometimes, a girl just needs to feel wanted.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Grievances
It’s that time of year. Time for my annual gynecologist appointment! I don’t know about all women, but my allegiance to my very personal doctor is strong. I’ve gone to my gynecologist ever since I moved to Milford. I may only see him once a year, but he sees more of me than even Billy sees. But when I went to call him for my checkup, I saw that his name was no longer announced by the office in which he ordinarily worked. I figured he’d gone and opened a private practice, so I called my old coworker, who also visited the same guy, and asked her where he was and how I could get in touch with him.
“You didn’t hear?” She said.
I immediately worried. Sex scandal? Sued by a patient like Annabella Sciorra's character in The Hand that Rocks the Cradle for touching her inappropriately? Disbarred (if they do that to doctors)? Stripped of his license? Gone crazy? What? “No,” I replied hesitantly, unsure that I wanted the answer. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“He’s gone,” she began, her smile audible in her voice. “He’s working for NASA now. He’s going to – get this – become an astrophysicist.”
To say I was surprised would be a drastic understatement. “An astrophysicist?”
“Yeah. He’s a working as a doctor for NASA now while he goes to school so that he can do, you know, whatever an astrophysicist does.”
How random is that? My gynecologist got so sick of seeing vaginas on a daily basis that he’s going to NASA. And he now hopes to study outer-space. I could make a very off-color joke about black holes and ASStrophysics, but I’ll spare you the gross humor.
On another, completely unrelated, note, this is week is, apparently, National Slow Driver week. I mean, there’s nothing on my calendar that says that, and I haven’t heard it on the news or anything, but I’m pretty sure it is. Because that’s the only explanation for the fact that every goddamn time I’ve driven anywhere since Monday, I get stuck behind someone going at least ten miles under the already-too-slow speed limit.
I may have mentioned this before, but I’ll spare myself the look through the archives and just explain it again – just in case. My drive to work is roughly 23 minutes, on a long, winding road that is referred to not as a highway or street, but a Route. At any rate, it’s long and stretches between my house and my place of employment, flanked by forests and state land on either side. A long, solid, foreboding yellow Do Not Pass line snakes through the center of the road, save for only two hopelessly short sections of dashed line that tell you it’s okay to scoot around the asshole in front of you. Literally, these sections are about five car-lengths long; Whatever the bare-minimum is for a passing zone: That’s what these sections are. They come toward the end of my ride, too, when I’m less than two miles away from work. So when I turn onto the Route I take to work, and see that I’ve unfortunately landed behind some dump truck/construction vehicle/school bus/old person, I know I’m fucked. And that’s what’s happened, EVERY DAY, TO AND FROM WORK, this week. I kid you not. And, Tuesday, as I eyeballed the handicapped New Jersey plate that belonged to the two old geezers that just HAD to pull out in front of me on my way home (even though there were no cars behind me at the time), I noticed that an SUV was coming up behind me, full-throttle. When the driver of the Mercedes got close enough to my car so that he could smell my perfume, s/he began to weave around, sort of attempting to nuzzle my bumper with his own, in an effort, I guess, to see if I was the reason for the big hold up. Because that meant he could hate me. And I did not want to be held accountable for our snail’s pace. I even sort of drifted to the shoulder to show him “hey, not it, buddy. Look, it’s them, not me. I want to go fast, too. I'm like you. Don’t blame me for the fact that we’re doing 40 in a 55.” And saying we were doing 40 was being generous. That’s the top speed we reached when coasting down a hill, before Ma & Pa Kettle ahead of me hit their brakes to harness the out-of-control momentum of their speeding Buick. They were the sort of drivers who, even given their ridiculously slow driving, chose to brake around turns and slow almost to a stop when encountering a cross-road of any kind. You know, just in case. Cleary, Mr. or Mrs. Mercedes behind me had had enough of this, because, out of nowhere, the Mercedes was suddenly beside me. In a no-passing zone. On a curve. And a hill. Now, PA has a law, for some ridiculous reason, that says you can pass in a no-passing-zone, so long as there isn’t a sign there that says “No Passing.” So, really, the yellow lines that we’re all taught mean “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT PASSING HERE” really mean absolutely nothing. It’s the teeny tiny sideways-triangle sign that says “No passing” to which we really must pay attention. But I don’t risk it, ever. Because my SUV is only powered by 4-Cylinders, which means it doesn’t have a whole lotta get-up-and-go, if you know what I mean, especially up hills and the like. Besides, you never know how fast someone is barreling around the next corner. And because that whole sign thing is very vague. If you see that sign that tells you to obey the lines, how long until the sign’s like, “Okay. It’s alright. You can ignore the yellow line now. I’m tired of policing you people”? I mean, where does the sign’s authority run out? I don’t know. So I don’t do it until I see those friendly little dashes.
So, anyway. Mercedes beside me, solid yellow line, around a curve on a hill. And I, for the record, am very close to the geezer in front of me. Because, obviously, the closer I get to his ass, the more time I save. Duh. Anyway. The three of us are driving along, (uncomfortably, I might add) and I look ahead of the geezers. CARS! Coming toward us! The Mercedes punches his accelerator only to realize there’s no way he’s going to get ahead of both of us without slamming head-first into the angry dump truck that's looking right at him. So what does he do? He nearly removes my front bumper and squeezes between me & the geezer. So now, he’s still going slow, but at least he's not the last in line. And I guess his near head-on collision scared Mr. Mercedes, because that’s where he stayed for the remainder of the drive home. Going not a mile faster than he was originally. Yet an exponentially bigger asshole. Good move.
On yet another, marginally related, note, I love my Sirius satellite radio. I mean, really. I LOVE it. Like, I'd marry it and have its little computerized babies if I could. But I can't, so I'll just say that I love it so much that I would never give it up. Ever. In all seriousness, I can never go back to regular radio in my car. Ever. I’m forced to listen to regular radio in the house, and it drives me nuts. Because, in the half-hour or so that I spend getting ready, I hear probably twenty minutes of commercials, one song, and maybe five minutes of entertaining talk. I hate it. Plus, everything’s so censored. All the talk is so vanilla and they're forced to double-entendre their way through jokes, instead of being able to reference things outright. I hate that I can’t hear a rapper say “ass” in a song. Because, really, what is rap without references to supple rear ends? So, yeah, I love my satellite. Because, not only do I live completely without commercials in my music, but I can hear the word “fuck.” And there’s just something comforting about that.
But, there’s a problem. A big problem. And it only happens in summer. It's the leaves on the towering trees that surround the winding country roads that I have to take to get ANYWHERE: They block out my signal. Not constantly or anything, just randomly. So listening to talk radio, I hear: “Eh….ra….mmm……………n….li….” and so on, for at least a minute. Then it snaps into full reception. But around any turn, under any tree, I run the risk of losing it again. Which is possibly the most frustrating thing that can happen on my morning commute. My reaction to this is very visceral, because I almost always lose the signal right at the punchline of a joke, or some very important celebrity gossip, or during my favorite part of any given song. So this anger sort of swells in my chest, making me feel tight all over. And I grip the steering wheel and glare at my Sirius receiver and yell, "OH, COME ON!" in my meanest voice. As if that will bring back the reception. I'll intimidate it into working. Because that always works, due to my severe badassness. Anyway, this rarely works anyway, and really only occurs if I'm in a bad mood. Which is bound to happen if I’m stuck behind someone slow.
In an effort by the universe to make all of my most irritating factors bombard me on ONE day, today, the heavens opened as I drove into work. The rain was slamming into my windshield and I drove - 20 miles per hour below the speed limit - behind a “Caution: Construction Vehicle” signed dump truck while my radio’s signal came and went. Despite the fact that I left for work early, I still managed to be late. Upon getting here, I made an appointment with a new gynecologist, who I’ve never met. But this time, it’s a woman. “You’ll like her,” said the referring ex-coworker, the same one who told me about the other OB/GYN’s move into astrophysics. “She’s Croatian or Serbian. Something like that. One of your country-men!” But what she may not know is that it's important to know where exactly she's from. Because some Serbs and Croats hate each other. Vehemently. I’m not one of them, because I was born and raised here. But she may be, because she was born over there. So I need to know which part she's from. And I know I'll want to ask her about it, and then I'll want to relate to her by saying "My family's from the former Yugoslavia, too!" Then she'd ask which part, and I'd say Serbia, and she'd be all "Oh really? I'm from Croatia," in a clipped tone and then push me down to start my exam. And then, I may have the most scathing pap smear of my life. And I almost wanted to ask over the phone, when I made my appointment, what her nationality was. Just in case. But I didn't. So now I have that to look forward to. Then I realized that the little lift on the bottom of my high heel fell off somewhere between my house and work. Which means the metal stake that makes up my stiletto and supports nearly all of my weight with every step I take, is sticking out of the bottom of my shoe. Not only does it really look tacky, but it makes this horrible nails-on-a-chalkboard type screech everytime I walk across the tiled floor here at work. This is the worst thing that can happen to a shoe lover like me. Because now I have to take these, my favorite pair of shoes, to the Cobbler to get them fixed, but he's only open a few days a week. Which means I'll have to go without these shoes for at least three days. This is very sad to me. Very sad, indeed.
It's like all the planets aligned to make me as uncomfortable as possible today. I'm just waiting for today to be over.
“You didn’t hear?” She said.
I immediately worried. Sex scandal? Sued by a patient like Annabella Sciorra's character in The Hand that Rocks the Cradle for touching her inappropriately? Disbarred (if they do that to doctors)? Stripped of his license? Gone crazy? What? “No,” I replied hesitantly, unsure that I wanted the answer. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“He’s gone,” she began, her smile audible in her voice. “He’s working for NASA now. He’s going to – get this – become an astrophysicist.”
To say I was surprised would be a drastic understatement. “An astrophysicist?”
“Yeah. He’s a working as a doctor for NASA now while he goes to school so that he can do, you know, whatever an astrophysicist does.”
How random is that? My gynecologist got so sick of seeing vaginas on a daily basis that he’s going to NASA. And he now hopes to study outer-space. I could make a very off-color joke about black holes and ASStrophysics, but I’ll spare you the gross humor.
On another, completely unrelated, note, this is week is, apparently, National Slow Driver week. I mean, there’s nothing on my calendar that says that, and I haven’t heard it on the news or anything, but I’m pretty sure it is. Because that’s the only explanation for the fact that every goddamn time I’ve driven anywhere since Monday, I get stuck behind someone going at least ten miles under the already-too-slow speed limit.
I may have mentioned this before, but I’ll spare myself the look through the archives and just explain it again – just in case. My drive to work is roughly 23 minutes, on a long, winding road that is referred to not as a highway or street, but a Route. At any rate, it’s long and stretches between my house and my place of employment, flanked by forests and state land on either side. A long, solid, foreboding yellow Do Not Pass line snakes through the center of the road, save for only two hopelessly short sections of dashed line that tell you it’s okay to scoot around the asshole in front of you. Literally, these sections are about five car-lengths long; Whatever the bare-minimum is for a passing zone: That’s what these sections are. They come toward the end of my ride, too, when I’m less than two miles away from work. So when I turn onto the Route I take to work, and see that I’ve unfortunately landed behind some dump truck/construction vehicle/school bus/old person, I know I’m fucked. And that’s what’s happened, EVERY DAY, TO AND FROM WORK, this week. I kid you not. And, Tuesday, as I eyeballed the handicapped New Jersey plate that belonged to the two old geezers that just HAD to pull out in front of me on my way home (even though there were no cars behind me at the time), I noticed that an SUV was coming up behind me, full-throttle. When the driver of the Mercedes got close enough to my car so that he could smell my perfume, s/he began to weave around, sort of attempting to nuzzle my bumper with his own, in an effort, I guess, to see if I was the reason for the big hold up. Because that meant he could hate me. And I did not want to be held accountable for our snail’s pace. I even sort of drifted to the shoulder to show him “hey, not it, buddy. Look, it’s them, not me. I want to go fast, too. I'm like you. Don’t blame me for the fact that we’re doing 40 in a 55.” And saying we were doing 40 was being generous. That’s the top speed we reached when coasting down a hill, before Ma & Pa Kettle ahead of me hit their brakes to harness the out-of-control momentum of their speeding Buick. They were the sort of drivers who, even given their ridiculously slow driving, chose to brake around turns and slow almost to a stop when encountering a cross-road of any kind. You know, just in case. Cleary, Mr. or Mrs. Mercedes behind me had had enough of this, because, out of nowhere, the Mercedes was suddenly beside me. In a no-passing zone. On a curve. And a hill. Now, PA has a law, for some ridiculous reason, that says you can pass in a no-passing-zone, so long as there isn’t a sign there that says “No Passing.” So, really, the yellow lines that we’re all taught mean “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT PASSING HERE” really mean absolutely nothing. It’s the teeny tiny sideways-triangle sign that says “No passing” to which we really must pay attention. But I don’t risk it, ever. Because my SUV is only powered by 4-Cylinders, which means it doesn’t have a whole lotta get-up-and-go, if you know what I mean, especially up hills and the like. Besides, you never know how fast someone is barreling around the next corner. And because that whole sign thing is very vague. If you see that sign that tells you to obey the lines, how long until the sign’s like, “Okay. It’s alright. You can ignore the yellow line now. I’m tired of policing you people”? I mean, where does the sign’s authority run out? I don’t know. So I don’t do it until I see those friendly little dashes.
So, anyway. Mercedes beside me, solid yellow line, around a curve on a hill. And I, for the record, am very close to the geezer in front of me. Because, obviously, the closer I get to his ass, the more time I save. Duh. Anyway. The three of us are driving along, (uncomfortably, I might add) and I look ahead of the geezers. CARS! Coming toward us! The Mercedes punches his accelerator only to realize there’s no way he’s going to get ahead of both of us without slamming head-first into the angry dump truck that's looking right at him. So what does he do? He nearly removes my front bumper and squeezes between me & the geezer. So now, he’s still going slow, but at least he's not the last in line. And I guess his near head-on collision scared Mr. Mercedes, because that’s where he stayed for the remainder of the drive home. Going not a mile faster than he was originally. Yet an exponentially bigger asshole. Good move.
On yet another, marginally related, note, I love my Sirius satellite radio. I mean, really. I LOVE it. Like, I'd marry it and have its little computerized babies if I could. But I can't, so I'll just say that I love it so much that I would never give it up. Ever. In all seriousness, I can never go back to regular radio in my car. Ever. I’m forced to listen to regular radio in the house, and it drives me nuts. Because, in the half-hour or so that I spend getting ready, I hear probably twenty minutes of commercials, one song, and maybe five minutes of entertaining talk. I hate it. Plus, everything’s so censored. All the talk is so vanilla and they're forced to double-entendre their way through jokes, instead of being able to reference things outright. I hate that I can’t hear a rapper say “ass” in a song. Because, really, what is rap without references to supple rear ends? So, yeah, I love my satellite. Because, not only do I live completely without commercials in my music, but I can hear the word “fuck.” And there’s just something comforting about that.
But, there’s a problem. A big problem. And it only happens in summer. It's the leaves on the towering trees that surround the winding country roads that I have to take to get ANYWHERE: They block out my signal. Not constantly or anything, just randomly. So listening to talk radio, I hear: “Eh….ra….mmm……………n….li….” and so on, for at least a minute. Then it snaps into full reception. But around any turn, under any tree, I run the risk of losing it again. Which is possibly the most frustrating thing that can happen on my morning commute. My reaction to this is very visceral, because I almost always lose the signal right at the punchline of a joke, or some very important celebrity gossip, or during my favorite part of any given song. So this anger sort of swells in my chest, making me feel tight all over. And I grip the steering wheel and glare at my Sirius receiver and yell, "OH, COME ON!" in my meanest voice. As if that will bring back the reception. I'll intimidate it into working. Because that always works, due to my severe badassness. Anyway, this rarely works anyway, and really only occurs if I'm in a bad mood. Which is bound to happen if I’m stuck behind someone slow.
In an effort by the universe to make all of my most irritating factors bombard me on ONE day, today, the heavens opened as I drove into work. The rain was slamming into my windshield and I drove - 20 miles per hour below the speed limit - behind a “Caution: Construction Vehicle” signed dump truck while my radio’s signal came and went. Despite the fact that I left for work early, I still managed to be late. Upon getting here, I made an appointment with a new gynecologist, who I’ve never met. But this time, it’s a woman. “You’ll like her,” said the referring ex-coworker, the same one who told me about the other OB/GYN’s move into astrophysics. “She’s Croatian or Serbian. Something like that. One of your country-men!” But what she may not know is that it's important to know where exactly she's from. Because some Serbs and Croats hate each other. Vehemently. I’m not one of them, because I was born and raised here. But she may be, because she was born over there. So I need to know which part she's from. And I know I'll want to ask her about it, and then I'll want to relate to her by saying "My family's from the former Yugoslavia, too!" Then she'd ask which part, and I'd say Serbia, and she'd be all "Oh really? I'm from Croatia," in a clipped tone and then push me down to start my exam. And then, I may have the most scathing pap smear of my life. And I almost wanted to ask over the phone, when I made my appointment, what her nationality was. Just in case. But I didn't. So now I have that to look forward to. Then I realized that the little lift on the bottom of my high heel fell off somewhere between my house and work. Which means the metal stake that makes up my stiletto and supports nearly all of my weight with every step I take, is sticking out of the bottom of my shoe. Not only does it really look tacky, but it makes this horrible nails-on-a-chalkboard type screech everytime I walk across the tiled floor here at work. This is the worst thing that can happen to a shoe lover like me. Because now I have to take these, my favorite pair of shoes, to the Cobbler to get them fixed, but he's only open a few days a week. Which means I'll have to go without these shoes for at least three days. This is very sad to me. Very sad, indeed.
It's like all the planets aligned to make me as uncomfortable as possible today. I'm just waiting for today to be over.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Remains
Hot. Humid. Thick. That's the air when, abruptly and without warning, Belize goes still. Wind gushes off of the ocean directly through the seaside village of Placencia, brushing residents and tourists with cool hands, forever ruffling hair and tossing napkins from tables and bars. But, from time to time, the wind stops, mid-blow, as if second guessing herself. "Wait. Is this too much?" she says, forcing palm trees to finally stand at attention. And, in the wake of her sudden uncertainty, your world stops. You feel every molecule of the heat, its syrupy texture as you move through it. You are suddenly aware of the stickiness on your skin about which you, just seconds ago, had forgotten. The wind, she made you feel smooth, soft. Sand, the gritty handfuls of it that cover every walked-upon surface, radiates and tosses up at you the heat it's been holding all day, as though it had been waiting for just this moment. And you cease to move, unwilling to exert yourself, holding your body still, suspended in mid-action, just waiting for the stillness to pass. And, just as quickly as she paused, the wind begins again, shaking the thick waxy leaves of tropical trees, rustling the palms, soothing away the sweat that just begun to form on your upper lip. You resume eating, talking, reaching, walking...Whatever it was you were doing before you slammed head-first into the thickness of the heat.
When you're not in the middle of the wind's gusts, when you're stuck in the awkward shift from westward to eastward, you feel grimy, oil-covered, slick. You notice the sweat that's accumulated on your glass of cococut rum and pineapple juice. Your hands, even though you only just washed them, feel dirty, as though covered with food or sand or salt; Remains of the wind. And you curse, wiping your palms on your pants. "This wind," you say, shaking your head and searching your fingers for visible dirt. "It's driving me crazy."
But she doesn't drive you crazy. She's comforting. You hear her constantly, nudging lazy waves to shore, shaking loose palm fronds, rattling a tin ashtray - She's everywhere, the subtext of every conversation, the soundtrack to your every action, in the soft cadence of the locals' accent. She slams closed the doors you carelessly left open. She plays practical jokes on you and your fellow diners, extinguishing the flame of lighters every time someone attempts to light a cigarette. Click-click-click, you hear as one smoker after another attempts to light up. They change positions, curl their fingers around their Bics. Click. They shift their shoulders to block her out. She giggles and circles them, rendering their cupped hands and hearty shoulders useless. When she's finally bored of this to and fro, she relents; lets you light.
She sings you to sleep each of the ten nights that you crawl - sunkissed and still warm - into bed, windows open to her. She greets you when you wake, pushing your skirt ahead of you as you walk across the sand courtyard from your hotel room to the restaurant to make your coffee. She turns the pages in the books you read on the porch. She tricked you into thinking you weren't getting burned by her big brother, the sun. But she kept the bugs away from your heat-rashed arms.
She was in your every step. She was with you at every dinner. She cooled your forehead and soothed your sunburn. And when it came time to board a plane and leave your boyfriend in Belize, while you flew home to America, she invited you to use her as an alibi for your watery eyes.
And you were grateful for her; For her soft caress on your moist arms, for her gentle touch, for her constant company. Just as you reach the top of the stairs that will take you into a plane and away from this country, she embraces you one last time, and howls goodbye.
When you're not in the middle of the wind's gusts, when you're stuck in the awkward shift from westward to eastward, you feel grimy, oil-covered, slick. You notice the sweat that's accumulated on your glass of cococut rum and pineapple juice. Your hands, even though you only just washed them, feel dirty, as though covered with food or sand or salt; Remains of the wind. And you curse, wiping your palms on your pants. "This wind," you say, shaking your head and searching your fingers for visible dirt. "It's driving me crazy."
But she doesn't drive you crazy. She's comforting. You hear her constantly, nudging lazy waves to shore, shaking loose palm fronds, rattling a tin ashtray - She's everywhere, the subtext of every conversation, the soundtrack to your every action, in the soft cadence of the locals' accent. She slams closed the doors you carelessly left open. She plays practical jokes on you and your fellow diners, extinguishing the flame of lighters every time someone attempts to light a cigarette. Click-click-click, you hear as one smoker after another attempts to light up. They change positions, curl their fingers around their Bics. Click. They shift their shoulders to block her out. She giggles and circles them, rendering their cupped hands and hearty shoulders useless. When she's finally bored of this to and fro, she relents; lets you light.
She sings you to sleep each of the ten nights that you crawl - sunkissed and still warm - into bed, windows open to her. She greets you when you wake, pushing your skirt ahead of you as you walk across the sand courtyard from your hotel room to the restaurant to make your coffee. She turns the pages in the books you read on the porch. She tricked you into thinking you weren't getting burned by her big brother, the sun. But she kept the bugs away from your heat-rashed arms.
She was in your every step. She was with you at every dinner. She cooled your forehead and soothed your sunburn. And when it came time to board a plane and leave your boyfriend in Belize, while you flew home to America, she invited you to use her as an alibi for your watery eyes.
And you were grateful for her; For her soft caress on your moist arms, for her gentle touch, for her constant company. Just as you reach the top of the stairs that will take you into a plane and away from this country, she embraces you one last time, and howls goodbye.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
You Asked for It: Part Deux
Aaaaannnndddd....Picking up where we left off:
Onairelav asks: "When are you coming to visit?! ;) What's your favorite coffee? What's your favorite thing to do on a Saturday morning?"
Question one: If I had my way, TOMORROW! But, sadly, it will probably be a while before that happens. Although, Billy and I were talking about taking a trip to Louisville to visit my incredible grandmother. I don't know if it will actually happen, but we were talking about it.
Question two: My favorite coffee to make at home is Starbucks French Roast. It's an "extra bold" blend that manages to be crazy dark, yet still not bitter. If our Super Wal Mart happens to be out of French, though, I'll buy the Italian Roast, though that one tends to be just a touch more bitter. You must understand, though, that when I make coffee, I don't even measure. I just dump enough grounds in the maker to be sure it's crazy extra strong. My old boss joked that you can chew my coffee. But I'm a big fan of cream and sugar, so the bolder the coffee, the more I can taste it through all of my accoutrements.
Question three: My favorite thing to do on Saturday morning (assuming I don't have to work) is this: Wake up to no alarm, turn on the TV. Watch TV for a few minutes, then go downstairs and make coffee. Bring the coffee back upstairs and crawl back into bed. Smoke my first cigarette of the day, coffee in hand, while watching VH1's Top 20 Countdown and Best Week Ever. After I've been sufficiently lazy, I like to do laundry and clean up a bit, then get in the shower, get gussied up, and go shopping. But, if I'm off on a Saturday, I rarely leave the house before 2:00 in the afternoon. Billy works on Saturdays, but, if he didn't, you could just add some couple activities to the morning I described.
Scoot asked: "Why did you stop emailing me?"
Because I'm a horrible bitch. No, actually, Mr. Scoot, I recall the email ceasing when they revoked our internet privileges at my old job, then it started, briefly, when I got to my new job...And then it just...stopped. I think, as two mature adults, we should agree that we share responsibility for the stopped emails. Or, back to point A, I'm just a horrible bitch.
Bodidarma asks: "What's it like to be 25?"
Awesome. Seriously awesome. I love this age, but I was never a hanger-on to my youth. I think finally being in mid-twenties is right where I want to be. I like getting older, no longer being subjected to comments like "You're just a baby," or "When you're older." I mean, I still get those, but being twenty five lets me make assertions with some degree of authority. I love it.
Paul asks: "Do you believe in God? If so, do you pray often? What is your idea of heaven? If there is a God, and He/She is responsible for all that is good in the world does that mean He/She is responsible for all the bad things (famine, war, floods, diseases, etc.) in the world? Once a person dies do you think they have the ability to affect a living persons life? On a lighter side: Crest or Colgate?"
Wow. Okay. To begin...Do I believe in God? Yes, I believe that there is some force greater than us out there. Do I believe it's an old white man with a long beard in a flowing robe? Not necessarily. It could be a woman, it could be any race. It could be anything. No one knows - or will know - until we see it for ourselves. I was raised with no particular religion; My dad is Methodist, my mom is Orthodox. I was christened Methodist, and we went to Orthodox services a few times. But I went to a Baptist school for a period of time (we were in the south - there are a lot of Baptists there), and our family never really went to church. We were raised to make our own choices and to figure out what we believed for ourselves. As a teenager, I was baptized Mormon, for all the wrong reasons. I fell away from that not long after I started. I guess my problem with any and all organized religions is the idea that doing something can send you to HELL, unless you go and talk to some old guy in a church, confess your sins and act out the redemption he assigns you. Who is he, really, to be making those calls for me? In the LDS church (that's another term for Mormon, for those of you who don't know), the boys - BOYS! Twelve years old! - are priesthood holders, and allowed to give blessings. At twelve. And when I asked why the girls weren't allowed to be priesthood holders, I was told "Women can bear children, they're close enough to God already." To which I responded, "Well, I don't know about you, but I'd prefer get a blessing from someone close to God." I was not popular in our church. And I hated the way the boys got to learn about being priests, and I was stuck doing arts and crafts and trading recipes with the other women. I hated the assigned roles. I think that every religion has its redeeming qualities (for instance, the sense of unity and community in the Mormon church is like nothing I've ever seen. If you want to see a group of people band together for someone in need, check out the local LDS ward. They are incredible. And their emphasis on family and spending time with loved ones is truly incredible...), and I would never criticize anyone for believing what they've chosen. I just don't think that church-going religion is for me; My relationship with God is my own, and I don't feel I need to visit a certain parish, or donate my money to a specific chapel, or show up every Sunday for him/her to know I believe. I don't pray often, but I certainly don't pray only in times of trouble. I'm very conscious of NOT calling on God to bail me out of trouble. I could never stand people who claimed to not believe until they were in a bind, and then they found religion, praying, "God, just get me out of this and..." and then they make a string of promises they don't really intend to keep. I hate that. So I pray when something goes really well, as thanks. I pray when someone passes on. I pray when I feel powerless, not for help, though. Just to pray, to get in touch with the notion that I can't control everything. I don't really have an idea of heaven. I joke that being the only girl among (at least) thirty gay men is my idea of heaven. I joke that eating all the chocolate I want without gaining an ounce is heaven. That shopping with no credit limit, and no responsibility to pay the bills, is heaven. But, honestly, truly...I have no idea. I don't think about it much. I guess I'll find out one day. Yes, I think God is responsible for all the good and bad. I think s/he gives the sour to appreciate the sweet, I think s/he keeps the cycle of life as we know it going. Diseases, famine, floods...They keep life moving. I believe that we're always evloving. I don't believe that people were just created one day, I believe that we evolved from something...But I believe God created the first amoeba that split and went on to become us. As far as someone affecting another person's life after their death...I'm not quite sure what you mean. Do you mean ghosts? Spirits of those that have passed on? Yes, I believe that; that sometimes we're visited by great-grandparents and old friends whose time here is over. But, more so, I believe that they affect us by remembering who they were, what they believed in, what they stood for, and what they'd want you to do in any given situation.
Crest, totally. Gel, not paste.
Anonymous asked: "What is your favorite post that you've written?"
As a little back story, my favorite part of this blog is having a chronicle of my life. Most of my relationship with Billy is here - from meeting, to our first date, to how I felt about him, to the day we said our "I love you"s - and I love that I can go back and remember what it was like in the beginning. And some of the hardest times in my life are here, too. It's hard to narrow it down to a favorite post because they're all so personal to me (obviously). Each one is a snapshot of me, that very day. I love that.
But my favorite? I guess I'd have to say Baggage Claim. Not because it was scathing, but because it was honest. And I felt freed after I wrote it.
Cheetarah asks: "Isn't it so much easier to answer questions, rather than think of stuff on your own? Okay, let me think, let me think. What do I want to know. What's the longest you've ever been single? I ask that because I'm perpetually single and from your blog it seems like you're a relationship girl."
NO! It's not easier! These questions take time. :)
The longest I've ever been single (not counting high school and the like, because that doesn't really count) was almost a year; the time between Tom and meeting Billy. And, though it wasn't that long of a time in the grand scheme of things, it was a long while for me. And being single was actually pretty eye-opening for me. I'm so independent now, more than I ever thought I would be. I'm used to my space and my time and my life being all my own. It was an adjustment to fall back into the relationship swing. But my relationship with my single status was love-hate. I loved finally discovering me. I hated that, for a long span of time, I couldn't find anyone I wanted to share that me with. It's nice, finding your complimentary person, someone who lets you be you, and wants to be a part of you. And I am a relationship girl. I love being in love. I do. I can't help it.
Doug asks: "If you could invite any 5 people from the past to dinner, who would they be and why?"
One: My great-grandmother (my mother's grandmother). Because the stories of what she's done, seen, experienced in her life are incredible. I'd love to chat with her. Two: My late friend Roland. Because I miss him, I love him, and we'd be able to share some laughs together. Three: Abe Lincoln, because he was ahead of his time and fought for what he believed was right. Four: My other great-grandmother (my father's grandmother). Because I knew her when she was alive, but I don't remember her. And I'm sure she was extraordinary. Five: Vincent VanGogh. Because I love his art. Something that beautiful comes from a man who is either extremely crazy (as some would argue), or just extremely gifted - a misunderstood genius. Some people think he was gay, some believe he was sick, but most believe that he was talented. I'd love to meet him.
Ok! So I've answered it all! Marriage, kids, religion, toothpaste, coffee! You know pretty much all there is to know about me. I hope you still like me. ;)
To everyone who participated...Thanks for playing with me!
Onairelav asks: "When are you coming to visit?! ;) What's your favorite coffee? What's your favorite thing to do on a Saturday morning?"
Question one: If I had my way, TOMORROW! But, sadly, it will probably be a while before that happens. Although, Billy and I were talking about taking a trip to Louisville to visit my incredible grandmother. I don't know if it will actually happen, but we were talking about it.
Question two: My favorite coffee to make at home is Starbucks French Roast. It's an "extra bold" blend that manages to be crazy dark, yet still not bitter. If our Super Wal Mart happens to be out of French, though, I'll buy the Italian Roast, though that one tends to be just a touch more bitter. You must understand, though, that when I make coffee, I don't even measure. I just dump enough grounds in the maker to be sure it's crazy extra strong. My old boss joked that you can chew my coffee. But I'm a big fan of cream and sugar, so the bolder the coffee, the more I can taste it through all of my accoutrements.
Question three: My favorite thing to do on Saturday morning (assuming I don't have to work) is this: Wake up to no alarm, turn on the TV. Watch TV for a few minutes, then go downstairs and make coffee. Bring the coffee back upstairs and crawl back into bed. Smoke my first cigarette of the day, coffee in hand, while watching VH1's Top 20 Countdown and Best Week Ever. After I've been sufficiently lazy, I like to do laundry and clean up a bit, then get in the shower, get gussied up, and go shopping. But, if I'm off on a Saturday, I rarely leave the house before 2:00 in the afternoon. Billy works on Saturdays, but, if he didn't, you could just add some couple activities to the morning I described.
Scoot asked: "Why did you stop emailing me?"
Because I'm a horrible bitch. No, actually, Mr. Scoot, I recall the email ceasing when they revoked our internet privileges at my old job, then it started, briefly, when I got to my new job...And then it just...stopped. I think, as two mature adults, we should agree that we share responsibility for the stopped emails. Or, back to point A, I'm just a horrible bitch.
Bodidarma asks: "What's it like to be 25?"
Awesome. Seriously awesome. I love this age, but I was never a hanger-on to my youth. I think finally being in mid-twenties is right where I want to be. I like getting older, no longer being subjected to comments like "You're just a baby," or "When you're older." I mean, I still get those, but being twenty five lets me make assertions with some degree of authority. I love it.
Paul asks: "Do you believe in God? If so, do you pray often? What is your idea of heaven? If there is a God, and He/She is responsible for all that is good in the world does that mean He/She is responsible for all the bad things (famine, war, floods, diseases, etc.) in the world? Once a person dies do you think they have the ability to affect a living persons life? On a lighter side: Crest or Colgate?"
Wow. Okay. To begin...Do I believe in God? Yes, I believe that there is some force greater than us out there. Do I believe it's an old white man with a long beard in a flowing robe? Not necessarily. It could be a woman, it could be any race. It could be anything. No one knows - or will know - until we see it for ourselves. I was raised with no particular religion; My dad is Methodist, my mom is Orthodox. I was christened Methodist, and we went to Orthodox services a few times. But I went to a Baptist school for a period of time (we were in the south - there are a lot of Baptists there), and our family never really went to church. We were raised to make our own choices and to figure out what we believed for ourselves. As a teenager, I was baptized Mormon, for all the wrong reasons. I fell away from that not long after I started. I guess my problem with any and all organized religions is the idea that doing something can send you to HELL, unless you go and talk to some old guy in a church, confess your sins and act out the redemption he assigns you. Who is he, really, to be making those calls for me? In the LDS church (that's another term for Mormon, for those of you who don't know), the boys - BOYS! Twelve years old! - are priesthood holders, and allowed to give blessings. At twelve. And when I asked why the girls weren't allowed to be priesthood holders, I was told "Women can bear children, they're close enough to God already." To which I responded, "Well, I don't know about you, but I'd prefer get a blessing from someone close to God." I was not popular in our church. And I hated the way the boys got to learn about being priests, and I was stuck doing arts and crafts and trading recipes with the other women. I hated the assigned roles. I think that every religion has its redeeming qualities (for instance, the sense of unity and community in the Mormon church is like nothing I've ever seen. If you want to see a group of people band together for someone in need, check out the local LDS ward. They are incredible. And their emphasis on family and spending time with loved ones is truly incredible...), and I would never criticize anyone for believing what they've chosen. I just don't think that church-going religion is for me; My relationship with God is my own, and I don't feel I need to visit a certain parish, or donate my money to a specific chapel, or show up every Sunday for him/her to know I believe. I don't pray often, but I certainly don't pray only in times of trouble. I'm very conscious of NOT calling on God to bail me out of trouble. I could never stand people who claimed to not believe until they were in a bind, and then they found religion, praying, "God, just get me out of this and..." and then they make a string of promises they don't really intend to keep. I hate that. So I pray when something goes really well, as thanks. I pray when someone passes on. I pray when I feel powerless, not for help, though. Just to pray, to get in touch with the notion that I can't control everything. I don't really have an idea of heaven. I joke that being the only girl among (at least) thirty gay men is my idea of heaven. I joke that eating all the chocolate I want without gaining an ounce is heaven. That shopping with no credit limit, and no responsibility to pay the bills, is heaven. But, honestly, truly...I have no idea. I don't think about it much. I guess I'll find out one day. Yes, I think God is responsible for all the good and bad. I think s/he gives the sour to appreciate the sweet, I think s/he keeps the cycle of life as we know it going. Diseases, famine, floods...They keep life moving. I believe that we're always evloving. I don't believe that people were just created one day, I believe that we evolved from something...But I believe God created the first amoeba that split and went on to become us. As far as someone affecting another person's life after their death...I'm not quite sure what you mean. Do you mean ghosts? Spirits of those that have passed on? Yes, I believe that; that sometimes we're visited by great-grandparents and old friends whose time here is over. But, more so, I believe that they affect us by remembering who they were, what they believed in, what they stood for, and what they'd want you to do in any given situation.
Crest, totally. Gel, not paste.
Anonymous asked: "What is your favorite post that you've written?"
As a little back story, my favorite part of this blog is having a chronicle of my life. Most of my relationship with Billy is here - from meeting, to our first date, to how I felt about him, to the day we said our "I love you"s - and I love that I can go back and remember what it was like in the beginning. And some of the hardest times in my life are here, too. It's hard to narrow it down to a favorite post because they're all so personal to me (obviously). Each one is a snapshot of me, that very day. I love that.
But my favorite? I guess I'd have to say Baggage Claim. Not because it was scathing, but because it was honest. And I felt freed after I wrote it.
Cheetarah asks: "Isn't it so much easier to answer questions, rather than think of stuff on your own? Okay, let me think, let me think. What do I want to know. What's the longest you've ever been single? I ask that because I'm perpetually single and from your blog it seems like you're a relationship girl."
NO! It's not easier! These questions take time. :)
The longest I've ever been single (not counting high school and the like, because that doesn't really count) was almost a year; the time between Tom and meeting Billy. And, though it wasn't that long of a time in the grand scheme of things, it was a long while for me. And being single was actually pretty eye-opening for me. I'm so independent now, more than I ever thought I would be. I'm used to my space and my time and my life being all my own. It was an adjustment to fall back into the relationship swing. But my relationship with my single status was love-hate. I loved finally discovering me. I hated that, for a long span of time, I couldn't find anyone I wanted to share that me with. It's nice, finding your complimentary person, someone who lets you be you, and wants to be a part of you. And I am a relationship girl. I love being in love. I do. I can't help it.
Doug asks: "If you could invite any 5 people from the past to dinner, who would they be and why?"
One: My great-grandmother (my mother's grandmother). Because the stories of what she's done, seen, experienced in her life are incredible. I'd love to chat with her. Two: My late friend Roland. Because I miss him, I love him, and we'd be able to share some laughs together. Three: Abe Lincoln, because he was ahead of his time and fought for what he believed was right. Four: My other great-grandmother (my father's grandmother). Because I knew her when she was alive, but I don't remember her. And I'm sure she was extraordinary. Five: Vincent VanGogh. Because I love his art. Something that beautiful comes from a man who is either extremely crazy (as some would argue), or just extremely gifted - a misunderstood genius. Some people think he was gay, some believe he was sick, but most believe that he was talented. I'd love to meet him.
Ok! So I've answered it all! Marriage, kids, religion, toothpaste, coffee! You know pretty much all there is to know about me. I hope you still like me. ;)
To everyone who participated...Thanks for playing with me!
Monday, June 19, 2006
You Asked for It: A Play in Two Acts
Thank you all for not making me feel like a loser with my last post. In truth, a very large part of me feared that I'd keep refreshing the page for days, only to find that big fat 0 Comments staring back at me. And, being that there are actual questions there, I must say they are some good ones! And I'm so long winded, that I have no choice but to split this up into two posts.
So, let's get to it.
You Asked For It: Part One
Liz asks: "What is your favorite line of make-up?"
You have no idea the can of worms you've just opened, Liz. Let's see....For moisturizers, it's Biore and Estee Lauder (Biore makes an awesome oil-free moisturizer, Estee Lauder makes an incredible tinted, sunblock-infused moisturizer). For foundation, I'm all about Estee Lauder. I have been for years. Because my skin is very sensitive, and the lotion/foundation is the thing closest to and on all of my skin, I stick with the tried and true. For mascara, there is nothing better than Maybelline's Full & Soft in Very Black. I don't use waterproof because I don't like to invest the time to take eyemakeup off separately, but it stays on, doesn't flake, and makes your lashes look INCREDIBLE. For eyeliner/lipliner, I'm all about L'Oreal. Le Grand Khol for eyes, and Crayon Petite for lips. I go through phases with lipsticks and gloss, so it wouldn't be fair for me to claim a favorite. As far as eyeshadow and blush go, I usually use whatever comes in my free gift from Estee Lauder (because I ONLY purchase it when there's a free gift up for grabs), or any of the drugstore finds: Cover Girl, Wet N Wild, Maybelline, generic stuff. Whatever. So, now that I totally beat that subject to death...Moving on!
Michele asks: "Do you really read all the blogs you have links to each and every day, if so why don't you comment more often?"
I don't really read all of the ones that are linked, because some of them are no longer operative, and I'm too lazy to take them down and rearrange (in fact, there are two bloggers whose addresses have changed that I've yet to go update!). But, no, I don't make it to every blog every day. There's no particular rhyme or reason to why one does and one does not get visited, except for the fact that I'm supposed to actually be WORKING at work. But if I don't get to one one day, I'll make sure I hit it the next day. As far as the commenting goes, sometimes I feel weird. Okay, bear with me on this: I'm a girl. I overthink everything. So, when I get a comment from someone new, the first thing I do is go check out that person's page. And I want to comment, but I don't want to comment just for the sake of commenting. When I first started this, I'd see comments all over the place on other people's blogs that said nothing about the post it followed, just "Hey! Thanks for stopping by my blog!" And I thought that was ridiculous. So, I want to make sure that, when I comment, I actually have something to contribute. Something of substance. I don't want you to think "She's just commenting here because I commented on her blog." So unless I can actually say something of worth, I keep quiet. Additionally, I hardly ever respond to comments on MY blog, which should be some indicator of how lazy I am when it comes to commenting. Maybe I'm just a voyeur at heart, willing to read about someone, but unwilling to contribute my own two cents. But really, those are just excuses. Mostly, I'm just lazy. And it's hard to comment at work when I'm liable to be caught at any second. Now that I have a computer at home again, the comments should start becoming more frequent.
Michele also asks: "Oh, and when are we going to get to see some photos from your wonderful trip!?"
Soon. Very soon. Like I said, I have a computer at home now, so it should be any day now. (I know, promises, promises.)
Anno asks: "What will you have to do to consider yourself a successful writer? What are you willing to do to become one?"
To consider myself a successful writer, I think I'll have to be a published author. Either regularly contributing to a magazine, or with a book of my own. As far as what I'm willing to do...I'll be honest, I'm a pussy. I'm terrified of doing anything to pursue it. I'm afraid of the rejection, I'm afraid of failure...It's sort of a weird feeling for me. To try and become what I've wanted to be for so long. But, pretty soon now, I'm going to bite the bullet, submit what I can and see where it goes from there. I'll suck up the fear and the dread and just do it already, because I just know it's not going to happen any other way. And I just know that writing is something I'm meant to be doing.
Was that even an answer? I don't know. Moving on!
Casey asks: "You said you didn't go to college because you really wanted to be a wife and mother. Is that still true?"
It's hard to say. I can't see myself being happy just being a girlfriend for the rest of my life, so I know I'll want to be married someday. But the older I get, the less it's a pressing issue. I said, six years ago, that I'd never live with a boy unless we're married. Three years ago, I said I wouldn't live with a boy unless we were engaged. Now, I'm living with a boy with no engagement and no marriage. Things change, I guess. And, additionally, relationships never seemed to work out for me when I was staunchly against being unmarried and living together; When I was fighting daily to get what thought I wanted. I'm trying something new - the girlfriend who isn't talking, day in and day out, about tying the knot. I'm not pressing any issues like I did before, trying not to force anyone (ahem...Billy) into anything. Now, the kids thing....
Leandra asks: "Do you think you still want children or do you think you SHOULD want children?"
I don't know if I want kids anymore. Like I said before, the older I get, the more things change. I really can't stand to be around kids anymore. I don't feel that maternal instinct, I don't long for pregnancy, I'm put off by the time and effort and selflessness that goes along with having kids. I'm selfish, and I just don't know if I can ever put ME aside for a baby. My mom, who desperately wants to be a grandmother, keeps telling me that that will change, that having kids of my own is different from dealing with someone else's kids. I'm kind of afraid to take that chance, you know, that I'll still dislike kids, even if they are my own. But I just don't know. I don't want to say NO, I don't want them, but I can't say yes. At this point in my life, absolutely not. Five years down the road, maybe. I'm afraid of what it will do to my body, my life, my freedom...But on the other hand, I think it's a beautiful and amazing thing to be a parent, to give life to someone with my features and my blood. I just really don't know.
Leandra goes on, "What was the most romantic part of your trip? Do you think you are beautiful? (I think you are!) Do you think one day you'd go back to Kentucky?"
The most romantic part of my trip? Wow, it's hard to say. Really, the whole thing was incredible. The first night we got into town, we had dinner at this cute little restaurant right on the ocean called De Tach. We had the local drink, toasted one another, ate our seafood, held hands across the table for the first time in a foreign country. After dinner, Billy suggested we take a little walk. The beach was empty, the moon was huge, and the waves were lapping the shore. We took off our shoes and walked to a pair of chairs sitting beneath an imposing palm tree. "I believe," Billy said, "that this is an actual moonlit walk on the beach. This is officially a romantic moment." And he looked over at me and smiled, illuminated by the bright moon, and he pulled me in and kissed me. He was so cute. And he sent me to the waterline to test the temperature of the ocean, and when I came back, he kissed me soft and sweet...It was so textbook romantic that I couldn't believe it. Just thinking of it makes me all mushy inside. And then, a few days later, we sat on our porch, in the hammock together, reading our respective books and sipping cocktails...We just held hands and read. No talking, just being together. It was one of those moments where you realize you don't need to fill up silences anymore, that just being near one another is enough.
And, first off, thank you for saying I'm beautiful! But do I think I'm beautiful? Yeah, I guess I do. Of course I take issue with my body sometimes, and there are times when my makeup doesn't go on well, and I feel bloated and icky. But I've finally started to appreciate myself as a whole, not just the size of my ass or the clarity of my skin. I know I'm smart, and I know I'm kind, and I know that I have good heart. And I think that makes any person more beautiful than the sum of their features. Aesthetically speaking, there are days when I'm just on, you know? The kind of day where everything falls into place and you just feel hot. I have those. I also have the bad days, where I feel anything but attractive. I'll admit to my insecurities, but, generally, I love who I am. I'm happy with my looks. I'm happy with who I am as a person. I think I'm a beautiful person, inside and out.
Will I ever go back to Kentucky? Yes. Absolutely. Maybe not to live (although you never know...Louisville is an awesome city), but certainly to visit.
Melish asks: "Have you and Billy talked at all about marriage??? And if so, please elaborate. Oh, and I'm still anxious to hear about your trip to Belize!"
Hmmm. Interesting question. And one that I sort of dreaded when I opened myself up to this. But here goes! No. We haven't. Not even in vague terms. There are a number of reasons that I haven't brought it up. One, because in my last relationship, I pressured my boyfriend about marriage from the get-go. I started talking about marriage within the first month. Obviously, that didn't work out so well. No one wants to be forced into anything. And it only served to make me miserable. So there's that. And then there's this (which I'm not particularly proud of, but oh well...): Billy is 34 years old. He's never been close to marriage. From what I've gathered so far, he's not so keen on the idea of matrimony to begin with. So, honestly, I don't want to know. Because if I bring it up, and he says he never wants to be married, I have to make a choice to either stay with him because I love him so much, even knowing that marriage is out of the question, OR leave, regardless of how much I love him, because marriage is important to me, and if I stay, knowing we'll never marry, I'll only be miserable in the long run. So, for now, I'm making like an ostrich and sticking my head in the sand, enjoying this for what it is, and tackling marriage when we're a little further down the road. I know it's important to know, and I know it will come up - it always does - and I'll deal with that then. But we've only been dating for ten months. I'm not going to worry about it right now. Could I see myself marrying him? Yes, I believe I could.
The Belize story is in the works. Soon. SOON. I promise!
TKBS is doing just fine, although we do miss you!
Tiffany asks: "Were there other contributing factors in your break up with your ex or was it just that he didn't ever want to be married and you do?"
Yes, there were other contributing factors, although the marriage issue was the biggest one. We differed in a variety of ways that were, ultimately, insurmountable. He didn't want to spend enough time with me (I thought), he didn't sacrifice anything for me, he wasn't willing to do things for me that he didn't want to do in the first place, I didn't feel complimented, appreciated enough, I didn't feel like he thought I was the most beautiful girl in the world in his eyes, I felt like he was always looking for something more. He wanted to spend his life moving around, I was happy here in Milford (I still am). He never wanted to stay in one place, and I saw my life with a home in ONE town, close to my family. There were those differences, and then there was me. I'm purely reactionary, and when I felt I was being short-changed in any arena, I reacted by doing short-changing him, too. So I started denying him. And I tried to make him jealous. And I wouldn't help him out. The list could go on. But we loved each other, and we were, at a time, best friends. Aside from the major issues I just detailed, we actually did have a quite good relationship. Despite the fact that I always felt like I could never be enough, I knew he loved me. He just didn't love me the way I wanted him to. And I couldn't love him the way he wanted, either. We couldn't love each other properly, we were stifling one another, instead of making each other better people generally speaking. So we ended it.
Steve the Pirate asks: "What would our dream date consist of? Also, why is it that you think I'm so awesome?"
I think our dream date would be to Jack in the Box (for you) and then to Dairy Queen (for me). And then, maybe, we could go to a park, where we'd walk around and you'd tell me how utterly fabulous I am.
I think you're so awesome because you think I'm so awesome. (I'm purely reactionary, remember? See above.)
This concludes part one. Part two to follow!
So, let's get to it.
You Asked For It: Part One
Liz asks: "What is your favorite line of make-up?"
You have no idea the can of worms you've just opened, Liz. Let's see....For moisturizers, it's Biore and Estee Lauder (Biore makes an awesome oil-free moisturizer, Estee Lauder makes an incredible tinted, sunblock-infused moisturizer). For foundation, I'm all about Estee Lauder. I have been for years. Because my skin is very sensitive, and the lotion/foundation is the thing closest to and on all of my skin, I stick with the tried and true. For mascara, there is nothing better than Maybelline's Full & Soft in Very Black. I don't use waterproof because I don't like to invest the time to take eyemakeup off separately, but it stays on, doesn't flake, and makes your lashes look INCREDIBLE. For eyeliner/lipliner, I'm all about L'Oreal. Le Grand Khol for eyes, and Crayon Petite for lips. I go through phases with lipsticks and gloss, so it wouldn't be fair for me to claim a favorite. As far as eyeshadow and blush go, I usually use whatever comes in my free gift from Estee Lauder (because I ONLY purchase it when there's a free gift up for grabs), or any of the drugstore finds: Cover Girl, Wet N Wild, Maybelline, generic stuff. Whatever. So, now that I totally beat that subject to death...Moving on!
Michele asks: "Do you really read all the blogs you have links to each and every day, if so why don't you comment more often?"
I don't really read all of the ones that are linked, because some of them are no longer operative, and I'm too lazy to take them down and rearrange (in fact, there are two bloggers whose addresses have changed that I've yet to go update!). But, no, I don't make it to every blog every day. There's no particular rhyme or reason to why one does and one does not get visited, except for the fact that I'm supposed to actually be WORKING at work. But if I don't get to one one day, I'll make sure I hit it the next day. As far as the commenting goes, sometimes I feel weird. Okay, bear with me on this: I'm a girl. I overthink everything. So, when I get a comment from someone new, the first thing I do is go check out that person's page. And I want to comment, but I don't want to comment just for the sake of commenting. When I first started this, I'd see comments all over the place on other people's blogs that said nothing about the post it followed, just "Hey! Thanks for stopping by my blog!" And I thought that was ridiculous. So, I want to make sure that, when I comment, I actually have something to contribute. Something of substance. I don't want you to think "She's just commenting here because I commented on her blog." So unless I can actually say something of worth, I keep quiet. Additionally, I hardly ever respond to comments on MY blog, which should be some indicator of how lazy I am when it comes to commenting. Maybe I'm just a voyeur at heart, willing to read about someone, but unwilling to contribute my own two cents. But really, those are just excuses. Mostly, I'm just lazy. And it's hard to comment at work when I'm liable to be caught at any second. Now that I have a computer at home again, the comments should start becoming more frequent.
Michele also asks: "Oh, and when are we going to get to see some photos from your wonderful trip!?"
Soon. Very soon. Like I said, I have a computer at home now, so it should be any day now. (I know, promises, promises.)
Anno asks: "What will you have to do to consider yourself a successful writer? What are you willing to do to become one?"
To consider myself a successful writer, I think I'll have to be a published author. Either regularly contributing to a magazine, or with a book of my own. As far as what I'm willing to do...I'll be honest, I'm a pussy. I'm terrified of doing anything to pursue it. I'm afraid of the rejection, I'm afraid of failure...It's sort of a weird feeling for me. To try and become what I've wanted to be for so long. But, pretty soon now, I'm going to bite the bullet, submit what I can and see where it goes from there. I'll suck up the fear and the dread and just do it already, because I just know it's not going to happen any other way. And I just know that writing is something I'm meant to be doing.
Was that even an answer? I don't know. Moving on!
Casey asks: "You said you didn't go to college because you really wanted to be a wife and mother. Is that still true?"
It's hard to say. I can't see myself being happy just being a girlfriend for the rest of my life, so I know I'll want to be married someday. But the older I get, the less it's a pressing issue. I said, six years ago, that I'd never live with a boy unless we're married. Three years ago, I said I wouldn't live with a boy unless we were engaged. Now, I'm living with a boy with no engagement and no marriage. Things change, I guess. And, additionally, relationships never seemed to work out for me when I was staunchly against being unmarried and living together; When I was fighting daily to get what thought I wanted. I'm trying something new - the girlfriend who isn't talking, day in and day out, about tying the knot. I'm not pressing any issues like I did before, trying not to force anyone (ahem...Billy) into anything. Now, the kids thing....
Leandra asks: "Do you think you still want children or do you think you SHOULD want children?"
I don't know if I want kids anymore. Like I said before, the older I get, the more things change. I really can't stand to be around kids anymore. I don't feel that maternal instinct, I don't long for pregnancy, I'm put off by the time and effort and selflessness that goes along with having kids. I'm selfish, and I just don't know if I can ever put ME aside for a baby. My mom, who desperately wants to be a grandmother, keeps telling me that that will change, that having kids of my own is different from dealing with someone else's kids. I'm kind of afraid to take that chance, you know, that I'll still dislike kids, even if they are my own. But I just don't know. I don't want to say NO, I don't want them, but I can't say yes. At this point in my life, absolutely not. Five years down the road, maybe. I'm afraid of what it will do to my body, my life, my freedom...But on the other hand, I think it's a beautiful and amazing thing to be a parent, to give life to someone with my features and my blood. I just really don't know.
Leandra goes on, "What was the most romantic part of your trip? Do you think you are beautiful? (I think you are!) Do you think one day you'd go back to Kentucky?"
The most romantic part of my trip? Wow, it's hard to say. Really, the whole thing was incredible. The first night we got into town, we had dinner at this cute little restaurant right on the ocean called De Tach. We had the local drink, toasted one another, ate our seafood, held hands across the table for the first time in a foreign country. After dinner, Billy suggested we take a little walk. The beach was empty, the moon was huge, and the waves were lapping the shore. We took off our shoes and walked to a pair of chairs sitting beneath an imposing palm tree. "I believe," Billy said, "that this is an actual moonlit walk on the beach. This is officially a romantic moment." And he looked over at me and smiled, illuminated by the bright moon, and he pulled me in and kissed me. He was so cute. And he sent me to the waterline to test the temperature of the ocean, and when I came back, he kissed me soft and sweet...It was so textbook romantic that I couldn't believe it. Just thinking of it makes me all mushy inside. And then, a few days later, we sat on our porch, in the hammock together, reading our respective books and sipping cocktails...We just held hands and read. No talking, just being together. It was one of those moments where you realize you don't need to fill up silences anymore, that just being near one another is enough.
And, first off, thank you for saying I'm beautiful! But do I think I'm beautiful? Yeah, I guess I do. Of course I take issue with my body sometimes, and there are times when my makeup doesn't go on well, and I feel bloated and icky. But I've finally started to appreciate myself as a whole, not just the size of my ass or the clarity of my skin. I know I'm smart, and I know I'm kind, and I know that I have good heart. And I think that makes any person more beautiful than the sum of their features. Aesthetically speaking, there are days when I'm just on, you know? The kind of day where everything falls into place and you just feel hot. I have those. I also have the bad days, where I feel anything but attractive. I'll admit to my insecurities, but, generally, I love who I am. I'm happy with my looks. I'm happy with who I am as a person. I think I'm a beautiful person, inside and out.
Will I ever go back to Kentucky? Yes. Absolutely. Maybe not to live (although you never know...Louisville is an awesome city), but certainly to visit.
Melish asks: "Have you and Billy talked at all about marriage??? And if so, please elaborate. Oh, and I'm still anxious to hear about your trip to Belize!"
Hmmm. Interesting question. And one that I sort of dreaded when I opened myself up to this. But here goes! No. We haven't. Not even in vague terms. There are a number of reasons that I haven't brought it up. One, because in my last relationship, I pressured my boyfriend about marriage from the get-go. I started talking about marriage within the first month. Obviously, that didn't work out so well. No one wants to be forced into anything. And it only served to make me miserable. So there's that. And then there's this (which I'm not particularly proud of, but oh well...): Billy is 34 years old. He's never been close to marriage. From what I've gathered so far, he's not so keen on the idea of matrimony to begin with. So, honestly, I don't want to know. Because if I bring it up, and he says he never wants to be married, I have to make a choice to either stay with him because I love him so much, even knowing that marriage is out of the question, OR leave, regardless of how much I love him, because marriage is important to me, and if I stay, knowing we'll never marry, I'll only be miserable in the long run. So, for now, I'm making like an ostrich and sticking my head in the sand, enjoying this for what it is, and tackling marriage when we're a little further down the road. I know it's important to know, and I know it will come up - it always does - and I'll deal with that then. But we've only been dating for ten months. I'm not going to worry about it right now. Could I see myself marrying him? Yes, I believe I could.
The Belize story is in the works. Soon. SOON. I promise!
TKBS is doing just fine, although we do miss you!
Tiffany asks: "Were there other contributing factors in your break up with your ex or was it just that he didn't ever want to be married and you do?"
Yes, there were other contributing factors, although the marriage issue was the biggest one. We differed in a variety of ways that were, ultimately, insurmountable. He didn't want to spend enough time with me (I thought), he didn't sacrifice anything for me, he wasn't willing to do things for me that he didn't want to do in the first place, I didn't feel complimented, appreciated enough, I didn't feel like he thought I was the most beautiful girl in the world in his eyes, I felt like he was always looking for something more. He wanted to spend his life moving around, I was happy here in Milford (I still am). He never wanted to stay in one place, and I saw my life with a home in ONE town, close to my family. There were those differences, and then there was me. I'm purely reactionary, and when I felt I was being short-changed in any arena, I reacted by doing short-changing him, too. So I started denying him. And I tried to make him jealous. And I wouldn't help him out. The list could go on. But we loved each other, and we were, at a time, best friends. Aside from the major issues I just detailed, we actually did have a quite good relationship. Despite the fact that I always felt like I could never be enough, I knew he loved me. He just didn't love me the way I wanted him to. And I couldn't love him the way he wanted, either. We couldn't love each other properly, we were stifling one another, instead of making each other better people generally speaking. So we ended it.
Steve the Pirate asks: "What would our dream date consist of? Also, why is it that you think I'm so awesome?"
I think our dream date would be to Jack in the Box (for you) and then to Dairy Queen (for me). And then, maybe, we could go to a park, where we'd walk around and you'd tell me how utterly fabulous I am.
I think you're so awesome because you think I'm so awesome. (I'm purely reactionary, remember? See above.)
This concludes part one. Part two to follow!
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