I’ve always been that girl who says “I totally have no problem with my boyfriend talking to other girls,” or “If he wants to flirt, that’s fine. He’s a natural flirt. He comes home to me.” I’ve even upped the ante and said, out loud, “I don’t mind if my boyfriend goes to strip clubs.”
But, like almost everything I say, all of these declarations require addendums.
I don’t have a problem with my boyfriend talking to other girls, as long as I know said other girls. If they’re old friends, I need to have heard about them numerous times. If they’re new friends, I need to be introduced. I have to be familiar with the notion of this girl to whom he’ll be speaking. It helps me digest it better, curbs my natural inclination toward suspicion.
I’m fine with the flirting, with the actions of the “natural flirt” of a boyfriend that it seems I’ve found myself claiming for the last, oh, ten years of my life. But it cannot be overt flirtation. Just subtleties that are almost flirting: Coy smiles and soft voices are flirtations to me. That, I’m okay with. Outright body-leaning-in, obvious flattery and inquiring of phone numbers? Not so much.
Strip clubs? Hey, I’ve been to a strip club or fifty in my life. I don’t mind them one bit. So, no I don’t mind if my boyfriend goes. But I prefer that I’d be there with him. Because it’s one thing to look at boobs with your girlfriend, another thing entirely to look at boobs while your girlfriend is at home. If he takes me with him, I feel like it’s an experience we’re sharing. There’s nothing to hide if you’re okay with me being there, too. But, still, in most circumstances, I’m okay with a guy’s night at a strip club. But not one man alone, and not with the intent to chat up the strippers. And no lap dances. There has to be a line somewhere.
But, you know, in noticing that all of the “liberties” I “grant” require provisos, I’ve noticed something: I’m jealous. I’m jealous and competitive and not that liberal at all. Hmph. And, as with most things in my life, I was the last one to know about this. Or rather, I’ve just now admitted it to myself.
My ex used to check out girls when he was with me. I tried and tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t, claiming that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. “It’s not like I’m being unfaithful,” he’d say with a smile meant to distract me from the anger.
Though always weak in the face of that smile of his, I’d persist: “It’s not about fidelity. It’s about winning.” I struggled to demonstrate the complexities of the female brain, while he looked on in confusion. “Look,” I’d say, “if I’m walking through a mall, and some guy who is obviously with his girlfriend – holding her hand or whatever – checks me out, I’ve won. Because I can say, ‘Oh, man. That guy, who is with that girl, just totally checked me out. Poor girl.’ He’s supposed to be with her, into her, but I was able to distract him. I won. And I don’t want some other girl winning, while I’m there, holding your hand, stupidly unaware that other girls are winning all over the place.”
He said he understood and agreed to stop. A week later, when he thought, apparently, that he was a vampire and therefore invisible in mirrors, I caught a reflection of him totally checking out another girl.
“She just won,” I said without even looking at him. “No woman should win but me.”
I considered it my competitive nature, not my jealousy, that was making me miserable in that situation. But looking at it now, I’m sure I was just jealous that some other woman was garnering the attention of the man I called mine.
Thanksgiving Eve is a big night around these parts. Actually, it’s probably big everywhere as a night of reunions with friends who’ve moved away, but whose families still reside in your town. Everyone comes home for Thanksgiving, and they all go out to local bars and catch one another up on their careers, their love lives, their lives in general.
“Did you want to go out Thanksgiving Eve?” I asked Billy as we readied ourselves for work Tuesday morning.
“What do you want to do?” he replied as he squeezed Colgate onto his new toothbrush.
“I don’t really care. It’s not a big deal to me. I didn’t grow up here, so the thrill is kind of lost on me. But I thought maybe you’d like to. I’m happy to go if you want to.”
He began to brush his teeth, but stopped before the brush reached his mouth. “No. Nope, nope, nope. Because I just know I’ll get in trouble if we go out.”
“What do you mean?” I laughed, rubbing lotion into my legs.
“I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but I know that somehow, I’ll wind up in trouble with you by the end of the night, so we should probably just stay in.”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, playfully jabbing him in the ribs.
“Because I’m going to know people and have to talk to them, which means I won’t be able to give you my full attention. Which you’ll take as ignoring you. And some of the people I know will be female. And you’ll think I’ve either dated or slept with them, and be angry with me for even looking at them. So no. Let’s rent a movie or something.”
I started to argue, but the sharp sting of truth kept me quiet. He was right. Last year, we went out, and I spent the evening alternately pretending to be interested in the various historical recaps of his youth that he shared with friends, and pretending to not be bothered by the fact that some of the people he introduced me to didn’t bother acknowledging me at all. I spent much of the night studying my cocktail glass and smoking too many cigarettes so that I had something to with my hands. But I seldom meet his friends, and it’s rarer still that I am introduced to them, so I plastered a smile to my face and ran with it. Because he’s my boyfriend and I love him and it doesn’t always have to be about ME.
But I was irritated. I remember getting mad, sitting there, surrounded by too-loud music and no one to talk to. “I came to be with him,” I said to myself, “not to be out alone.” But the more accurate picture is probably that I was just jealous. Because other people had his attention. The attention that I don’t want just for the sake of wanting it, but because it’s his, and he has a way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the world when he’s talking to you. I was aware of the way some of the women looked at him. Because of the way he makes everyone feel special. Because everyone loves him. And I wanted to post a sign on his smooth forehead, over his sincere smile, announcing my possession of him, but I couldn’t. So, instead, I asked probing questions all the way home; questions that stopped just short of “So, did you ever sleep with [insert description of woman here]?”
“I promise you won’t be in trouble,” I said, wiping my hands on the hand towel.
“Oh, you can’t fool me. I know. I’ll be in trouble. Somehow.” He had begun brushing, and his words came out clumsy and garbled.
I sighed and gathered my belongings to leave the bathroom.
“When are you going to trust me?” He asked, his mouth now filling with frothy toothpaste.
“I do.”
He spit. “No you don’t. You think you’re liable to lose me at any second.” He paused, perhaps considering the ridiculousness of the fact that I actually do feel that way. “Just trust me.”
I started to say that old worn out line about it’s not YOU I don’t trust; it’s your friends/other women. But it occurs to me that that’s not saying much. When it comes down to it, you’re still telling him you think he’s not strong enough to overcome the temptation of other women or peer pressure. Which, is basically, saying he’s weak and – Ta-Daa! – you don’t trust him. So I stopped. “I do trust you. I do. I’m just…Jealous.”
“REALLY?” he said, in that sarcastic, Oh my god I never thought of that before! How positively enlightening! way. I slapped him on the butt and went to open the bathroom door.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me back to him, attempting to kiss my just made-up face with his Colgate-rimmed mouth. I backed away, he moved in, back away, move in. We danced like that until I howled with laughter and finally allowed a gentle kiss on my lips.
“You’re such a weirdo,” I said, licking the minty paste from my lips.
But the conversation left me wondering where the murky line between trust and jealousy lies. Can you trust and be jealous at the same time? Are they mutually exclusive? Or do lack of trust and jealousy just mean the same thing?
Because, the way I see it, it’s not that Billy’s ready to run off at the first sign of trouble, or at the first glimpse of a stripper’s boob. It’s just that I see him as the most attractive, charismatic, charming, intelligent, warm, funny, incredible man on the face of the earth. And any woman who sees that is going to do her best to get him from me. In my sick imagination, the sight of him walking into a room is followed immediately by the sound of hundreds of panties falling to the floor.
Of all of the impressions a girl can have of her boyfriend, isn’t that the best kind to have? I mean, does he really want me to see him as a loser who, when he goes out, people go out of their way to NOT talk to?
But the side effect of having this glorified opinion of him is jealousy. I know that he wouldn’t betray me. I do. I don’t believe he’d ever hurt me that way. I know he loves me and only has eyes for me. But I’m still jealous.
“I do like where your head’s at,” he said when I presented him with my quandary. “But why can’t you still think of me that way, and then think, ‘And he’s all mine.’?”
“Because it doesn’t work that way,” I told him.
Or can it?
Because this jealousy? It kills me. I know it can stem from insecurity and lack of faith, but can’t it also be attributed to just having an awesome boyfriend that you don’t want another bitch to even think about putting her paws on? Because that’s where I think mine comes from.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
It's a List because I Just Don't Have TIME for a Real Post
1. I cannot switch to Blogger Beta. Just can't do it. At first it was due to my standard fear of change in any form. I'm comfortable with antiquated blogger, I am. I'm able to apply the miniscule amount of HTML I know in the appropriate places. I know what it looks like, how it works. I know all my saved drafts are safe and secure. I know all that. What I don't know is how the switch to Beta will affect me. So I haven't.
Until I started looking at the blogs that have switched over, and the OCD girl inside of me got all giddy, and she started whispering in my ear that I could go through almost two years of posts and add tags to all of them, and organize all of it. And, oh, that would be so much fun. And she told me I could make columns and lists and things on the side there, and I could move it around however I want...
So me and the OCD girl agreed, and tried to switch. The first time, I stopped because, hey, what if all of my drafts don't go over? So I procrastinated. The second time, I was like, "But what about all my links?" She tapped her finger onto her chin exactly fourteen times (she always does that when she's thinking) and nodded vigorously. "Good point," she said, blinking twenty four times. "Good point. Don't do it." But she started to panic at the thought of losing all of that info. So we stopped. Then I went to do it again, and I realized that I didn't know how to make links open in new windows with the new system. I emailed a friend, and she said it just all transferred over. So I looked at the OCD girl, and she looked at me, and we nodded in unison and I clicked the link to switch me over.
We thought we were on our way to a new and improved Divinities, but, alas, no such luck. My blog is too big to switch right now. And you know what? Now, every time I log into my blog, I get that big message saying "We're ready to switch you!" And every time I see it, I fall for it. And every time I do it, I get the same stupid message. "Whoops. Sorry. Not yet." And now I want it. Badly. This is not fair.
2. I met Chase's girlfriend on Saturday. And, you know what? She's pretty freakin' great. I THINK.
Chase is really into her, and she is really into him. And it's so comforting to see that. I even witnessed little boyfriend/girlfriend things between the two of them. It was so cute. He's a good boyfriend, I think, my little brother. And if he's not? I'll kick his ass.
3. I have a formal Christmas party to attend in December so, on Saturday, my mom, Chase, his girlfriend and I all went to this fancy-pants mall about an hour and a half away from here. Mom and I went on our own and searched high and low for dresses. We went into Neiman-Marcus and Nordstrom, trying to stifle the inevitable vomiting sensation that overtook us each time we flipped over a price tag that read "$790" or "Sale! $955." Ugh. We made jokes about how the other half lives, and kept on moving through the stores.
Unwittingly, we stumbled into the "Couture" section of Nordstrom, where gigantic ball gowns with crystal embellishments hung from velveteen hangers. We knew we were out of our league, but since no one was around, we checked things out. And that's when two sales people, one man and one woman, emerged from the dressing room area. They started to go over the specifics of their department, "Every dress you see here is custom-made, available in any size or color you desire." I sort of grinned and nodded, trying to feign indifference, and trying NOT to let them know I was out of my price range. After they'd asked me what the occasion was and I answered, they started giving suggestions. "This is a lovely cocktail dress," said the short salesman, moving the dress from its hanging position and to the front of his body. "It's quite elegant."
"Yes, well," I said, struggling to keep my composure. The price tag was dangling there, profane in its exposure. $3,450. "That's not really my style," I said regrettably. "Thank you though," and we scampered out of there. "Quick," I whispered to mom, "before they realize we could never afford this stuff!"
4. Eventually, I found my way to someplace more comfortable: The sales rack at Lord & Taylor. I ended up purchasing two dresses. They're both quite lovely, and I bought the two of them because I couldn't decide between them. So I brought them home, definite favorite in mind, and showed them to Billy and asked him to pick. He did not pick my favorite. Which puts me in quite a quandary. Because the one he picked is sexy, the other is classier. And I generally like to go with Classy over Sexy. But I do want to make him proud...So I don't know which one to wear. But I have to go shopping for shoes, so that means I have to pick one and stick with it, unless I want to buy complete outfits - replete with jewels, shoes and bags - for each option and then just make the choice based on how I feel that day. And that just seems dangerous. And costly.
5. I showed the dresses to my friend, and she agreed with Billy. So Sexy Red Dress it is. But I've just spent three hours in a different mall, and I couldn't find any shoes that complimented it. Damn winter shoes. Doesn't anyone buy sexy, strappy little shoes in the winter? I mean, I know it'll be all snowy and horribly cold in a matter of hours, but, c'mon. I need the right shoes.
6. I'm really looking forward to Thanksgiving. I have a shortened work week this week, and if that's not reason to give thanks, I don't know what is.
Until I started looking at the blogs that have switched over, and the OCD girl inside of me got all giddy, and she started whispering in my ear that I could go through almost two years of posts and add tags to all of them, and organize all of it. And, oh, that would be so much fun. And she told me I could make columns and lists and things on the side there, and I could move it around however I want...
So me and the OCD girl agreed, and tried to switch. The first time, I stopped because, hey, what if all of my drafts don't go over? So I procrastinated. The second time, I was like, "But what about all my links?" She tapped her finger onto her chin exactly fourteen times (she always does that when she's thinking) and nodded vigorously. "Good point," she said, blinking twenty four times. "Good point. Don't do it." But she started to panic at the thought of losing all of that info. So we stopped. Then I went to do it again, and I realized that I didn't know how to make links open in new windows with the new system. I emailed a friend, and she said it just all transferred over. So I looked at the OCD girl, and she looked at me, and we nodded in unison and I clicked the link to switch me over.
We thought we were on our way to a new and improved Divinities, but, alas, no such luck. My blog is too big to switch right now. And you know what? Now, every time I log into my blog, I get that big message saying "We're ready to switch you!" And every time I see it, I fall for it. And every time I do it, I get the same stupid message. "Whoops. Sorry. Not yet." And now I want it. Badly. This is not fair.
2. I met Chase's girlfriend on Saturday. And, you know what? She's pretty freakin' great. I THINK.
Chase is really into her, and she is really into him. And it's so comforting to see that. I even witnessed little boyfriend/girlfriend things between the two of them. It was so cute. He's a good boyfriend, I think, my little brother. And if he's not? I'll kick his ass.
3. I have a formal Christmas party to attend in December so, on Saturday, my mom, Chase, his girlfriend and I all went to this fancy-pants mall about an hour and a half away from here. Mom and I went on our own and searched high and low for dresses. We went into Neiman-Marcus and Nordstrom, trying to stifle the inevitable vomiting sensation that overtook us each time we flipped over a price tag that read "$790" or "Sale! $955." Ugh. We made jokes about how the other half lives, and kept on moving through the stores.
Unwittingly, we stumbled into the "Couture" section of Nordstrom, where gigantic ball gowns with crystal embellishments hung from velveteen hangers. We knew we were out of our league, but since no one was around, we checked things out. And that's when two sales people, one man and one woman, emerged from the dressing room area. They started to go over the specifics of their department, "Every dress you see here is custom-made, available in any size or color you desire." I sort of grinned and nodded, trying to feign indifference, and trying NOT to let them know I was out of my price range. After they'd asked me what the occasion was and I answered, they started giving suggestions. "This is a lovely cocktail dress," said the short salesman, moving the dress from its hanging position and to the front of his body. "It's quite elegant."
"Yes, well," I said, struggling to keep my composure. The price tag was dangling there, profane in its exposure. $3,450. "That's not really my style," I said regrettably. "Thank you though," and we scampered out of there. "Quick," I whispered to mom, "before they realize we could never afford this stuff!"
4. Eventually, I found my way to someplace more comfortable: The sales rack at Lord & Taylor. I ended up purchasing two dresses. They're both quite lovely, and I bought the two of them because I couldn't decide between them. So I brought them home, definite favorite in mind, and showed them to Billy and asked him to pick. He did not pick my favorite. Which puts me in quite a quandary. Because the one he picked is sexy, the other is classier. And I generally like to go with Classy over Sexy. But I do want to make him proud...So I don't know which one to wear. But I have to go shopping for shoes, so that means I have to pick one and stick with it, unless I want to buy complete outfits - replete with jewels, shoes and bags - for each option and then just make the choice based on how I feel that day. And that just seems dangerous. And costly.
5. I showed the dresses to my friend, and she agreed with Billy. So Sexy Red Dress it is. But I've just spent three hours in a different mall, and I couldn't find any shoes that complimented it. Damn winter shoes. Doesn't anyone buy sexy, strappy little shoes in the winter? I mean, I know it'll be all snowy and horribly cold in a matter of hours, but, c'mon. I need the right shoes.
6. I'm really looking forward to Thanksgiving. I have a shortened work week this week, and if that's not reason to give thanks, I don't know what is.
Friday, November 17, 2006
The Sister's Curse
My little brother is coming home from school today for Thanksgiving break...With his girlfriend! They'll both be staying with my parents for a full week.
As the protective older sister, I feel not unlike a mother whose little baby is growing up and leaving the nest. It makes me feel ancient and antique, like I've turned around and suddenly he's a man, and I'm a grandma. Something about Chase bringing a girl HOME for a WEEK makes me want to weep a little bit. He's all grown up, I want to cry, dabbing at the tears in my eyes with the embroidered handkerchief I'm holding in my wrinkly hand. My little boy is a man now. Then I'd straighten my reading glasses and adjust the chain that holds them around my neck, take a deep and ragged breath, and go back to my knitting.
But I don't carry an embroidered handkerchief, and I don't knit; I don't have wrinkly hands, and I don't wear glasses. I'm 26, and he's 20, but something about this makes me feel old. And it makes me want to take this girl into a locked room, point a sweat lamp directly at her head and ask her all sorts of intrusive questions. What are your intentions with my brother? Are you sure you feel strongly for him? Are you leading him on? You better MEAN EVERYTHING YOU SAY TO HIM, AND STICK BY IT NO MATTER WHAT OR I WILL OWN YOU. Understand? I want to employ the tactics my dad threatened me with when I first started dating: Cleaning guns at the kitchen table when she walks in. I want to eye her suspiciously, make her nervous...
But I won't. Obviously. For a number of reasons: One, it's not my place. Two, I'm just not that kind of person. And three, Chase really cares for her. And he must care for her for a reason. If he likes her, she must be pretty incredible.
And then there's the other thing: No matter how shitty my boyfriends in the past were, Chase was always nice. He may be my "little brother" by timeline, but not physically. Physically, he's much bigger than me, and he could very easily play the role of Asshole Big Brother if need be. And he never did. Not because he didn't care, but because I cared about the guy, and that was enough for Chase. So I'm going to try to approach it that way this time.
I haven't always thought of it this way. In fact, I'm sort of notorious for being the mean older sister when it comes to girlfriends. Not because I'm mean just for the sake of being mean, but because in Chase's younger years, I was just a better judge of character than he was. Chase was sweet and unquestionably trusting, where I could sense evil immediately. And one particular girl he brought around was just that. So from the instant I met her and heard her referring to my mom and dad as "Mom" and "Dad," I'd had enough. I was short with her, I couldn't look at her, and I wanted nothing to do with her. I tried to be nice, but I insisted, to Chase and my whole family (who all loved her), that something was wrong. With her. That she wasn't as sweet as she made herself out to be. I didn't like that she was intruding on my territory. That she was trying to wedge herself into my incredible family because she got dealt a shitty one. I thought she was too full of sacchrine, her act was too syrupy to swallow. And you know what? A couple of months later, the truth was revealed. And who was right? ME. That's who. I saw through her artificial affection and her too-sweet demeanor to the slimy opportunist that was circling Chase's feet.
But, because I was "mean" to her, I've developed a slight reputation in my family of being a VERY overprotective big sister. My little brother isn't nervous about bringing girls home to meet my parents, he's nervous about bringing them to meet me. "Promise me you'll be nice," Chase said when he gently broke the news that his girlfriend would be sharing our time together this Thanksgiving.
"I am nice," I maintained. "As long as I think she's good to you."
"She is," he said. I could picture him closing his eyes and nodding, like a frustrated parent tired of explaining things to his child.
"I promise." I heard his exhale of relief through the phone. "BUT!" I amended, "If I sense something off, I'm going to tell you. And then I'll be civil, but I won't be awesome. Okay?"
I'm approaching this like Chase and his girlfriend are 14. They're both in their twenties. Technically, they're my peers. Yet I'm assuming the role of Adult to their assigned role of Child in my mind.
It's so silly. Because I know that Chase is grown. I know he's capable of judging good from bad. And I even know that this girl is really nice, and treats him really well. But I'm constantly on the lookout for people's ulterior motives when it comes to him, as though Chase The Poor College Student has anything worth stealing. It's just that he's such a good man, such a kind, giving and caring person, I'm terrified that people will take advantage of that soft, perfect part of him. I love him so much, I want to protect him. Even if he's perfectly capable of protecting himself. Even if he doesn't want me to. Even if it's silly and ridiculous and antiquated and stupid. I love him. And I'm his big sister. I always will be.
Protecting him, in whatever small way I can, is what I'll be doing for the rest of my life.
As the protective older sister, I feel not unlike a mother whose little baby is growing up and leaving the nest. It makes me feel ancient and antique, like I've turned around and suddenly he's a man, and I'm a grandma. Something about Chase bringing a girl HOME for a WEEK makes me want to weep a little bit. He's all grown up, I want to cry, dabbing at the tears in my eyes with the embroidered handkerchief I'm holding in my wrinkly hand. My little boy is a man now. Then I'd straighten my reading glasses and adjust the chain that holds them around my neck, take a deep and ragged breath, and go back to my knitting.
But I don't carry an embroidered handkerchief, and I don't knit; I don't have wrinkly hands, and I don't wear glasses. I'm 26, and he's 20, but something about this makes me feel old. And it makes me want to take this girl into a locked room, point a sweat lamp directly at her head and ask her all sorts of intrusive questions. What are your intentions with my brother? Are you sure you feel strongly for him? Are you leading him on? You better MEAN EVERYTHING YOU SAY TO HIM, AND STICK BY IT NO MATTER WHAT OR I WILL OWN YOU. Understand? I want to employ the tactics my dad threatened me with when I first started dating: Cleaning guns at the kitchen table when she walks in. I want to eye her suspiciously, make her nervous...
But I won't. Obviously. For a number of reasons: One, it's not my place. Two, I'm just not that kind of person. And three, Chase really cares for her. And he must care for her for a reason. If he likes her, she must be pretty incredible.
And then there's the other thing: No matter how shitty my boyfriends in the past were, Chase was always nice. He may be my "little brother" by timeline, but not physically. Physically, he's much bigger than me, and he could very easily play the role of Asshole Big Brother if need be. And he never did. Not because he didn't care, but because I cared about the guy, and that was enough for Chase. So I'm going to try to approach it that way this time.
I haven't always thought of it this way. In fact, I'm sort of notorious for being the mean older sister when it comes to girlfriends. Not because I'm mean just for the sake of being mean, but because in Chase's younger years, I was just a better judge of character than he was. Chase was sweet and unquestionably trusting, where I could sense evil immediately. And one particular girl he brought around was just that. So from the instant I met her and heard her referring to my mom and dad as "Mom" and "Dad," I'd had enough. I was short with her, I couldn't look at her, and I wanted nothing to do with her. I tried to be nice, but I insisted, to Chase and my whole family (who all loved her), that something was wrong. With her. That she wasn't as sweet as she made herself out to be. I didn't like that she was intruding on my territory. That she was trying to wedge herself into my incredible family because she got dealt a shitty one. I thought she was too full of sacchrine, her act was too syrupy to swallow. And you know what? A couple of months later, the truth was revealed. And who was right? ME. That's who. I saw through her artificial affection and her too-sweet demeanor to the slimy opportunist that was circling Chase's feet.
But, because I was "mean" to her, I've developed a slight reputation in my family of being a VERY overprotective big sister. My little brother isn't nervous about bringing girls home to meet my parents, he's nervous about bringing them to meet me. "Promise me you'll be nice," Chase said when he gently broke the news that his girlfriend would be sharing our time together this Thanksgiving.
"I am nice," I maintained. "As long as I think she's good to you."
"She is," he said. I could picture him closing his eyes and nodding, like a frustrated parent tired of explaining things to his child.
"I promise." I heard his exhale of relief through the phone. "BUT!" I amended, "If I sense something off, I'm going to tell you. And then I'll be civil, but I won't be awesome. Okay?"
I'm approaching this like Chase and his girlfriend are 14. They're both in their twenties. Technically, they're my peers. Yet I'm assuming the role of Adult to their assigned role of Child in my mind.
It's so silly. Because I know that Chase is grown. I know he's capable of judging good from bad. And I even know that this girl is really nice, and treats him really well. But I'm constantly on the lookout for people's ulterior motives when it comes to him, as though Chase The Poor College Student has anything worth stealing. It's just that he's such a good man, such a kind, giving and caring person, I'm terrified that people will take advantage of that soft, perfect part of him. I love him so much, I want to protect him. Even if he's perfectly capable of protecting himself. Even if he doesn't want me to. Even if it's silly and ridiculous and antiquated and stupid. I love him. And I'm his big sister. I always will be.
Protecting him, in whatever small way I can, is what I'll be doing for the rest of my life.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Attention World:
There’s a store in the Rockaway Townsquare Mall, that rhymes with Schmictoria’s Frecret? It may have the worst. Employees. Ever.
I walked into the store hoping to buy at least one new bra. Because a girl like me finds one bra that she falls in love with and doesn’t deviate from that until the bra decides it’s had enough of her and begins to go limp in protest of being worn day in, day out. And it was time for a new one. So I strode in, a very specific idea of what I needed in my mind. My friend had told me about this certain bra that was supposedly wonderful under T-Shirts and pushed up and did everything a bra was supposed to do while being comfortable. I needed it.
So I headed toward the correct section, scanning the wall-mounted hangers for the one I wanted. In my travels to what appeared to be the correct section, I witnessed an employee getting bitched out by a customer. In her hand, the customer held the all-too-familiar “FREE PANTY!” flyer that every American gets roughly 1,845 times a year. She was clearly complaining that the one style of panty that could actually be free was no longer available in the store. “What do you mean, you don’t have any more?” she argued. The sales girl continued her task of folding panties, all but ignoring the customer, and replied, “I mean, we don’t have anymore. Sorry.” I could understand the sales girl’s apathy. So you can’t get your free panty. Big deal lady, get over it. I shook my head at how uptight, how demanding customers could be and arrived at my section.
The racks - which are normally so neat and tidy in every other Schmictoria’s Frecret I’ve been in, and even this one on prior visits - were all in disarray. The push-up bras were mixed in with the regular ones, as were the strapless and convertible versions. There was no rhyme or reason to the size, either, and so I went for the ol’ fail-safe of going into the drawers below the displays to find my size. It’s been my experience that whatever I couldn’t find up top would be down there, an organized oasis of bras, broken down into size, style and levels of padding.
But the drawers were just as bad as the racks above them. After searching for well over twenty minutes, and not once being approached by the normally helpful staff, I had to go and seek out some help of my own.
I pride myself on not being a bothersome customer. I’m the kind of person who buys something I may not like all that much if the sales person is really nice, if they’ve helped me and didn’t make me feel like a bother and made an effort to do their jobs well. On the other hand, I will not buy something, even if I LOVE it, if the sales people ignore me, or if I have to interrupt their personal conversation to get a fitting room or pay for my item. I’ve been in customer service for years, and, well, I’ve been a customer for years, and I know how it’s supposed to go: You, the employee, are nice to the customer. You treat them like you’re glad to see them, you accommodate them, you make the sale. You treat them with respect, you are kind, and you are helpful. Because you are being paid to be there. And you know what? That customer that you hate so much for just walking into the store? She’s paying you to be there. So you act like it. And, in turn, as the customer, you’re nice and courteous. You’re not mean for no reason, you aren’t an asshole; you’re nice and accommodating, too. It’s a very symbiotic relationship when both parties are decent. So I try not to demand too much. If I can find my own size, I will. If I can let myself into a room, I will. But the employees, they’re there to help me.
Which is why I was so surprised to have to track down one of the two girls working the sales floor. One in particular had passed by me no less than four times. And the fact that she would not make eye contact with me made me believe that she was actually ignoring me on purpose. This was not the same girl who was just being bitched at for not having free panties available, this girl was carrying around bras and, I guess, hanging them up in their appropriate spots. Though the racks certainly didn’t support my assumption, so I’m sure she was just carrying them around to look busy.
I tried to catch her eye twice, but failed. So, on what must have been her fifth trip past me, I had to actually say, “Excuse me.” She looked up at me with a mix of apathy, disdain and irritation.
“Yes.”
She was dressed in the customary all-black suit that most employees wear, only she had decided to dress it up with a Louis Vuitton scarf, that was bundled loosely around her neck and made her head appear to be floating on a cloud of fake silk. (I say fake because, really, if she’s working at Schmictoria’s Frecret, can she really afford a $400 scarf? Because, hey, we all know that the Prada bag I have in my closet was purchased from a street-side vendor. I mean, c’mon, I’m a secretary.) Her reddish-brown hair was piled high above her overly made-up face, and everything about her screamed “I don’t want to be here, and I’m above you anyway.” The way she looked at me suggested I’d just crawled into the store directly from the nearest garbage can, and that I was clearly not good enough to be in the store, let alone in her presence.
Quite the contrary, I was all done up and was carrying my fancy-pants real purse. I was dressed well, and I was ready to spend money. Which, really, should make no difference. I’ve learned that you can never treat anyone like they’re broke. It's the old Don't judge a book by its cover addage. Her clear superiority complex drove me mad. What happened to treating the customer well?
I hated this woman’s attitude, but I needed something and was willing to overlook it. “Can you tell me where I can find this certain bra in my size?” I asked nicely.
She extended a bony finger and pointed past me. She was pointing at a wall maybe ten paces way and gave a fake smile. “Over there.”
I followed her finger, then turned my head back to her. “Yes, I know. I was just over there. But I can’t find my size. Can you help me?”
Her smile flickered off, then back on. Her voice went from bothered to condescending. “They’re…Right…Over…There,” she said, slowly so that I could understand her.
I’ve never been refused, when asking out-right, for help. Never in my life. “Seriously?” I said, bewildered. “Wow.” I was seriously shocked. “Well then. THANK YOU SOO-OOO MUCH FOR ALL OF YOUR HELP.” My reply's pace mirrored the sloth of her words. My eyes rolled as I spoke more loudly than necessary, hoping that she’d pick up on my sarcasm.
She didn’t. She just nodded like she’d done something helpful and walked away, bras dangling from her little demon arms.
Because I was desperate, I walked back over to that section. Only this time, I was furious. My blood was boiling. My blood pressure was high. I was incensed. I just couldn’t believe it. She’s supposed to help me. And if she’s new, or doesn’t know, she’s supposed to send someone to me who CAN help. But she didn’t.
What I wanted to do was run through the store, my arm extended, wiping panty after panty from their folded positions on the tables and onto the floor. I wanted to yank the racks from the wall. I wanted to throw bras in the air and let them fall wherever they may. I wanted to knock over mannequins and punch through the signs. I wanted to wreck the store and then walk up to her, panting, out of breath and sweaty, push my hair back from my face, take a satisfied deep breath, stand up a little straighter, adjust my purse on my shoulder and smile. “I think you have a few more bras to put back,” I’d say, flicking one of the bras in her hand as I said bras, to make sure she understood what I was talking about. Then I’d smile and point back to the disaster I’d caused and say, “Right…Over…There.” And then I’d walk out, smiling serenely and standing tall, rounding the corner to get lost in the mall crowd.
But I didn’t. I’m not aggressive. I’m passive-aggressive. Instead, I went ahead and looked at every bra, sure to take it down from its rack to check the size, then leave each one on the waist-high counter instead of putting it back. I opened the drawers and checked each one of those, too. And, naturally, I pulled each one from its drawer and left all of those wrong sizes on the counter too. When I was finished, I had found one bra: Right size, wrong color and style. So I went back over to the sales “ladies,” Little Miss Louis Vuitton and the one who was previously defending the store’s lack of panties. They were facing away from me, chatting, as I walked up behind them. As luck would have it, they were chatting about ME!
“So she says, ‘Can you help me,’ and I’m like, ‘Uh, hello. They’re right over there.’ And then she, like, rolled her –”
“Excuse me,” I said sweetly. They both startled and turned around. A guilty look flashed across their faces. “I hate to interrupt your little discussion here, but I can’t find the size in the selection right over there, so I’m going to need,” and I pointed at the saleslady I hadn’t yet spoken to, “you to help me.”
Louis Vuitton walked away, and the other one was clearly miffed that now she was stuck with me, the customer bold enough to actually ask one of them to do something.
“What did you need?” she said, looking over my shoulder. Her voice was detached and obviously uninterested in bothering with me.
“Well, your coworker told me that I could find whatever I needed over there,” I pointed behind me, then looked at her again, a smile on my face, my voice syrupy-sweet. “But I can’t seem to find it there. So I need to know if you can find it for me.”
“If it’s not over there, we don’t have it,” she said, as though she was stating the obvious. As though she couldn’t believe I was dumb enough to not understand that. It was at that point that she turned to walk away.
I don't know why I persisted, but I did. I guess it was sort of my way of not giving in to their obvious desire to just get rid of me.
“You don’t have any in the back?” I said.
She stopped, sighed, and turned to face me. “Yeah, we do.”
Maybe I'm crazy, but I just don't think I should have to ask a direct question like to make her offer to check the back for me. I thought that was part of her job. “Well, do you think you’ll have any other sizes back there?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” She confirmed, but making no effort or offer to move or check.
I took a deep breath. “Well, since you’re the one paid to be here, and I’m the one looking to pay for a bra, you think you could, oh, I don’t know, go back there and check?”
“Sure,” she said. There's just no other way to describe her tone: It was mean.
She asked for my size and said she’d be back. “Oh, first,” I said, talking to her back once again, “I need a fitting room. Would it be too much trouble to let me into one?”
“Follow me,” she said, not even turning around.
So I followed her into the fitting rooms, where she begrudgingly let me into one of the mirrored rooms. And I stepped in, closed the door behind me and tossed the bra on the little seat inside. And I let out a disgusted sigh as I prepared to try on the thing…But then I stopped. Wait a second, I thought. Do I really want either of these women to earn a commission – even a SMALL one – considering how RUDE they were? And the answer was an explicit NO.
So I opened the door and walked out, hoping she was in the back room, rifling through bins of bras and that she’d come out to find me gone. But I know better. She was probably just hiding out around the corner so she could say she checked in the back, but there weren't any for me.
It may sound a little old-fogie of me but if I had to be nice to every person whose path I crossed for the last ten years of my life in the interest of keeping my job, how do these people get away with it? And how do they not think it's wrong? And, damnit, what the hell has happened to customer service?
I may have to write a letter.
I walked into the store hoping to buy at least one new bra. Because a girl like me finds one bra that she falls in love with and doesn’t deviate from that until the bra decides it’s had enough of her and begins to go limp in protest of being worn day in, day out. And it was time for a new one. So I strode in, a very specific idea of what I needed in my mind. My friend had told me about this certain bra that was supposedly wonderful under T-Shirts and pushed up and did everything a bra was supposed to do while being comfortable. I needed it.
So I headed toward the correct section, scanning the wall-mounted hangers for the one I wanted. In my travels to what appeared to be the correct section, I witnessed an employee getting bitched out by a customer. In her hand, the customer held the all-too-familiar “FREE PANTY!” flyer that every American gets roughly 1,845 times a year. She was clearly complaining that the one style of panty that could actually be free was no longer available in the store. “What do you mean, you don’t have any more?” she argued. The sales girl continued her task of folding panties, all but ignoring the customer, and replied, “I mean, we don’t have anymore. Sorry.” I could understand the sales girl’s apathy. So you can’t get your free panty. Big deal lady, get over it. I shook my head at how uptight, how demanding customers could be and arrived at my section.
The racks - which are normally so neat and tidy in every other Schmictoria’s Frecret I’ve been in, and even this one on prior visits - were all in disarray. The push-up bras were mixed in with the regular ones, as were the strapless and convertible versions. There was no rhyme or reason to the size, either, and so I went for the ol’ fail-safe of going into the drawers below the displays to find my size. It’s been my experience that whatever I couldn’t find up top would be down there, an organized oasis of bras, broken down into size, style and levels of padding.
But the drawers were just as bad as the racks above them. After searching for well over twenty minutes, and not once being approached by the normally helpful staff, I had to go and seek out some help of my own.
I pride myself on not being a bothersome customer. I’m the kind of person who buys something I may not like all that much if the sales person is really nice, if they’ve helped me and didn’t make me feel like a bother and made an effort to do their jobs well. On the other hand, I will not buy something, even if I LOVE it, if the sales people ignore me, or if I have to interrupt their personal conversation to get a fitting room or pay for my item. I’ve been in customer service for years, and, well, I’ve been a customer for years, and I know how it’s supposed to go: You, the employee, are nice to the customer. You treat them like you’re glad to see them, you accommodate them, you make the sale. You treat them with respect, you are kind, and you are helpful. Because you are being paid to be there. And you know what? That customer that you hate so much for just walking into the store? She’s paying you to be there. So you act like it. And, in turn, as the customer, you’re nice and courteous. You’re not mean for no reason, you aren’t an asshole; you’re nice and accommodating, too. It’s a very symbiotic relationship when both parties are decent. So I try not to demand too much. If I can find my own size, I will. If I can let myself into a room, I will. But the employees, they’re there to help me.
Which is why I was so surprised to have to track down one of the two girls working the sales floor. One in particular had passed by me no less than four times. And the fact that she would not make eye contact with me made me believe that she was actually ignoring me on purpose. This was not the same girl who was just being bitched at for not having free panties available, this girl was carrying around bras and, I guess, hanging them up in their appropriate spots. Though the racks certainly didn’t support my assumption, so I’m sure she was just carrying them around to look busy.
I tried to catch her eye twice, but failed. So, on what must have been her fifth trip past me, I had to actually say, “Excuse me.” She looked up at me with a mix of apathy, disdain and irritation.
“Yes.”
She was dressed in the customary all-black suit that most employees wear, only she had decided to dress it up with a Louis Vuitton scarf, that was bundled loosely around her neck and made her head appear to be floating on a cloud of fake silk. (I say fake because, really, if she’s working at Schmictoria’s Frecret, can she really afford a $400 scarf? Because, hey, we all know that the Prada bag I have in my closet was purchased from a street-side vendor. I mean, c’mon, I’m a secretary.) Her reddish-brown hair was piled high above her overly made-up face, and everything about her screamed “I don’t want to be here, and I’m above you anyway.” The way she looked at me suggested I’d just crawled into the store directly from the nearest garbage can, and that I was clearly not good enough to be in the store, let alone in her presence.
Quite the contrary, I was all done up and was carrying my fancy-pants real purse. I was dressed well, and I was ready to spend money. Which, really, should make no difference. I’ve learned that you can never treat anyone like they’re broke. It's the old Don't judge a book by its cover addage. Her clear superiority complex drove me mad. What happened to treating the customer well?
I hated this woman’s attitude, but I needed something and was willing to overlook it. “Can you tell me where I can find this certain bra in my size?” I asked nicely.
She extended a bony finger and pointed past me. She was pointing at a wall maybe ten paces way and gave a fake smile. “Over there.”
I followed her finger, then turned my head back to her. “Yes, I know. I was just over there. But I can’t find my size. Can you help me?”
Her smile flickered off, then back on. Her voice went from bothered to condescending. “They’re…Right…Over…There,” she said, slowly so that I could understand her.
I’ve never been refused, when asking out-right, for help. Never in my life. “Seriously?” I said, bewildered. “Wow.” I was seriously shocked. “Well then. THANK YOU SOO-OOO MUCH FOR ALL OF YOUR HELP.” My reply's pace mirrored the sloth of her words. My eyes rolled as I spoke more loudly than necessary, hoping that she’d pick up on my sarcasm.
She didn’t. She just nodded like she’d done something helpful and walked away, bras dangling from her little demon arms.
Because I was desperate, I walked back over to that section. Only this time, I was furious. My blood was boiling. My blood pressure was high. I was incensed. I just couldn’t believe it. She’s supposed to help me. And if she’s new, or doesn’t know, she’s supposed to send someone to me who CAN help. But she didn’t.
What I wanted to do was run through the store, my arm extended, wiping panty after panty from their folded positions on the tables and onto the floor. I wanted to yank the racks from the wall. I wanted to throw bras in the air and let them fall wherever they may. I wanted to knock over mannequins and punch through the signs. I wanted to wreck the store and then walk up to her, panting, out of breath and sweaty, push my hair back from my face, take a satisfied deep breath, stand up a little straighter, adjust my purse on my shoulder and smile. “I think you have a few more bras to put back,” I’d say, flicking one of the bras in her hand as I said bras, to make sure she understood what I was talking about. Then I’d smile and point back to the disaster I’d caused and say, “Right…Over…There.” And then I’d walk out, smiling serenely and standing tall, rounding the corner to get lost in the mall crowd.
But I didn’t. I’m not aggressive. I’m passive-aggressive. Instead, I went ahead and looked at every bra, sure to take it down from its rack to check the size, then leave each one on the waist-high counter instead of putting it back. I opened the drawers and checked each one of those, too. And, naturally, I pulled each one from its drawer and left all of those wrong sizes on the counter too. When I was finished, I had found one bra: Right size, wrong color and style. So I went back over to the sales “ladies,” Little Miss Louis Vuitton and the one who was previously defending the store’s lack of panties. They were facing away from me, chatting, as I walked up behind them. As luck would have it, they were chatting about ME!
“So she says, ‘Can you help me,’ and I’m like, ‘Uh, hello. They’re right over there.’ And then she, like, rolled her –”
“Excuse me,” I said sweetly. They both startled and turned around. A guilty look flashed across their faces. “I hate to interrupt your little discussion here, but I can’t find the size in the selection right over there, so I’m going to need,” and I pointed at the saleslady I hadn’t yet spoken to, “you to help me.”
Louis Vuitton walked away, and the other one was clearly miffed that now she was stuck with me, the customer bold enough to actually ask one of them to do something.
“What did you need?” she said, looking over my shoulder. Her voice was detached and obviously uninterested in bothering with me.
“Well, your coworker told me that I could find whatever I needed over there,” I pointed behind me, then looked at her again, a smile on my face, my voice syrupy-sweet. “But I can’t seem to find it there. So I need to know if you can find it for me.”
“If it’s not over there, we don’t have it,” she said, as though she was stating the obvious. As though she couldn’t believe I was dumb enough to not understand that. It was at that point that she turned to walk away.
I don't know why I persisted, but I did. I guess it was sort of my way of not giving in to their obvious desire to just get rid of me.
“You don’t have any in the back?” I said.
She stopped, sighed, and turned to face me. “Yeah, we do.”
Maybe I'm crazy, but I just don't think I should have to ask a direct question like to make her offer to check the back for me. I thought that was part of her job. “Well, do you think you’ll have any other sizes back there?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” She confirmed, but making no effort or offer to move or check.
I took a deep breath. “Well, since you’re the one paid to be here, and I’m the one looking to pay for a bra, you think you could, oh, I don’t know, go back there and check?”
“Sure,” she said. There's just no other way to describe her tone: It was mean.
She asked for my size and said she’d be back. “Oh, first,” I said, talking to her back once again, “I need a fitting room. Would it be too much trouble to let me into one?”
“Follow me,” she said, not even turning around.
So I followed her into the fitting rooms, where she begrudgingly let me into one of the mirrored rooms. And I stepped in, closed the door behind me and tossed the bra on the little seat inside. And I let out a disgusted sigh as I prepared to try on the thing…But then I stopped. Wait a second, I thought. Do I really want either of these women to earn a commission – even a SMALL one – considering how RUDE they were? And the answer was an explicit NO.
So I opened the door and walked out, hoping she was in the back room, rifling through bins of bras and that she’d come out to find me gone. But I know better. She was probably just hiding out around the corner so she could say she checked in the back, but there weren't any for me.
It may sound a little old-fogie of me but if I had to be nice to every person whose path I crossed for the last ten years of my life in the interest of keeping my job, how do these people get away with it? And how do they not think it's wrong? And, damnit, what the hell has happened to customer service?
I may have to write a letter.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
The iPod Knows
Thursdays aren't my usual gym days. Not because I have a prior engagement on Thursdays, but because there's not a class that night that I enjoy taking. But this past Thursday, when my plans for the evening were canceled, I decided to make up for the cheeseburger and ton of fries I had for lunch and hit the elliptical.
With my dainty little iPod in hand, I stretched and limbered up in preparation for the hour of work ahead of me. Though I have a workout playlist, I thought I'd take my chances with Shuffle. It carried me through my warm up with a little Kanye West, the drifted into too-slow Jonny Lang. I forwarded my way through until I hit the faster songs, the ones that got me moving and made me forget about the time I had left, the miles I still wanted to go.
Looking like an idiot, I silently sang along with each song, my body trying to dance despite the fact that my feet were occupied with the machine. I moved my mouth and pumped my arms and couldn't resist tapping along with the beat on the handles. It got me through my first half hour with no problems, making me forget that I had a whole half hour left.
It was when I had to reset the elliptical at the half hour mark that I noticed it: The battery indicator on my iPod, glowing red. I was running out of time. I was tired, though, and sort of grateful that my music would soon give out, as it felt like my thighs were threatening to give out, too. So I made a deal with myself: I'd keep going as long as the iPod did.
Song after song, I waited for that indicator to flash empty and for the screen to go blank, for the techno music currently playing to come to an abrupt halt. I ached for its end, pushing myself just enough to get through until the certain snap of silence came.
But it didn't. The music kept going. And going. And going.
So did I.
And, after over a full hour on the machine, I was finally able to stop; but because my time was up, not because the iPod gave out. Sweat poured down my face and torso as I slowly removed myself from the contraption, music still pumping away directly into my eardrums.
I would've quit, I would've been happy to. But I needed to keep going, and my trusty little iPod knew that.
Thank God for technology.
With my dainty little iPod in hand, I stretched and limbered up in preparation for the hour of work ahead of me. Though I have a workout playlist, I thought I'd take my chances with Shuffle. It carried me through my warm up with a little Kanye West, the drifted into too-slow Jonny Lang. I forwarded my way through until I hit the faster songs, the ones that got me moving and made me forget about the time I had left, the miles I still wanted to go.
Looking like an idiot, I silently sang along with each song, my body trying to dance despite the fact that my feet were occupied with the machine. I moved my mouth and pumped my arms and couldn't resist tapping along with the beat on the handles. It got me through my first half hour with no problems, making me forget that I had a whole half hour left.
It was when I had to reset the elliptical at the half hour mark that I noticed it: The battery indicator on my iPod, glowing red. I was running out of time. I was tired, though, and sort of grateful that my music would soon give out, as it felt like my thighs were threatening to give out, too. So I made a deal with myself: I'd keep going as long as the iPod did.
Song after song, I waited for that indicator to flash empty and for the screen to go blank, for the techno music currently playing to come to an abrupt halt. I ached for its end, pushing myself just enough to get through until the certain snap of silence came.
But it didn't. The music kept going. And going. And going.
So did I.
And, after over a full hour on the machine, I was finally able to stop; but because my time was up, not because the iPod gave out. Sweat poured down my face and torso as I slowly removed myself from the contraption, music still pumping away directly into my eardrums.
I would've quit, I would've been happy to. But I needed to keep going, and my trusty little iPod knew that.
Thank God for technology.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Maps
"Can I get you guys something to drink?" the hostess asked, leaning over and into us. We turned away from the sushi bar before us to face her. I looked at Billy, unsure of what he'd like.
He spoke. "Can we get a coke," he put his long fingers on his own chest, "and a pinot grigiot?" He grabbed my hand.
"Sure. Of course."
The hostess's heels clicked over the stone floor on her way to the bar. I wrapped Billy's hand in my own. "I love that," I said, leaning in to kiss the stubble on his cheek.
"What?"
"That you knew I'd want a pinot without my asking."
Dating someone for a significant period of time allows you access to little pieces of them that not everyone gets to see. Sure, everyone I know knows that I love wine. But he knows that I love it with my sushi. And he knew, without my announcing it, that I'd like to indulge.
I know how he likes his coffee, I know that he likes the toilet paper over the roll, never under. I know that he likes to leave the window in the car open for a little while after we throw out our cigarettes. I know the face he makes in the mirror when he's assessing his shirt/tie combination. I know all of that.
Yesterday, he received two ties he'd ordered over the internet. He tore into the manila package with the anticipation of an eight year old on Christmas morning. He was giddy as he removed each silk accessory from its individual wrapping, letting the tie fall to its full length in front of me. "Look at this one," he purred, pulling the clear plastic off.
He surveyed their quality, he held them up to his long torso. "Whaddya think?" he asked, tilting his head to the side in mock coyness.
"It's beautiful," I said, laughing at him. "Is this what I'm like with a new pair of shoes?"
"Yes," he replied, setting the tie gingerly on the ottoman in front of us.
He hung up the ties in our closet, unsure of which one he'd wear today before we settled in for our DVR'd viewing of Lost.
Today, he called me on his way to work. After cooing good morning to one another, he asked me how my day was. I gave him my standard response of, "Eh. Fine. Yours?"
"Well, I watched some TV. Then I got ready, and now I'm driving to work. Aaaand, I'm wearing one of my new ties."
"Which one?" I asked, smiling and cradling the phone between my shoulder and my ear.
"Guess."
"Umm...The Ted Baker one. The one with the circles."
"Babe," he said, "how do you know me so well?"
In truth, I had a 50/50 shot to get that right. I could've just guessed and gotten lucky. But I didn't. Because of the way he tied it not once, but twice around his neck last night; a dry run for the tie. The way he surveyed it for pulls and irregularities. The way he considered the color of shirt to wear with it. He placed both new ties on the rack carefully and gingerly, but he fondled the circle tie just a hair more.
The thing is, people talk about the honeymoon phase all the time. The first few months of a relationship that find both parties blissful and enamored of one another. The period of time where they can't be torn from their lover's side, where everything that certain someone does is cute and romantic and wonderful. It's the time when butterflies tumble through your belly, each kiss is delicious and new, each spoken word of affection merely a stepping stone to love. Your stomach does somersaults while you wait for the relationship to take shape, you shave your legs every day, you buy new underwear, you wait for his call. It's hot and dizzying and wonderful...
And it lasts for about three months.
Then suddenly, you're in a relationship. And you're talking about the most mundane things over dinner. You talk about work and you share stories you've shared with one another a million times. You find yourself saying, "Did I tell you this already?" with the tone of voice that implies you know you have. You settle into a routine and you stop shaving your legs because, hey, it's winter and he loves me anyway; and you stop filling up silences with plush and giddy conversation. There is no need for filler in your lives any longer. You eat together, you wake together, you fall asleep together. You remind each other to "remember your phone" and "take your pill" and you start buying toilet paper and Tub'N'Tile cleaner and you can't remember the last time you wore a bustier.
And that honeymoon stage is great. It is. But this, this year-into-it, comfortable-with-each-other phase? It's so much better. Because along with no longer shaving every day, you no longer worry that maybe he doesn't love you like he says he does. You no longer feel like he loves you because you apply your makeup with the hand of an artist. He loves you for the skin and bones beneath it. He loves you when you wake up, your hair standing on end, with bad breath and sleep in your eyes. He loves you in your heels, but he loves you out of them, when he can wrap you in his arms and playfully call you "Shortie."
And you know one another. You aren't shy, and you aren't afraid, and you feel comfortable. And not the kind of comfortable that fosters laziness and neglect; the kind that feels like blankets and chamomile tea and a good book. He's no longer an amphetamine, he's a glass of wine and deep kiss, slow and certain.
And he is. He's my home, my favorite meal, the sweet surprise of the wine that stays on my lips after a drink. He's my safe place, my solace. I know my way around him inch-by-inch, and he's embedded with a road map of me. And I love that we still have roads to learn.
I've never been happier.
He spoke. "Can we get a coke," he put his long fingers on his own chest, "and a pinot grigiot?" He grabbed my hand.
"Sure. Of course."
The hostess's heels clicked over the stone floor on her way to the bar. I wrapped Billy's hand in my own. "I love that," I said, leaning in to kiss the stubble on his cheek.
"What?"
"That you knew I'd want a pinot without my asking."
Dating someone for a significant period of time allows you access to little pieces of them that not everyone gets to see. Sure, everyone I know knows that I love wine. But he knows that I love it with my sushi. And he knew, without my announcing it, that I'd like to indulge.
I know how he likes his coffee, I know that he likes the toilet paper over the roll, never under. I know that he likes to leave the window in the car open for a little while after we throw out our cigarettes. I know the face he makes in the mirror when he's assessing his shirt/tie combination. I know all of that.
Yesterday, he received two ties he'd ordered over the internet. He tore into the manila package with the anticipation of an eight year old on Christmas morning. He was giddy as he removed each silk accessory from its individual wrapping, letting the tie fall to its full length in front of me. "Look at this one," he purred, pulling the clear plastic off.
He surveyed their quality, he held them up to his long torso. "Whaddya think?" he asked, tilting his head to the side in mock coyness.
"It's beautiful," I said, laughing at him. "Is this what I'm like with a new pair of shoes?"
"Yes," he replied, setting the tie gingerly on the ottoman in front of us.
He hung up the ties in our closet, unsure of which one he'd wear today before we settled in for our DVR'd viewing of Lost.
Today, he called me on his way to work. After cooing good morning to one another, he asked me how my day was. I gave him my standard response of, "Eh. Fine. Yours?"
"Well, I watched some TV. Then I got ready, and now I'm driving to work. Aaaand, I'm wearing one of my new ties."
"Which one?" I asked, smiling and cradling the phone between my shoulder and my ear.
"Guess."
"Umm...The Ted Baker one. The one with the circles."
"Babe," he said, "how do you know me so well?"
In truth, I had a 50/50 shot to get that right. I could've just guessed and gotten lucky. But I didn't. Because of the way he tied it not once, but twice around his neck last night; a dry run for the tie. The way he surveyed it for pulls and irregularities. The way he considered the color of shirt to wear with it. He placed both new ties on the rack carefully and gingerly, but he fondled the circle tie just a hair more.
The thing is, people talk about the honeymoon phase all the time. The first few months of a relationship that find both parties blissful and enamored of one another. The period of time where they can't be torn from their lover's side, where everything that certain someone does is cute and romantic and wonderful. It's the time when butterflies tumble through your belly, each kiss is delicious and new, each spoken word of affection merely a stepping stone to love. Your stomach does somersaults while you wait for the relationship to take shape, you shave your legs every day, you buy new underwear, you wait for his call. It's hot and dizzying and wonderful...
And it lasts for about three months.
Then suddenly, you're in a relationship. And you're talking about the most mundane things over dinner. You talk about work and you share stories you've shared with one another a million times. You find yourself saying, "Did I tell you this already?" with the tone of voice that implies you know you have. You settle into a routine and you stop shaving your legs because, hey, it's winter and he loves me anyway; and you stop filling up silences with plush and giddy conversation. There is no need for filler in your lives any longer. You eat together, you wake together, you fall asleep together. You remind each other to "remember your phone" and "take your pill" and you start buying toilet paper and Tub'N'Tile cleaner and you can't remember the last time you wore a bustier.
And that honeymoon stage is great. It is. But this, this year-into-it, comfortable-with-each-other phase? It's so much better. Because along with no longer shaving every day, you no longer worry that maybe he doesn't love you like he says he does. You no longer feel like he loves you because you apply your makeup with the hand of an artist. He loves you for the skin and bones beneath it. He loves you when you wake up, your hair standing on end, with bad breath and sleep in your eyes. He loves you in your heels, but he loves you out of them, when he can wrap you in his arms and playfully call you "Shortie."
And you know one another. You aren't shy, and you aren't afraid, and you feel comfortable. And not the kind of comfortable that fosters laziness and neglect; the kind that feels like blankets and chamomile tea and a good book. He's no longer an amphetamine, he's a glass of wine and deep kiss, slow and certain.
And he is. He's my home, my favorite meal, the sweet surprise of the wine that stays on my lips after a drink. He's my safe place, my solace. I know my way around him inch-by-inch, and he's embedded with a road map of me. And I love that we still have roads to learn.
I've never been happier.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
What Women Know
We know we're supposed to be treated well, that he's supposed to notice that our toenails are the same color of the pinot noir we drink, that our eyes are the color of glaciers. We know we want to live in love songs, the kind they play on country stations. We know we want to be called beautiful, to feel alive in his presence, to feel desirable, to feel wanted. We know we want flowers and birthday cards with mushy notes written in black ink in his sloppy handwriting, gifts for no reason. We want hand holding and stolen kisses and sweet words whispered between soft sheets. We know we want to be appreciated, to feel smart. We want him to laugh at our jokes, and give us the kind eyes of empathy when something's gone wrong. We know we want to feel like the only woman in the world in his eyes.
We want romance. We're supposed to look, keep looking, until we find the kind of fairy tale we've seen in a million movies, on a million diamond ring commercials. We're not supposed to settle. We're not supposed to put up with anything but perfection, that a man who loves us will do anything he can to keep us by his side.
We know we're supposed to find a man who will love us like our parents do, unconditionally and without exception. We're supposed to find the man who will adore us like our fathers have, who will dote on us like our mothers. We know we want him to think we're most beautiful first thing in the morning, with messy hair and sleepy eyes. We know we want him to dedicate love songs and leave us love notes. We want him to love us for who we are beneath the breasts and the tiny waist and the curves of a woman.
We want to know he's there for us. We want to know he's someone we can turn to when in trouble. We want to be able to rely on him; for safety, security, protection, comfort.
We know we're supposed to take care of him in return. We know we should make ourselves beautiful for him; wear frilly underthings and lingerie with black stockings and high heels. We know to make him feel special, to be excited to see him. We wash his shirts and tandem with our own, marrying our loads of laundry to show him we care. We get him gifts, tell him he looks handsome, tell him we need him. We know to make him feel needed and wanted, just as much as we need to feel needed ourselves.
We know it takes work. We know we will fight and disagree and not see eye to eye. We know we'll say things we don't mean, and that he will do the same. We know we will cry - with joy and sadness. We know it will love him so much that it hurts. And we know that very love will make us more vulnerable to pain. We know that he'll know how to hurt us like no one else, but the he can make us happier than anyone else could ever dream.
We want romance. We're supposed to look, keep looking, until we find the kind of fairy tale we've seen in a million movies, on a million diamond ring commercials. We're not supposed to settle. We're not supposed to put up with anything but perfection, that a man who loves us will do anything he can to keep us by his side.
We know we're supposed to find a man who will love us like our parents do, unconditionally and without exception. We're supposed to find the man who will adore us like our fathers have, who will dote on us like our mothers. We know we want him to think we're most beautiful first thing in the morning, with messy hair and sleepy eyes. We know we want him to dedicate love songs and leave us love notes. We want him to love us for who we are beneath the breasts and the tiny waist and the curves of a woman.
We want to know he's there for us. We want to know he's someone we can turn to when in trouble. We want to be able to rely on him; for safety, security, protection, comfort.
We know we're supposed to take care of him in return. We know we should make ourselves beautiful for him; wear frilly underthings and lingerie with black stockings and high heels. We know to make him feel special, to be excited to see him. We wash his shirts and tandem with our own, marrying our loads of laundry to show him we care. We get him gifts, tell him he looks handsome, tell him we need him. We know to make him feel needed and wanted, just as much as we need to feel needed ourselves.
We know it takes work. We know we will fight and disagree and not see eye to eye. We know we'll say things we don't mean, and that he will do the same. We know we will cry - with joy and sadness. We know it will love him so much that it hurts. And we know that very love will make us more vulnerable to pain. We know that he'll know how to hurt us like no one else, but the he can make us happier than anyone else could ever dream.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Take the Good with the Bad
Does it say something about how my week is going to go - or at least about how my day will go - when I come in to work to find a dead mouse under my desk? Is that some kind of omen? He didn't die of natural causes, so it's not like he came here to die or anything. But of all the mousetraps in all of my office, he had to eat out of mine.
It started when I came in this morning to see my two coworkers taking the garbage out behind my desk. They thought there must've been food in there, and that's where the slight odor was coming from. But, an hour later and the smell was still around. After three blasts of Fabreeze Air Effects, I finally moved the garbage can to see if food had somehow fallen behind the bin itself. And there it was: A mouse, curled up, post mortem, hiding behind my trash can. After yelping and calling out to my boss to "GET IT OUT OF HERE" (because he set the trap and is therefore responsible for removal of the corpse), it's gone...But it seems to be the icing on top of the really shitty cake that is today.
Because I woke up feeling ill-at-ease, due to a dream I must've had somewhere between falling asleep wrapped in the arms of my boyfriend around midnight, and waking up sweaty and panicked at 6:30. The details of the dream escape me, but I know I must've done something very, very wrong in it.
And I have a pimple the size of a small animal growing out of my face. It's one of those that is impossible to cover up without the use of a veil or bandana worn robber-style. It's just too round and robust to compete with any makeup. And, naturally, it's the first and only thing I see when I look in the mirror. I'll go to check my eye makeup, and my eyes will automatically travel down to my chin, where I see the pimple gestating. I think, last time I looked, I saw a horn or a leg forming. I can't be sure which.
So, while tilting my head just so to allow minimum visibility of said blemish, I decided to just get to work. And trying to open my email proved to be too much for my Dell to handle. I'd click the icon, and my computer would think for a minute, then shake its head vigorously from side to side and cross its little wire arms and refuse to open it. Then it decided that I couldn't have Word, either. Or Excel. OR the internet. That was my breaking point. So I shut down.
OVER AN HOUR LATER, I'm finally back up and running. That hour included, but was not limited to: Having to End Task my way out of every program running on my computer, as it would not allow me to manually close them out. Waiting for my computer to end said tasks. The Shut Down dialogue box coming up three times, only to disappear before I could click "OK." Finally clicking the box, only to have the computer go ahead and end a bunch of programs I wasn't even aware of. Going through the arduous process of letting it shut down. Then facing the even more challenging process of getting it started again. Once it was running again, I decided it best to do a virus scan. Which came back clean, but would not let me run any other programs while it was sweeping.
It was in the middle of this process that I found the mouse.
BUT. We did get the new Playboy in the office today - the one with Cindy Margolis "Nude, for the first time ever!" in it. So I guess it's all about the yin and the yang today.
It started when I came in this morning to see my two coworkers taking the garbage out behind my desk. They thought there must've been food in there, and that's where the slight odor was coming from. But, an hour later and the smell was still around. After three blasts of Fabreeze Air Effects, I finally moved the garbage can to see if food had somehow fallen behind the bin itself. And there it was: A mouse, curled up, post mortem, hiding behind my trash can. After yelping and calling out to my boss to "GET IT OUT OF HERE" (because he set the trap and is therefore responsible for removal of the corpse), it's gone...But it seems to be the icing on top of the really shitty cake that is today.
Because I woke up feeling ill-at-ease, due to a dream I must've had somewhere between falling asleep wrapped in the arms of my boyfriend around midnight, and waking up sweaty and panicked at 6:30. The details of the dream escape me, but I know I must've done something very, very wrong in it.
And I have a pimple the size of a small animal growing out of my face. It's one of those that is impossible to cover up without the use of a veil or bandana worn robber-style. It's just too round and robust to compete with any makeup. And, naturally, it's the first and only thing I see when I look in the mirror. I'll go to check my eye makeup, and my eyes will automatically travel down to my chin, where I see the pimple gestating. I think, last time I looked, I saw a horn or a leg forming. I can't be sure which.
So, while tilting my head just so to allow minimum visibility of said blemish, I decided to just get to work. And trying to open my email proved to be too much for my Dell to handle. I'd click the icon, and my computer would think for a minute, then shake its head vigorously from side to side and cross its little wire arms and refuse to open it. Then it decided that I couldn't have Word, either. Or Excel. OR the internet. That was my breaking point. So I shut down.
OVER AN HOUR LATER, I'm finally back up and running. That hour included, but was not limited to: Having to End Task my way out of every program running on my computer, as it would not allow me to manually close them out. Waiting for my computer to end said tasks. The Shut Down dialogue box coming up three times, only to disappear before I could click "OK." Finally clicking the box, only to have the computer go ahead and end a bunch of programs I wasn't even aware of. Going through the arduous process of letting it shut down. Then facing the even more challenging process of getting it started again. Once it was running again, I decided it best to do a virus scan. Which came back clean, but would not let me run any other programs while it was sweeping.
It was in the middle of this process that I found the mouse.
BUT. We did get the new Playboy in the office today - the one with Cindy Margolis "Nude, for the first time ever!" in it. So I guess it's all about the yin and the yang today.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
I'm Very Busy on Saturdays
It's noon on Saturday, and I'm sitting in my bed, my toenails wet, and watching The Real World/Road Rules Challenge: The Duel. I've been watching either MTV or VH1 all morning and fixing my feet. Because something happens to a woman when the need to wear open toed shoes suddenly vanishes with the first gust of cold winter air: She forgets, almost entirely, about her feet. So the polish sort of starts to flake off and look pretty gnarly. Add to that the fact that my poor toenail has been broken down the center for, oh, about three weeks now, and I've been bandaging it up every day to avoid its jagged edges getting caught on socks and whatnot, and my feet are in a pretty sad state. Every day, I say I'm going to sit down and make a new, complete toenail out of nail glue and cotton balls to eliminate the need for the ceremonial morning toe-wrapping. But every day, I think of something I'd rather do. Like, go out to eat or have a glass of wine, or watch TV, or play on the computer or do laundry or just sit and stare at the wall. Anything, really. So, this morning, somewhere between the Making the Band 3 marathon and the VH1 Top Twenty Countdown, I decided to go for it and do my toes.
Now, a mess of nail glue, one cotton ball, one pair of ruined, gluey scissors, one ruined, gluey nail clipper, a set of THREE nail files, two types of paint, a lot of contortionism, some Q-tips and one oh-shit-I-glued-my-fingers-together incident, my toes are now polished a lovely shade of deep, deep maroon and currently drying.
The thing is, it's my Saturday off, and this is all I'm doing. I mean, I always have these big plans for the infrequent Saturday I'm not forced to spend in the office. I think, "I'll go shopping!" Or "I'll clean the house!" Or "I'm going to clean my car!" I always think I'll be getting up and at 'em early and keep going all day, because I'm not in the office. But this is what always ends up happening. I lay in bed, I think about doing other stuff, and then I watch all the reality television my brain can handle with out melting, and I don't get out of bed until about 2.
Which means, I guess, that I can stay here for two more hours.
Now, a mess of nail glue, one cotton ball, one pair of ruined, gluey scissors, one ruined, gluey nail clipper, a set of THREE nail files, two types of paint, a lot of contortionism, some Q-tips and one oh-shit-I-glued-my-fingers-together incident, my toes are now polished a lovely shade of deep, deep maroon and currently drying.
The thing is, it's my Saturday off, and this is all I'm doing. I mean, I always have these big plans for the infrequent Saturday I'm not forced to spend in the office. I think, "I'll go shopping!" Or "I'll clean the house!" Or "I'm going to clean my car!" I always think I'll be getting up and at 'em early and keep going all day, because I'm not in the office. But this is what always ends up happening. I lay in bed, I think about doing other stuff, and then I watch all the reality television my brain can handle with out melting, and I don't get out of bed until about 2.
Which means, I guess, that I can stay here for two more hours.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Deal
It'd been days since I've spoken to either of my parents. Not because we're fighting or because I didn't want to talk to them, just because I hadn't been thoughtful enough to call. My mom usually calls or emails every day, and since we'd gone a few days without words, I figured I'd better get to callin' before she got mad. My dad, however, is different; he's not the type to call for no reason, just to catch up. Daddy and I are a lot alike. Neither of us has much need for the telephone, and calling, for us, is limited to necessity: You need to make a plan or share news, you call. To talk about nothing? Nah. I'd rather read a book.
I was surprised when he answered because normally, when the phone rings, he looks up from his book or the TV or his dinner, and at the phone invariably placed right next to him with unmasked indifference. He smiles, and says "Phone's ringin'." Mom, Chase or I would scramble to answer before the jingling stopped, usually uttering something playful along the lines of "God forbid you answer it," or "You just know it's not for you," as we hit the talk button. He chuckles to himself, his mustache curling with the corners of his mouth.
But, on this call, he picks up. His deep voice issues a sunny hello.
"Hey Daddy," I say, my is voice tired from the gym, but happy to hear him.
"Well hello there," he replies, his words strong and southern. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," I tell him. I sit on the bed, holding the phone with one hand, scrunching my wet, fresh-from-the-shower hair with the other.
"You eating dinner?"
"I ate already. I was at the gym. I just ate a sandwich. What are you doing?"
"Well, nothing, really. We just got home."
"Where'd you go?"
"Oh, we had to go up to West Point to get your mom's ID card renewed. Then we went to Perkins for some supper. Then we got home and took Sammy outside." The way he says Sammy's name tells me that the Golden Retriever is somewhere nearby. "So we ran around for a little bit out there, and then we came inside." When Daddy takes Sam outside, he throws old, chewed up tennis balls into the trees surrounding our house so that the reddish-gold Sam can bound through the yard to pick them up. They play every day, until it gets dark or one of them gets tired. It's their little ritual.
"Well that's nice."
"Yeah," he says. I can hear his standard half-smile in his voice. "What about you?"
"Oh, same as always: I went to work. I went to the gym tonight, did some kickboxing, then I came home, showered, ate my Subway from last night, and now I'm talking to you."
I hear the TV in the background instead of him.
"Daddy?"
"Huh? Yeah. Hold on..." His voice trails off. He's distracted, watching TV. I cradle my little silver cell-phone between my shoulder and my ear, start picking on my nails, and wait for him to return. "Well, Iiii'll be," comes his southern colloquialism of surprise. He sounds more and more like my grandfather, his father, every day. "Clive Cussler has a new book out." He's watching a commercial for it on the TV. "I guess I'll have to remember that. I only have two un-read books in my little library, so I can't start them until I have a new one to read."
"Huh? Daddy, that doesn't even make sense," I joke.
"Well, you know, it's so I have another book there for when I finish one. I like to have a couple lined up. Because, you ever read a book, and you like it and the characters so much, that you're almost sad when it's over?"
I smile. I know exactly. I'm the same way. "Yeah."
"Well, that's how I am. So I need something else to go to next." I make a mental note of the book.
He goes on to tell me about the main character, and how all of the books are set in present day, so the hero's got to be "gettin' up there" in age. He tells me about the story lines, the characters. I sit on the other end of the line, just listening to him. So unusual for him to just want to talk.
He tells me about his meetings at work, his schedule, the pile of mail I have waiting for me there. "I'll come pick it up," I say begrudgingly. The standing joke is that I never take my junk mail. Only the important envelopes: The bills and the correspondence.
"Well, I think I put in a bill in there, but it's hard to tell, because your little basket is so full of mail."
I sigh dramatically. "I'll come pick it all up," I huff with a smile.
His response is a good natured, half-believing "Okay then."
"So, is my mother around?" I ask.
"Maybe. What's it worth to you?"
"Uuuhhh...A visit?" I grin, even though he can't see me. I always feel like a little girl around him.
"Hmm. A visit...And maybe a hug?" he suggests.
"Yeah, I could do that." I laugh.
"Well, that sounds like a good deal to me." His smile is audible.
Much like we don't care for the telephone, and feel sad when we finish good books, my father and I are both not much for affection. My mom jokes that she used to suffocate my dad when they first married, her desire for touch was so great. And my dad? Not so much. Typically German, he's all about less being more in terms of endearment. So his insistence that a hug be included in my deal touched me for some reason.
A few nights ago, I was at a friend's house when her sister stopped by. It was Halloween, and my friend's sister had brought her daughter along, in costume. We exchanged "hello"s and "good to see you"s while the young daughter ran around the house chasing my friend's cat. My father works with my friend's sister, so we talked a little bit about what's going on work-wise.
"Watch this," the sister said to me conspiratorially. She called to her daughter. "You know Mike, at my work?" she said to her daughter. "That's Laurie's dad." I couldn't see her daughter's reaction, but the sister turned to me with a smile on her face. "She just loves your father. Talks his ear off every time I bring her into the office."
The daughter rounded the corner hesitantly, sizing me up. I smiled at her. "You like my dad, huh?" I said sweetly. She kicked at the floor in response; shy. "Yeah, I like him, too."
People love my father. At every turn, I run into people who tell me what a good man he is. He's so tall, and can be so imposing, but he's just so sweet. With his southern drawl, his mane of salt and pepper hair, his ever-present thick gray mustache, and the wrinkles from a million smiles around his big blue eyes, he's every bit the gentleman. And he's all mine.
"Well then, it's a deal," I reply to my father, getting a little teary for some reason. It's odd how appreciating what you have escapes you so easily. I have possibly the two cutest and greatest parents on the earth.
"Well, alright, sweetie. Here's your mom. Love you."
"I love you, too, Daddy."
I was surprised when he answered because normally, when the phone rings, he looks up from his book or the TV or his dinner, and at the phone invariably placed right next to him with unmasked indifference. He smiles, and says "Phone's ringin'." Mom, Chase or I would scramble to answer before the jingling stopped, usually uttering something playful along the lines of "God forbid you answer it," or "You just know it's not for you," as we hit the talk button. He chuckles to himself, his mustache curling with the corners of his mouth.
But, on this call, he picks up. His deep voice issues a sunny hello.
"Hey Daddy," I say, my is voice tired from the gym, but happy to hear him.
"Well hello there," he replies, his words strong and southern. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," I tell him. I sit on the bed, holding the phone with one hand, scrunching my wet, fresh-from-the-shower hair with the other.
"You eating dinner?"
"I ate already. I was at the gym. I just ate a sandwich. What are you doing?"
"Well, nothing, really. We just got home."
"Where'd you go?"
"Oh, we had to go up to West Point to get your mom's ID card renewed. Then we went to Perkins for some supper. Then we got home and took Sammy outside." The way he says Sammy's name tells me that the Golden Retriever is somewhere nearby. "So we ran around for a little bit out there, and then we came inside." When Daddy takes Sam outside, he throws old, chewed up tennis balls into the trees surrounding our house so that the reddish-gold Sam can bound through the yard to pick them up. They play every day, until it gets dark or one of them gets tired. It's their little ritual.
"Well that's nice."
"Yeah," he says. I can hear his standard half-smile in his voice. "What about you?"
"Oh, same as always: I went to work. I went to the gym tonight, did some kickboxing, then I came home, showered, ate my Subway from last night, and now I'm talking to you."
I hear the TV in the background instead of him.
"Daddy?"
"Huh? Yeah. Hold on..." His voice trails off. He's distracted, watching TV. I cradle my little silver cell-phone between my shoulder and my ear, start picking on my nails, and wait for him to return. "Well, Iiii'll be," comes his southern colloquialism of surprise. He sounds more and more like my grandfather, his father, every day. "Clive Cussler has a new book out." He's watching a commercial for it on the TV. "I guess I'll have to remember that. I only have two un-read books in my little library, so I can't start them until I have a new one to read."
"Huh? Daddy, that doesn't even make sense," I joke.
"Well, you know, it's so I have another book there for when I finish one. I like to have a couple lined up. Because, you ever read a book, and you like it and the characters so much, that you're almost sad when it's over?"
I smile. I know exactly. I'm the same way. "Yeah."
"Well, that's how I am. So I need something else to go to next." I make a mental note of the book.
He goes on to tell me about the main character, and how all of the books are set in present day, so the hero's got to be "gettin' up there" in age. He tells me about the story lines, the characters. I sit on the other end of the line, just listening to him. So unusual for him to just want to talk.
He tells me about his meetings at work, his schedule, the pile of mail I have waiting for me there. "I'll come pick it up," I say begrudgingly. The standing joke is that I never take my junk mail. Only the important envelopes: The bills and the correspondence.
"Well, I think I put in a bill in there, but it's hard to tell, because your little basket is so full of mail."
I sigh dramatically. "I'll come pick it all up," I huff with a smile.
His response is a good natured, half-believing "Okay then."
"So, is my mother around?" I ask.
"Maybe. What's it worth to you?"
"Uuuhhh...A visit?" I grin, even though he can't see me. I always feel like a little girl around him.
"Hmm. A visit...And maybe a hug?" he suggests.
"Yeah, I could do that." I laugh.
"Well, that sounds like a good deal to me." His smile is audible.
Much like we don't care for the telephone, and feel sad when we finish good books, my father and I are both not much for affection. My mom jokes that she used to suffocate my dad when they first married, her desire for touch was so great. And my dad? Not so much. Typically German, he's all about less being more in terms of endearment. So his insistence that a hug be included in my deal touched me for some reason.
A few nights ago, I was at a friend's house when her sister stopped by. It was Halloween, and my friend's sister had brought her daughter along, in costume. We exchanged "hello"s and "good to see you"s while the young daughter ran around the house chasing my friend's cat. My father works with my friend's sister, so we talked a little bit about what's going on work-wise.
"Watch this," the sister said to me conspiratorially. She called to her daughter. "You know Mike, at my work?" she said to her daughter. "That's Laurie's dad." I couldn't see her daughter's reaction, but the sister turned to me with a smile on her face. "She just loves your father. Talks his ear off every time I bring her into the office."
The daughter rounded the corner hesitantly, sizing me up. I smiled at her. "You like my dad, huh?" I said sweetly. She kicked at the floor in response; shy. "Yeah, I like him, too."
People love my father. At every turn, I run into people who tell me what a good man he is. He's so tall, and can be so imposing, but he's just so sweet. With his southern drawl, his mane of salt and pepper hair, his ever-present thick gray mustache, and the wrinkles from a million smiles around his big blue eyes, he's every bit the gentleman. And he's all mine.
"Well then, it's a deal," I reply to my father, getting a little teary for some reason. It's odd how appreciating what you have escapes you so easily. I have possibly the two cutest and greatest parents on the earth.
"Well, alright, sweetie. Here's your mom. Love you."
"I love you, too, Daddy."
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The War on Terror
Mental Terrorism. It’s an act committed usually by one half of a relationship against the other half, sometimes it's self-inflicted. Either way, it's harsh and terrible. It is not gender specific, and at any point, terrorized may become terrorist; Soemtimes, they're one in the same. But it’s not a battle that begets blood. It’s cunning and tricky; Intellectual war games.
A terrorist knows where your buttons are, and exactly how to push them. He knows your neuroses, and capitalizes on them. If he’s very good at his hideous craft, he will hit you in ten places at once. A sort of one-man divide-and-conquer battle plan. He knows you’re expecting him to call on his way home. So he doesn’t. He’ll say it’s because he forgot, but he knows how you get when you don’t hear from people. You feel like your target has been hit twice in one fell swoop. He refuses to answer you when you’re in a fight, clamming up entirely, possibly even turning his back to you, while you are still in fits of anger over whatever stupid subject has come up between you. He knows you hate this because A) you can’t stand to be ignored, B) you always feel the need to TALK, dammit, and C) it makes you wonder if you’ve 1) pissed him off or 2) suggested something in your last line of questions/assaults/accusations/inquiries that hit a little too close to home for him, so now you’re going to relive that last tirade and wonder which of those things rang true. He’ll say he’s clamming up for you; his silence is his way of sparing you, his way of getting over it slowly. But you feel like this kind of impact is exponentially deeper than just calling you names or yelling.
Because terrorists know that name-calling and yelling are useless tools when in war. They know that well-chosen words can slice like finely-sharpened blades. Names? Yelling? That just makes you angry, makes you want to fight back. So he knows that a lot of silence mixed in with biting chill and a dash of a good vocabulary can sting and wound, and those lacerations are enough to drive you mental. Because if he’s not really “fighting” you, if his attack is sneaky and undefined, how can you fight back? EXACTLY. You can’t.
Even if you are only terrorizing yourself, as the terrorized, what do you? Not much, really. The whole battle may even be all in your head. So you can give up worrying, because you finally realized that worrying about it all the time is just the equivalent of being a kamikaze; You're just killing yourself. You won’t cry and beg and ask what’s wrong, you won’t try to figure out what you can do to make it better. Because that’s only making you miserable, and his victory that much sweeter. You’ve been a passive-aggressive terrorist before. You know what it’s like to be on the throwing end of the grenades. You also know what it’s like to be on the receiving end. And you used to catch those grenades and try to dismantle them. But now? You just duck.
In the privacy of your room, you pour your feelings into page after unpublished-page of Blogger and Vox. In the privacy of your car, you replay the same song over and over again, until you’re numb to the words; until John Mayer's “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” is just beautiful imagery and good writing, not a metaphor for your relationship right now. You buy that CD the night of the fight, you play it until the words are memorized, and you continue to play it until the words no longer bring tears to your eyes. It’s your way of battening down the hatches, mounting your offensive, steeling yourself for battle. You email your good friend from your work computer, where the day is endless in its uncertainty. You complain and make jokes about your OCD and your anxiety and your paranoia. Because the person you’re emailing with, she knows you and she knows your other half and she calms you. She knows you’re just preparing yourself for the fight. Getting it out of you when he’s not around makes you a better warrior. You know it.
And you don’t cry. Not this time. Because it’s futile. Maybe alone, if you have to, but not in his presence. It doesn’t soften him, it doesn’t make him bend to you, it doesn’t make him put down his weapons. And, anyway, as far as you’re concerned, tears are as good in battle as white flags. Who’s surrendering? Not you.
You’ll fight because you’re used to fighting. You have the shell shock to prove it. But you won’t stay mad for long. You realize that, already, shortly after the battle has begun, it becomes about winning and pride and who caved first. It’s no longer a battle over something important; now it has mutated into a battle of will. You may not even remember why the war was waged.
So you do what you must to make yourself stronger. You prepare and sharpen your blade and shine your shield, even though you know you won’t use either of those things. You slam your helmet down lazily on your head, apathy coursing through you. “Let’s get this over with.” It's just not that important to fight, or to win. It's just important that it finishes.
When you see the him, you act like things haven’t changed, like nothing is wrong. You may feel like he’s punishing you by pushing your buttons, making you worry, but you won’t bow to what you’ve perceived is his demand to cower. Nor will you stoop to the level of conniving woman. You do the things you always do, like life is normal: You bring him his coffee in the morning. You buy him dinner, even if he doesn’t eat it. You wash his clothes and hang his shirts and ball his socks. And even when he lies next to you in bed, not speaking, you’ll try to initiate conversation. Not meekly, or unsure, but like nothing is wrong. Is it an admission of defeat? No. Is it an olive branch by way of Downy and Starbucks? No. It’s going about your daily life.
Because we all know that fear is a terrorist’s greatest weapon.
Even if you are your own terrorist sometimes.
A terrorist knows where your buttons are, and exactly how to push them. He knows your neuroses, and capitalizes on them. If he’s very good at his hideous craft, he will hit you in ten places at once. A sort of one-man divide-and-conquer battle plan. He knows you’re expecting him to call on his way home. So he doesn’t. He’ll say it’s because he forgot, but he knows how you get when you don’t hear from people. You feel like your target has been hit twice in one fell swoop. He refuses to answer you when you’re in a fight, clamming up entirely, possibly even turning his back to you, while you are still in fits of anger over whatever stupid subject has come up between you. He knows you hate this because A) you can’t stand to be ignored, B) you always feel the need to TALK, dammit, and C) it makes you wonder if you’ve 1) pissed him off or 2) suggested something in your last line of questions/assaults/accusations/inquiries that hit a little too close to home for him, so now you’re going to relive that last tirade and wonder which of those things rang true. He’ll say he’s clamming up for you; his silence is his way of sparing you, his way of getting over it slowly. But you feel like this kind of impact is exponentially deeper than just calling you names or yelling.
Because terrorists know that name-calling and yelling are useless tools when in war. They know that well-chosen words can slice like finely-sharpened blades. Names? Yelling? That just makes you angry, makes you want to fight back. So he knows that a lot of silence mixed in with biting chill and a dash of a good vocabulary can sting and wound, and those lacerations are enough to drive you mental. Because if he’s not really “fighting” you, if his attack is sneaky and undefined, how can you fight back? EXACTLY. You can’t.
Even if you are only terrorizing yourself, as the terrorized, what do you? Not much, really. The whole battle may even be all in your head. So you can give up worrying, because you finally realized that worrying about it all the time is just the equivalent of being a kamikaze; You're just killing yourself. You won’t cry and beg and ask what’s wrong, you won’t try to figure out what you can do to make it better. Because that’s only making you miserable, and his victory that much sweeter. You’ve been a passive-aggressive terrorist before. You know what it’s like to be on the throwing end of the grenades. You also know what it’s like to be on the receiving end. And you used to catch those grenades and try to dismantle them. But now? You just duck.
In the privacy of your room, you pour your feelings into page after unpublished-page of Blogger and Vox. In the privacy of your car, you replay the same song over and over again, until you’re numb to the words; until John Mayer's “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” is just beautiful imagery and good writing, not a metaphor for your relationship right now. You buy that CD the night of the fight, you play it until the words are memorized, and you continue to play it until the words no longer bring tears to your eyes. It’s your way of battening down the hatches, mounting your offensive, steeling yourself for battle. You email your good friend from your work computer, where the day is endless in its uncertainty. You complain and make jokes about your OCD and your anxiety and your paranoia. Because the person you’re emailing with, she knows you and she knows your other half and she calms you. She knows you’re just preparing yourself for the fight. Getting it out of you when he’s not around makes you a better warrior. You know it.
And you don’t cry. Not this time. Because it’s futile. Maybe alone, if you have to, but not in his presence. It doesn’t soften him, it doesn’t make him bend to you, it doesn’t make him put down his weapons. And, anyway, as far as you’re concerned, tears are as good in battle as white flags. Who’s surrendering? Not you.
You’ll fight because you’re used to fighting. You have the shell shock to prove it. But you won’t stay mad for long. You realize that, already, shortly after the battle has begun, it becomes about winning and pride and who caved first. It’s no longer a battle over something important; now it has mutated into a battle of will. You may not even remember why the war was waged.
So you do what you must to make yourself stronger. You prepare and sharpen your blade and shine your shield, even though you know you won’t use either of those things. You slam your helmet down lazily on your head, apathy coursing through you. “Let’s get this over with.” It's just not that important to fight, or to win. It's just important that it finishes.
When you see the him, you act like things haven’t changed, like nothing is wrong. You may feel like he’s punishing you by pushing your buttons, making you worry, but you won’t bow to what you’ve perceived is his demand to cower. Nor will you stoop to the level of conniving woman. You do the things you always do, like life is normal: You bring him his coffee in the morning. You buy him dinner, even if he doesn’t eat it. You wash his clothes and hang his shirts and ball his socks. And even when he lies next to you in bed, not speaking, you’ll try to initiate conversation. Not meekly, or unsure, but like nothing is wrong. Is it an admission of defeat? No. Is it an olive branch by way of Downy and Starbucks? No. It’s going about your daily life.
Because we all know that fear is a terrorist’s greatest weapon.
Even if you are your own terrorist sometimes.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Life's Important Questions
Why is it that, when I go to the mall with my debit card in hand, ready to be swiped, happily willing to drop a few bucks on a new eggplant-colored purse or a new pair of shoes or perhaps a nice new coat, the entire mall is completely void of anything I'd be willing to carry/wear/purchase?
And then, why is it that, when I can't find anything to spend my hard-earned money on, Billy can find a million things to buy for himself? Well, maybe not a million, but at least two or three things.
Why does my inability to find something I like, added to the fact that Billy bought two things equal me being mad? Does that even make sense?
Why does Billy not understand, when the movie starts at 3:10, and it is now 3:08, and our car is parked roughly eight thousand miles away, that now is not an appropriate time to "run out to the car" to drop his purchases off so that he doesn't have to sit in the theatre with them? Because he is going to miss the previews (and we love the previews). He may also miss the first minute or so of the movie. Oh, that's right! He did! While I sat in the theatre viciously defending the seat I'd saved for him. I can't tell you how many times I had to tell seat-seeking folks that I wasn't just using the seat to my left to hold my coat. It was actually for someone.
And why don't I go to the movies alone more often? My brief brush with solitude in that seat in the darkened theatre reminded me how awesome that is. I have to do it more often.
And why, even though I'm sure I've landed the most awesome seats in the house at the 3:10 showing of The Departed, do they wind up being possibly the worst?
Because why, Mr. Man Sitting Behind Me, did you have to eat those gummy bears with such ferocity? Why did you have to suck and slurp and chew and suckle so loudly that even people three rows ahead of me turned around to see where that god-awful noise was coming from? And why did you have to do that through the whole movie? That's just tacky.
And, what if those people three rows up thought that was me?
And, hey, Ms. Inappropriate Parenting Decision Maker in front of me, why did you bring your eight year old son to a movie about the mob? Because, if you're going to cover his eyes and ears in any part of a movie involving nudity, violence, guns, explicit language, etcetera, you could not have been surprised that all of the above would be taking place, at one point or another, in an R Rated movie about the MOB.
And why even bring that kid if he was only permitted to watch roughly .002% of the movie with eyes and ears uncovered?
And, damn, why was that movie so fucking good? I mean, my god, it has to be the best movie I've seen in a long while. Seriously. And why am I always so damn attracted to Leonardo DiCaprio when he's playing the conflicted-badass?
Why do I love sushi so much? And why is the sushi chef at our favorite restaurant so darn cute and nice? And why is it that I can easily understand his broken English, but Billy can't? But I can only understand him when I'm sober, which leads me to my next question:
Why did three glasses of Pinot Grigiot get me so drunk? Since when is my tolerance so low that I can no longer take the amount of alcohol that normally only gets me good and buzzed? Because, I assure you, there is nothing sexy about leaving the restaurant blissfully buzzed, but then running head-first into d-r-u-n-k the second you get into the car with your boyfriend. Nothing sexy at all, my friends.
So why did I have to drive the half hour home with my mouth and my eyes shut tight, window open, face in the wind? To avoid getting sick, that's why.
Is it because all I ate was what probably amounted to my weight in red clam sashimi?
And why, once I got home, did I have the presence of mind to remove only my pants before getting into bed? Because getting into bed and going to sleep was not an involuntary decision (i.e. "passing out"). No, it was a conscious decision, made to avoid the possibility of me getting sick and relieving myself of all the sushi I ate. And I can't have that, because if get sick and throw up all of that delicious sushi, there's a distinct possibility that that could scare me away from sushi forever. And that would be horrible. But why did I only take off my pants, and not my makeup, jewelry, sweater or socks? Oh, that's right. Because getting into bed and falling asleep before my stomach decided it'd had enough of this wine and sushi business was far more important than take off earrings.
And why, after all of that, did I wake up this morning feeling wonderful and, even more surprising, not just on time, but early? How did an evening of near illness-inducing debauchery make me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this fine Monday morning? Because that doesn't even make sense.
Oh, but you know what didn't make me feel so wonderful this morning? When Billy told me that, at one point during the evening, I allegedly rolled onto my back and started snoring so loudly that he had to turn up the volume on the TV to hear his program. He says he got up to get his phone to record my nocturnal noises to play back for me as proof, but I stopped as soon as he got up. I know. That's sexy.
Why did he have to tell me that? And how did I get lucky enough to find a boyfriend who loves me in spite of my alleged snoring? And why did I just tell all of you that little piece of info? Is it because I am the master of TMI? Yes, my friends, I believe that is the answer.
And then, why is it that, when I can't find anything to spend my hard-earned money on, Billy can find a million things to buy for himself? Well, maybe not a million, but at least two or three things.
Why does my inability to find something I like, added to the fact that Billy bought two things equal me being mad? Does that even make sense?
Why does Billy not understand, when the movie starts at 3:10, and it is now 3:08, and our car is parked roughly eight thousand miles away, that now is not an appropriate time to "run out to the car" to drop his purchases off so that he doesn't have to sit in the theatre with them? Because he is going to miss the previews (and we love the previews). He may also miss the first minute or so of the movie. Oh, that's right! He did! While I sat in the theatre viciously defending the seat I'd saved for him. I can't tell you how many times I had to tell seat-seeking folks that I wasn't just using the seat to my left to hold my coat. It was actually for someone.
And why don't I go to the movies alone more often? My brief brush with solitude in that seat in the darkened theatre reminded me how awesome that is. I have to do it more often.
And why, even though I'm sure I've landed the most awesome seats in the house at the 3:10 showing of The Departed, do they wind up being possibly the worst?
Because why, Mr. Man Sitting Behind Me, did you have to eat those gummy bears with such ferocity? Why did you have to suck and slurp and chew and suckle so loudly that even people three rows ahead of me turned around to see where that god-awful noise was coming from? And why did you have to do that through the whole movie? That's just tacky.
And, what if those people three rows up thought that was me?
And, hey, Ms. Inappropriate Parenting Decision Maker in front of me, why did you bring your eight year old son to a movie about the mob? Because, if you're going to cover his eyes and ears in any part of a movie involving nudity, violence, guns, explicit language, etcetera, you could not have been surprised that all of the above would be taking place, at one point or another, in an R Rated movie about the MOB.
And why even bring that kid if he was only permitted to watch roughly .002% of the movie with eyes and ears uncovered?
And, damn, why was that movie so fucking good? I mean, my god, it has to be the best movie I've seen in a long while. Seriously. And why am I always so damn attracted to Leonardo DiCaprio when he's playing the conflicted-badass?
Why do I love sushi so much? And why is the sushi chef at our favorite restaurant so darn cute and nice? And why is it that I can easily understand his broken English, but Billy can't? But I can only understand him when I'm sober, which leads me to my next question:
Why did three glasses of Pinot Grigiot get me so drunk? Since when is my tolerance so low that I can no longer take the amount of alcohol that normally only gets me good and buzzed? Because, I assure you, there is nothing sexy about leaving the restaurant blissfully buzzed, but then running head-first into d-r-u-n-k the second you get into the car with your boyfriend. Nothing sexy at all, my friends.
So why did I have to drive the half hour home with my mouth and my eyes shut tight, window open, face in the wind? To avoid getting sick, that's why.
Is it because all I ate was what probably amounted to my weight in red clam sashimi?
And why, once I got home, did I have the presence of mind to remove only my pants before getting into bed? Because getting into bed and going to sleep was not an involuntary decision (i.e. "passing out"). No, it was a conscious decision, made to avoid the possibility of me getting sick and relieving myself of all the sushi I ate. And I can't have that, because if get sick and throw up all of that delicious sushi, there's a distinct possibility that that could scare me away from sushi forever. And that would be horrible. But why did I only take off my pants, and not my makeup, jewelry, sweater or socks? Oh, that's right. Because getting into bed and falling asleep before my stomach decided it'd had enough of this wine and sushi business was far more important than take off earrings.
And why, after all of that, did I wake up this morning feeling wonderful and, even more surprising, not just on time, but early? How did an evening of near illness-inducing debauchery make me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this fine Monday morning? Because that doesn't even make sense.
Oh, but you know what didn't make me feel so wonderful this morning? When Billy told me that, at one point during the evening, I allegedly rolled onto my back and started snoring so loudly that he had to turn up the volume on the TV to hear his program. He says he got up to get his phone to record my nocturnal noises to play back for me as proof, but I stopped as soon as he got up. I know. That's sexy.
Why did he have to tell me that? And how did I get lucky enough to find a boyfriend who loves me in spite of my alleged snoring? And why did I just tell all of you that little piece of info? Is it because I am the master of TMI? Yes, my friends, I believe that is the answer.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Tie One On
I knew, as soon as I saw it, that it was perfect. Long and silky, its pattern was perfect and the color couldn't have been better. I knew he'd love it.
And so I carried that tie around with me as I dug through sales racks and looked over the shoe selection. I left it with the attendant at the dressing room begrudgingly, worried she'd give it away or put it back on the rack. I handed it over to her hesitantly, and asked her to please make sure it didn't get put back. She assured me that it would not.
And it didn't. It was there, waiting for me, when I emerged, my arm draped with the three sweaters I intended to buy. I was excited about the clothes I was buying for myself, but I was more excited about the tie laying on top of my clothes. I couldn't wait to give it to Billy.
But when I got home, the lights were off and Billy was asleep, his body curled into a question mark on his side of the bed. So I hung the tie from his tie rack, front and center, and undressed quietly, slipping out of my clothes in the dark. I slid into bed beside him, kissed the skin on his neck, exposed between the blanket and his curly hair, and went to sleep, anxious for the morning.
This morning, when his alarm went off, Billy slipped out of bed without me noticing. He was out of the shower before I realized he was no longer in bed with me. He kissed my forehead and pulled the blanket up over my head, and went to turn on the light. Disoriented, I dug my way out of the comforter, one eye still closed to the light.
"Good morning, baby," I whispered.
"What are you doing up?" he said, making his way to me. "Go back to sleep," he said sweetly, kissing me again.
"Did you see your tie?" I couldn't sleep, knowing I'd yet to give him his gift.
"My what?"
"I got you something last night," I teased, smiling beneath the blankets. "It's on your tie rack."
He turned and looked at it. I heard his sharp intake of breath. "Baaaabe," he whispered, his voice quiet with appreciation. "It's perrrrfect."
"Look at who made it."
He turned the tie around to see the brand. He gasped.
"It's Ted Baker," I told him, even though it was clear that he'd seen it. Ted Baker is his favorite tie designer. Ted Baker is to me what Manolo Blahnik is to you, he'd told me before.
He came over and kissed me. "I have to wear it today," he said.
I smiled with the delight of a child who has just brought home a report card filled with As. It made me so happy to see him satisfied with my gift, happier still that he wore it immediately. His love of what I'd picked for him made my day.
And so I carried that tie around with me as I dug through sales racks and looked over the shoe selection. I left it with the attendant at the dressing room begrudgingly, worried she'd give it away or put it back on the rack. I handed it over to her hesitantly, and asked her to please make sure it didn't get put back. She assured me that it would not.
And it didn't. It was there, waiting for me, when I emerged, my arm draped with the three sweaters I intended to buy. I was excited about the clothes I was buying for myself, but I was more excited about the tie laying on top of my clothes. I couldn't wait to give it to Billy.
But when I got home, the lights were off and Billy was asleep, his body curled into a question mark on his side of the bed. So I hung the tie from his tie rack, front and center, and undressed quietly, slipping out of my clothes in the dark. I slid into bed beside him, kissed the skin on his neck, exposed between the blanket and his curly hair, and went to sleep, anxious for the morning.
This morning, when his alarm went off, Billy slipped out of bed without me noticing. He was out of the shower before I realized he was no longer in bed with me. He kissed my forehead and pulled the blanket up over my head, and went to turn on the light. Disoriented, I dug my way out of the comforter, one eye still closed to the light.
"Good morning, baby," I whispered.
"What are you doing up?" he said, making his way to me. "Go back to sleep," he said sweetly, kissing me again.
"Did you see your tie?" I couldn't sleep, knowing I'd yet to give him his gift.
"My what?"
"I got you something last night," I teased, smiling beneath the blankets. "It's on your tie rack."
He turned and looked at it. I heard his sharp intake of breath. "Baaaabe," he whispered, his voice quiet with appreciation. "It's perrrrfect."
"Look at who made it."
He turned the tie around to see the brand. He gasped.
"It's Ted Baker," I told him, even though it was clear that he'd seen it. Ted Baker is his favorite tie designer. Ted Baker is to me what Manolo Blahnik is to you, he'd told me before.
He came over and kissed me. "I have to wear it today," he said.
I smiled with the delight of a child who has just brought home a report card filled with As. It made me so happy to see him satisfied with my gift, happier still that he wore it immediately. His love of what I'd picked for him made my day.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Improvements
Some things that have kept me from slipping into yesterday's bad mood:
- We got our new issue of Playboy in the mail yesterday here at work. Yes, you read that right. We have a subscription to Playboy for the whole office to enjoy. So we spent the better part of the morning going through and critiquing the ladies. And that's always fun. No seriously, it is.
- Before THAT, my boss and a coworker and I spent, oh, about an hour, looking for nudie pictures of celebrities online. It was a little awkward, but that's alright.
- Cookies.
- I got a haircut last night. And I almost fell asleep while the young lady was washing my hair. It was incredible.
- I got a bonus. For no reason. Other than being awesome.
- I spent ten minutes decorating my calendar. Like, instead of just writing "Closed" on it for Thanksgiving and the Friday and Saturday thereafter, I drew a turkey dancing from Thursday to Sunday. It was pretty awesome.
- For our week-long closure between Christmas and New Year, I drew a beautiful landscape with rolling hills and trees under a million stars. My boss thought that was "excessive."Oh, and wasteful of "company time." But I thought it was beautiful.
- I'm going shopping tonight.
- Billy brought my coffee to me in bed this morning, instead of the other way around. Which was just lovely. It made my morning wonderful.
- More cookies.
- It's Friday, and though I have to work tomorrow, at least I know I'm only a few hours away from freedom.
So that's it.
I'm off to shop.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
It Rhymes with "Witchy"
You know the kind of mood that makes you angry for no reason? The kind where the hair on your head annoys you just by being there? The kind where every syllable uttered in your direction is bound to set you off? The kind where the PHONE RINGING may just drive you insane?
That's my mood today.
I don't know why, and I don't know how long it's going to last, but I know that I am horrible right now. I want to RIP my hair out of my head. I want to go home and just lay in bed, stare at the TV and not speak or listen to anyone. I want be naked, too, because my SWEATER IS DRIVING ME CRAZY, with its seams touching my skin all over the place. Ugh.
I ate a Tums last night before bed, and now I have this horrible aftertaste/film in my mouth. So not only is there an awful taste just hanging out on my tongue, but my coffee tastes gross.
I was so ready to go to the gym tonight, but I have an appointment to get my hair cut. Which is fine, but it seems like every time I plan to go to the gym, something comes up and I can't make it. I brought my iPod and everything. And, you know, I really wouldn't mind that I can't go to the gym, but I'm paying $50 a month for a gym that I use an average of once a week. And that's a good week. That's $12.50 per visit just to fuck around on the elliptical for an hour or push myself to near-heart-attack in step class.
And, not that any of you want to know this, but my birth control pills have gone and fucked up my cycle, so now I have my period AND my PMS for TWO WEEKS instead of one. Which not only makes me angry, but it also makes Billy very, very sad. Because he has to deal with THIS mood for not just one week, but, now, for two.
And you know what else? Lost is making me mad. It's all questions. No answers. And, really, I'm getting tired of paying stalker-like attention to that damn show every Wednesday night, looking for clues, trying to remember where I saw that person before and what their significance was. This is TV, people. I'm not a detective. I love my Grey's Anatomy, where I can just watch and be sad or happy and that's it.
And, hey, that's on tonight. That's the light at the end of my tunnel.
So, anyway, that's what's going on with me. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to sign off and go scratch all the itchy places on my back that my sweater is causing.
That's my mood today.
I don't know why, and I don't know how long it's going to last, but I know that I am horrible right now. I want to RIP my hair out of my head. I want to go home and just lay in bed, stare at the TV and not speak or listen to anyone. I want be naked, too, because my SWEATER IS DRIVING ME CRAZY, with its seams touching my skin all over the place. Ugh.
I ate a Tums last night before bed, and now I have this horrible aftertaste/film in my mouth. So not only is there an awful taste just hanging out on my tongue, but my coffee tastes gross.
I was so ready to go to the gym tonight, but I have an appointment to get my hair cut. Which is fine, but it seems like every time I plan to go to the gym, something comes up and I can't make it. I brought my iPod and everything. And, you know, I really wouldn't mind that I can't go to the gym, but I'm paying $50 a month for a gym that I use an average of once a week. And that's a good week. That's $12.50 per visit just to fuck around on the elliptical for an hour or push myself to near-heart-attack in step class.
And, not that any of you want to know this, but my birth control pills have gone and fucked up my cycle, so now I have my period AND my PMS for TWO WEEKS instead of one. Which not only makes me angry, but it also makes Billy very, very sad. Because he has to deal with THIS mood for not just one week, but, now, for two.
And you know what else? Lost is making me mad. It's all questions. No answers. And, really, I'm getting tired of paying stalker-like attention to that damn show every Wednesday night, looking for clues, trying to remember where I saw that person before and what their significance was. This is TV, people. I'm not a detective. I love my Grey's Anatomy, where I can just watch and be sad or happy and that's it.
And, hey, that's on tonight. That's the light at the end of my tunnel.
So, anyway, that's what's going on with me. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to sign off and go scratch all the itchy places on my back that my sweater is causing.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Morning
The alarm howls the same way every morning: The thick voice of a DJ blurred by intermittent static. Sometimes he's introducing a song, sometimes he's announcing the weather, sometimes he's talking about nothing. But it's always the same: His voice. That static. The desperate reach for the snooze button. It's been the same way since Christmas of last year, when we got this alarm clock.
The only thing that changes in my morning rousing is the room around me. The position of the sun, the amount of light or lack thereof coming through the white blinds. The room is either flooded with light or terribly dark when we wake, depending on the season. Right now, we're in the transition. The sun is hesitant, barely peeking into our room when we wake. Like he's not sure he wants to see us yet, either. It feels more like dusk than dawn in our bedroom these days. Bright enough to function, but cozy enough in its dim lighting to settle back into the covers and sleep longer.
It's also colder. I open my eyes to the air of our room and know that freeing myself from the cocoon of blankets I'm in will be miserable. I know it's like Antarctica on the other side of those sheets, and I don't want to expose my skin to the freezing temperatures. So I hit snooze one more time and roll into Billy, whose sleepy lips kiss my smooth forehead. He pulls me in closer to him there, in sleep, and we lay like that until the alarm screams again. I look at the blinds, survey the position of the sun, feel the air of the room with my face, then make the decision to hit snooze just this last time.
When the clock tells me I have less than 45 minutes to get ready and go, I begrudgingly heft myself from the supple mattress and high-thread count sheets and The Urchin we're surrounded in. One leg, then the other, flops over the side of the mattress and onto the floor. I search for my morning coat in the semi-darkness. I make sure the alarm is set for Billy's wake up time. I head out into the hallway, on my way downstairs to make the coffee.
I leave Billy's travel mug, full of prepared coffee, on the table on his side of the bed. I kiss his warm face before I leave the room, and I head out to take my shower. When I return, Billy is always sitting, half-propped by pillows, coffee in hand, remote pointed at the television. He smiles when I walk in, hot pink towel wrapped around my head. That smile makes my morning, every morning.
"Good morning, baby," he says sweetly, his eyes soft, his face sweet. All mine.
It always is.
The only thing that changes in my morning rousing is the room around me. The position of the sun, the amount of light or lack thereof coming through the white blinds. The room is either flooded with light or terribly dark when we wake, depending on the season. Right now, we're in the transition. The sun is hesitant, barely peeking into our room when we wake. Like he's not sure he wants to see us yet, either. It feels more like dusk than dawn in our bedroom these days. Bright enough to function, but cozy enough in its dim lighting to settle back into the covers and sleep longer.
It's also colder. I open my eyes to the air of our room and know that freeing myself from the cocoon of blankets I'm in will be miserable. I know it's like Antarctica on the other side of those sheets, and I don't want to expose my skin to the freezing temperatures. So I hit snooze one more time and roll into Billy, whose sleepy lips kiss my smooth forehead. He pulls me in closer to him there, in sleep, and we lay like that until the alarm screams again. I look at the blinds, survey the position of the sun, feel the air of the room with my face, then make the decision to hit snooze just this last time.
When the clock tells me I have less than 45 minutes to get ready and go, I begrudgingly heft myself from the supple mattress and high-thread count sheets and The Urchin we're surrounded in. One leg, then the other, flops over the side of the mattress and onto the floor. I search for my morning coat in the semi-darkness. I make sure the alarm is set for Billy's wake up time. I head out into the hallway, on my way downstairs to make the coffee.
I leave Billy's travel mug, full of prepared coffee, on the table on his side of the bed. I kiss his warm face before I leave the room, and I head out to take my shower. When I return, Billy is always sitting, half-propped by pillows, coffee in hand, remote pointed at the television. He smiles when I walk in, hot pink towel wrapped around my head. That smile makes my morning, every morning.
"Good morning, baby," he says sweetly, his eyes soft, his face sweet. All mine.
It always is.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Welcome Back
Some things that I've done in my brief and unfulfilling absence from blogging:
1) I had my nails done on Thursday. And, in a totally asshole move, I let my phenomenal nail lady (or nail technician, or whatever she wishes to be called) go ahead and paint little candy corns all over my nails - at my request - only to decide, when she was three-quarters finished, that I didn't like them after all, and could we take them off and just leave my nails plain? I'm a jerk.
2) After my nail appointment, I blasted my awesome Jojo CD all the way from the nail salon to my parents' house, where my grandmother Zana was waiting. She hasn't been here in over a year, and I was really excited to see her.
So I got to my parents' house, walked in, dropped my purse on the couch, and Zana and I started walking toward each other to embrace hello. My mom exploded in laughter behind Zana. After our hug, we asked my mom what the hell was so funny. "You should've seen you two walking toward each other," she howled. "It was like you were both on a runway or something." She got up then and demonstrated the hip-heavy walk Zana and I both employ. One hip at a time rolling to some imaginary sexy beat that we have playing in our heads. We are a lot alike, Zana and I.
3) After dinner with my parents' and my grandmother, I went home. It was only nine, and time for my favorite show, Grey's Anatomy. BUT. I have made a promise to Billy that I won't watch it without him, so I turned on the TV, but wanted to change the channel. In order to do so, though, the DVR told me I had to stop one of my recording programs - either Grey's or CSI. So, naturally, I stopped CSI, checked to make sure Grey's was still recording, changed the channel to some background music and went about messing with my computer.
Billy got home somewhere around 11 from work, and we nestled into bed, preparing to watch one of our favorite shows. And, much to my horror, my DVR recorded Grey's "From 9:00pm - 9:00pm." I sat bolt-upright in bed, furious with my DVR. The DVR's little lights twinkled with evil as it doubled over in maniacal laughter. The DVR thought it would be funny to not record my favorite show. I didn't see the humor. So I spent the rest of the night being mad at the DVR, and the DVR spent the rest of the night pretending it didn't know why I was upset and asking me what was wrong. I gave it the cold shoulder. But, anyway, it knew I would forgive it if it recorded my Wedding Story episode scheduled for the next day. That DVR really treats me like crap, but I can't help it: I love it. I just can't leave.
4) Friday night, I purchased my first song from iTunes. It was truly a gratifying experience.
5) Why did I buy music when I could just pirate it, you ask? Because I am a law-abiding citizen, thankyouverymuch.
Actually, it's because I'm afraid to download limewire onto my laptop. And we have limewire on our desktop computer anyway, so if I NEED a free song or two, I'll just get it there. But, also, iTunes gives me the album artwork and whatnot, so that's good.
6) I kicked up my OCD a notch on Friday, too, when I went ahead and categorized all of my music into genres.
See, half of the songs I have on my iPod are songs from my many burned CDs. And when I import those songs, they just come up as "Track __," with no artist name. So I've spent many a night titling songs and artists and albums in order to make my iPod library as beautiful and user-friendly as possible. Friday, I went a step further and added their Genres. There's no telling what I'll do next.
7) I'm already up to over 400 songs, and rapidly running out of space (I only have space for 500), and I haven't even put a dent in my CD collection.
8) I had an awesome Friday night. Some girls and I went to my friend's house for some dinner and many drinks, and from there we went to the Sussex County Fair Grounds for their haunted house/haunted hayride.
There's something wildly exciting about that sort of attraction when you've had a few cosmos. You're scared more easily, you laugh more freely, you just have an all-round good time. I don't remember the last time I laughed that much.
Dressed in our winter weather gear, we rode a rickety cart of hay for fifteen minutes through open fields and empty stables, where various scary creatures jumped out at us. We were chased by a chainsaw-wielding maniac, a graveyard owner tripped over a bail of hay while trying to grab us, and some unidentified creepy guys were ON the ride with us, staring and screaming at and trying to startle us.
It was divine in its simplicity. At one point, we drove through a "graveyard" at lighting speed. And a character jumped out of the woods, TRYING to scare us, only the driver of the tractor was going too fast. So he just sort of stood there, in the middle of the road, disappointed that he didn't get to scare anyone.
"We totally just passed that guy!" My friend said from beside me.
I looked back and laughed at him there. "Oh, he's all sad. Hey guys? What about me? Hey? Guys?"
My friend laughed, added, "'Guys? It's me. Freddy? Freddy Kreuger? Hello? Guys?'"
Good times.
9) We put on a good show, but we were genuinely scared at points. Two of my friends and I went through the haunted house with arms locked, walking at lighting speed, desperate to just get out of there. We laughed our way through the hayride, but we all suffered one injury or another from jumping and scampering from one bail of hay to another in accordance with our Fight or Flight Response. Apparently, we are all Flyers.
10) Saturday, I did not have to work. So instead, I slept until 11, and played on my computer immediately upon waking.
11) I didn't even put PANTS on until 2 in the afternoon.
12) I cleaned my house, because my mom said Zana wanted to come over and see Billy's paintings live and in person. I knew that if I didn't vacuum my room and straighten up everywhere, she would either disown me, or her head would just explode, right there, in my house. And we can't have that. Either one.
13) Billy met Zana for the first time on Saturday.
Zana is not your typical grandmother. She does not wear mumus or puffy-painted sweatshirts. She doesn't smell like mothballs, and her hair is not white. In fact, she's very fashionable, always dressed well, always wearing makeup, always in heels. She loves to dance and loves to laugh, and she loves to drink. We are, as I said, a lot alike. She's also quite liberal in many ways, and when you get her drinking, she says some things that catch you quite by surprise.
A conversation over dinner about art led to a conversation about nudes, which led to a conversation about Zana's career as a photographer taking nude photographs, which led to Billy painting nudes, which, somehow, inexplicably, led to a conversation about sex. With my dad there.
After dinner, Billy and I stepped outside to smoke. He relaxed his shoulders and let out a long exhale, checking the imaginary watch on his wrist. "Let's see," he said. "Yup. Not even here a half hour and your grandmother asked me about my sex life. Yeah. That's awesome."
I laughed. "I told you."
I thought it was uncomfortable watching a nude scene with his mom. Poor Billy, being asked about his experiences. With my dad there. He, mercifully, declined to answer (a move made easier by my leaping in to change the subject). That trumped my experience.
14) I told Billy, somewhere around 11, that he was forbidden from falling asleep. "I know you're tired," I said to him while we stood on the porch, "but you cannot fall asleep. We'll leave in, like, ten minutes, okay?" He nodded as we went inside.
We sat on the couch, and my mom, dad, Zana and Billy got involved in some conversation.
15) I fell asleep. Ha!
16) Sunday, Billy and I did nothing. We watched Grey's Anatomy online, and lounged around together in our newly-cleaned bedroom.
17) We left the house at five, where we met my family for dinner at a restaurant.
18) Zana and I split a bottle of wine.
19) I realized that I'm more like her than I ever thought I was. In more ways than heels and makeup and wine.
20) I missed blogging.
More to come later.
I've had my downtime, and now I'm back.
1) I had my nails done on Thursday. And, in a totally asshole move, I let my phenomenal nail lady (or nail technician, or whatever she wishes to be called) go ahead and paint little candy corns all over my nails - at my request - only to decide, when she was three-quarters finished, that I didn't like them after all, and could we take them off and just leave my nails plain? I'm a jerk.
2) After my nail appointment, I blasted my awesome Jojo CD all the way from the nail salon to my parents' house, where my grandmother Zana was waiting. She hasn't been here in over a year, and I was really excited to see her.
So I got to my parents' house, walked in, dropped my purse on the couch, and Zana and I started walking toward each other to embrace hello. My mom exploded in laughter behind Zana. After our hug, we asked my mom what the hell was so funny. "You should've seen you two walking toward each other," she howled. "It was like you were both on a runway or something." She got up then and demonstrated the hip-heavy walk Zana and I both employ. One hip at a time rolling to some imaginary sexy beat that we have playing in our heads. We are a lot alike, Zana and I.
3) After dinner with my parents' and my grandmother, I went home. It was only nine, and time for my favorite show, Grey's Anatomy. BUT. I have made a promise to Billy that I won't watch it without him, so I turned on the TV, but wanted to change the channel. In order to do so, though, the DVR told me I had to stop one of my recording programs - either Grey's or CSI. So, naturally, I stopped CSI, checked to make sure Grey's was still recording, changed the channel to some background music and went about messing with my computer.
Billy got home somewhere around 11 from work, and we nestled into bed, preparing to watch one of our favorite shows. And, much to my horror, my DVR recorded Grey's "From 9:00pm - 9:00pm." I sat bolt-upright in bed, furious with my DVR. The DVR's little lights twinkled with evil as it doubled over in maniacal laughter. The DVR thought it would be funny to not record my favorite show. I didn't see the humor. So I spent the rest of the night being mad at the DVR, and the DVR spent the rest of the night pretending it didn't know why I was upset and asking me what was wrong. I gave it the cold shoulder. But, anyway, it knew I would forgive it if it recorded my Wedding Story episode scheduled for the next day. That DVR really treats me like crap, but I can't help it: I love it. I just can't leave.
4) Friday night, I purchased my first song from iTunes. It was truly a gratifying experience.
5) Why did I buy music when I could just pirate it, you ask? Because I am a law-abiding citizen, thankyouverymuch.
Actually, it's because I'm afraid to download limewire onto my laptop. And we have limewire on our desktop computer anyway, so if I NEED a free song or two, I'll just get it there. But, also, iTunes gives me the album artwork and whatnot, so that's good.
6) I kicked up my OCD a notch on Friday, too, when I went ahead and categorized all of my music into genres.
See, half of the songs I have on my iPod are songs from my many burned CDs. And when I import those songs, they just come up as "Track __," with no artist name. So I've spent many a night titling songs and artists and albums in order to make my iPod library as beautiful and user-friendly as possible. Friday, I went a step further and added their Genres. There's no telling what I'll do next.
7) I'm already up to over 400 songs, and rapidly running out of space (I only have space for 500), and I haven't even put a dent in my CD collection.
8) I had an awesome Friday night. Some girls and I went to my friend's house for some dinner and many drinks, and from there we went to the Sussex County Fair Grounds for their haunted house/haunted hayride.
There's something wildly exciting about that sort of attraction when you've had a few cosmos. You're scared more easily, you laugh more freely, you just have an all-round good time. I don't remember the last time I laughed that much.
Dressed in our winter weather gear, we rode a rickety cart of hay for fifteen minutes through open fields and empty stables, where various scary creatures jumped out at us. We were chased by a chainsaw-wielding maniac, a graveyard owner tripped over a bail of hay while trying to grab us, and some unidentified creepy guys were ON the ride with us, staring and screaming at and trying to startle us.
It was divine in its simplicity. At one point, we drove through a "graveyard" at lighting speed. And a character jumped out of the woods, TRYING to scare us, only the driver of the tractor was going too fast. So he just sort of stood there, in the middle of the road, disappointed that he didn't get to scare anyone.
"We totally just passed that guy!" My friend said from beside me.
I looked back and laughed at him there. "Oh, he's all sad. Hey guys? What about me? Hey? Guys?"
My friend laughed, added, "'Guys? It's me. Freddy? Freddy Kreuger? Hello? Guys?'"
Good times.
9) We put on a good show, but we were genuinely scared at points. Two of my friends and I went through the haunted house with arms locked, walking at lighting speed, desperate to just get out of there. We laughed our way through the hayride, but we all suffered one injury or another from jumping and scampering from one bail of hay to another in accordance with our Fight or Flight Response. Apparently, we are all Flyers.
10) Saturday, I did not have to work. So instead, I slept until 11, and played on my computer immediately upon waking.
11) I didn't even put PANTS on until 2 in the afternoon.
12) I cleaned my house, because my mom said Zana wanted to come over and see Billy's paintings live and in person. I knew that if I didn't vacuum my room and straighten up everywhere, she would either disown me, or her head would just explode, right there, in my house. And we can't have that. Either one.
13) Billy met Zana for the first time on Saturday.
Zana is not your typical grandmother. She does not wear mumus or puffy-painted sweatshirts. She doesn't smell like mothballs, and her hair is not white. In fact, she's very fashionable, always dressed well, always wearing makeup, always in heels. She loves to dance and loves to laugh, and she loves to drink. We are, as I said, a lot alike. She's also quite liberal in many ways, and when you get her drinking, she says some things that catch you quite by surprise.
A conversation over dinner about art led to a conversation about nudes, which led to a conversation about Zana's career as a photographer taking nude photographs, which led to Billy painting nudes, which, somehow, inexplicably, led to a conversation about sex. With my dad there.
After dinner, Billy and I stepped outside to smoke. He relaxed his shoulders and let out a long exhale, checking the imaginary watch on his wrist. "Let's see," he said. "Yup. Not even here a half hour and your grandmother asked me about my sex life. Yeah. That's awesome."
I laughed. "I told you."
I thought it was uncomfortable watching a nude scene with his mom. Poor Billy, being asked about his experiences. With my dad there. He, mercifully, declined to answer (a move made easier by my leaping in to change the subject). That trumped my experience.
14) I told Billy, somewhere around 11, that he was forbidden from falling asleep. "I know you're tired," I said to him while we stood on the porch, "but you cannot fall asleep. We'll leave in, like, ten minutes, okay?" He nodded as we went inside.
We sat on the couch, and my mom, dad, Zana and Billy got involved in some conversation.
15) I fell asleep. Ha!
16) Sunday, Billy and I did nothing. We watched Grey's Anatomy online, and lounged around together in our newly-cleaned bedroom.
17) We left the house at five, where we met my family for dinner at a restaurant.
18) Zana and I split a bottle of wine.
19) I realized that I'm more like her than I ever thought I was. In more ways than heels and makeup and wine.
20) I missed blogging.
More to come later.
I've had my downtime, and now I'm back.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Excuses are Lame, but I'm Making One
I just want something more. I don't know what it is, why a part of me is empty somehow. It's a feeling that makes me want to run away and be by myself. Because the only way I can fantasize about what I wish I had is when I'm alone. And I'll walk through a mall or a restaurant or drive down a highway, and pretend I'm rich, pretend I'm married, pretend I'm someone else. Because it's so freeing to be walking around where no one knows you. No one in the Rockaway mall knows I date Billy. They don't know who he is. They don't know where I work. They don't know my family. They don't know me. And it feels so good, so unburdened.
What am I burdened by, you ask? I have no idea. Everything in my life is really good right now. There are a few things I'd change if I could, but nothing is horrible. Nothing is weighing me down, noting is making me miserable. Yet I still feel heavy, tired of fighting, tired of feeling like I'm never doing enough. Like I'm not enough.
I don't know why. I just know that I watch other people get what I want and it kills me. And I don't just mean book deals and oodles of money. I mean less tangible, more obtuse things.
Billy told me last night that my last post sounded like I was "complaining." And I tried to explain that I wasn't complaining, I was just writing. It was supposed to be funny. But we couldn't agree. And, at the end of the conversation, what irritated me wasn't that we couldn't agree on the tone of what I'd written, but that I was defending it again. MY writing. MY blog. Something that I'M proud of. Why am I constantly defending it? Why am I constantly ashamed to bring it up? Ashamed to admit I'm proud of it? Ashamed that it's even there?
I'm not writing very well anymore. I moved a really good post because I was afraid my ex would see it and get mad. I worry constantly that I'm going to offend someone. This site isn't even my own anymore. It belongs to everybody else. It belongs to the people whose opinions I value. It belongs to an ex that I'm still, apparently, afraid of. They're my words, but I don't own them.
You know when I was good? Back in the early days, when no one I knew knew that I had a blog. When I had three readers. When I was unafraid and still hiding behind a veil of pseudo-anonymity. And now, everything but my last name is out here. And I love it. I love that I've met incredible people through this blog. I love that I'm part of a little sub-culture that understands me. The hard part is the people I know in real life tuning in. Not because I want to bitch about them, but because it's hard to read something from any other point of view than how I intended it to be read. And the last thing - the last thing - I want to do is hurt anyone's feelings. And, as far as I know, I haven't. I'm just hyper-aware that it's always a possibility.
I'm not saying I'm quitting, I'm just saying it's going to take me a bit to get back in the swing of things. To remember that I started this for me, and I should continue it for me. To realize that if I want to write, I have to understand that not everyone is going to love it. I'll snap out of this soon. It'll just take me a few days.
In the meantime, thanks for sticking around.
What am I burdened by, you ask? I have no idea. Everything in my life is really good right now. There are a few things I'd change if I could, but nothing is horrible. Nothing is weighing me down, noting is making me miserable. Yet I still feel heavy, tired of fighting, tired of feeling like I'm never doing enough. Like I'm not enough.
I don't know why. I just know that I watch other people get what I want and it kills me. And I don't just mean book deals and oodles of money. I mean less tangible, more obtuse things.
Billy told me last night that my last post sounded like I was "complaining." And I tried to explain that I wasn't complaining, I was just writing. It was supposed to be funny. But we couldn't agree. And, at the end of the conversation, what irritated me wasn't that we couldn't agree on the tone of what I'd written, but that I was defending it again. MY writing. MY blog. Something that I'M proud of. Why am I constantly defending it? Why am I constantly ashamed to bring it up? Ashamed to admit I'm proud of it? Ashamed that it's even there?
I'm not writing very well anymore. I moved a really good post because I was afraid my ex would see it and get mad. I worry constantly that I'm going to offend someone. This site isn't even my own anymore. It belongs to everybody else. It belongs to the people whose opinions I value. It belongs to an ex that I'm still, apparently, afraid of. They're my words, but I don't own them.
You know when I was good? Back in the early days, when no one I knew knew that I had a blog. When I had three readers. When I was unafraid and still hiding behind a veil of pseudo-anonymity. And now, everything but my last name is out here. And I love it. I love that I've met incredible people through this blog. I love that I'm part of a little sub-culture that understands me. The hard part is the people I know in real life tuning in. Not because I want to bitch about them, but because it's hard to read something from any other point of view than how I intended it to be read. And the last thing - the last thing - I want to do is hurt anyone's feelings. And, as far as I know, I haven't. I'm just hyper-aware that it's always a possibility.
I'm not saying I'm quitting, I'm just saying it's going to take me a bit to get back in the swing of things. To remember that I started this for me, and I should continue it for me. To realize that if I want to write, I have to understand that not everyone is going to love it. I'll snap out of this soon. It'll just take me a few days.
In the meantime, thanks for sticking around.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
I Don't Want to Talk About Anything But Laptops.
**I wrote this at 11:30 last night in bed. I thought I hit publish before I closed down. Ha! I didn't! I hit save instead! Apparently, I need more sleep and less wine. Shocker.**
1) Billy came home on tonight, and we went through our nightly ritual where I sit on the bed fucking around with my laptop, finding something - anything - that will keep me on the internet as long as possible, and he changes from work clothes into pajamas.
His disrobing routine is always the same, too. Tie first (of course), then he unbottons his shirt, revealing the white t-shirt underneath. He then takes the button down shirt off, examines it (I don't know why he does that, exactly), then takes it over to the laundry hamper.
Tonight, he took said shirt to said hamper, went to throw the shirt in and stopped. The blue button-down hovered in mid-air, and he looked at me. "Uh, babe? What are we doing with all of these clothes here?"
"They're dirty," I said, refusing to look up from my hotmail inbox, which I was refreshing for the eighteenth time. "I have to wash them."
He didn't move. "What?" I said, finally looking up. "You have, like, a million more shirts right there in the closet. You have plenty of things to wear." I know how many shirts he has, because all of those shirts are taking up closet space that could be mine. So I am acutely aware of just how many shirts he has, and even MORE aware of how many of those shirts he doesn't wear.
The look he gave me suggested he was disgusted that I've waited this long (a week) to do some laundry. Not disgusted enough to do any laundry himself, but disgusted nonetheless.
2) For no less than two weeks, I have had a leaf stuck to the antenna of my car. It's a little baby leaf, who died before its prime, just wrapped around my antenna like they're in love or something. I keep expecting it to blow off, but it just never does. And every time I see it there while I'm driving, I make a mental note to pluck it from my antenna as soon as I park. But I never remember. And even though I've obviously remembered right now, I'm in bed, face washed and clothes off, so you can pretty much bet on the fact that my ass is not going anywhere.
3) My ass should, however, probably be downstairs right now. Because Billy is down there with some family and some friends. And what am I doing? That's right: Laying in bed with the lights off, a glass of wine on the nightstand, cigarettes next to me, laptop on my, uh, lap, fucking around on the computer. And I'd better not hear any shit about it. Because I TOLD him that getting me a laptop pretty much sealed the deal when it came to me never leaving the bedroom.
4) Is it wrong that I don't want to talk to anyone right now? Even Billy? I don't know why...But I DO know that speaking to anyone in a way that does not involve a keyboard is out of the question. Because speaking, actually having a conversation with someone right now, could be dangerous.
5) I don't know why, but I'm extremely bitchy right now. It could be the fact that I haven't gone to bed before one in the morning for the past three nights, yet still had to get up before seven every morning. Which, I know, to some of you young whipper-snappers out there seems like a good night's sleep, but for ME? Not so much. It's like torture. So I'm cranky and tired and dying to go to sleep, yet I'm still fucking around on my laptop. Go figure.
6) I have to go to bed.
1) Billy came home on tonight, and we went through our nightly ritual where I sit on the bed fucking around with my laptop, finding something - anything - that will keep me on the internet as long as possible, and he changes from work clothes into pajamas.
His disrobing routine is always the same, too. Tie first (of course), then he unbottons his shirt, revealing the white t-shirt underneath. He then takes the button down shirt off, examines it (I don't know why he does that, exactly), then takes it over to the laundry hamper.
Tonight, he took said shirt to said hamper, went to throw the shirt in and stopped. The blue button-down hovered in mid-air, and he looked at me. "Uh, babe? What are we doing with all of these clothes here?"
"They're dirty," I said, refusing to look up from my hotmail inbox, which I was refreshing for the eighteenth time. "I have to wash them."
He didn't move. "What?" I said, finally looking up. "You have, like, a million more shirts right there in the closet. You have plenty of things to wear." I know how many shirts he has, because all of those shirts are taking up closet space that could be mine. So I am acutely aware of just how many shirts he has, and even MORE aware of how many of those shirts he doesn't wear.
The look he gave me suggested he was disgusted that I've waited this long (a week) to do some laundry. Not disgusted enough to do any laundry himself, but disgusted nonetheless.
2) For no less than two weeks, I have had a leaf stuck to the antenna of my car. It's a little baby leaf, who died before its prime, just wrapped around my antenna like they're in love or something. I keep expecting it to blow off, but it just never does. And every time I see it there while I'm driving, I make a mental note to pluck it from my antenna as soon as I park. But I never remember. And even though I've obviously remembered right now, I'm in bed, face washed and clothes off, so you can pretty much bet on the fact that my ass is not going anywhere.
3) My ass should, however, probably be downstairs right now. Because Billy is down there with some family and some friends. And what am I doing? That's right: Laying in bed with the lights off, a glass of wine on the nightstand, cigarettes next to me, laptop on my, uh, lap, fucking around on the computer. And I'd better not hear any shit about it. Because I TOLD him that getting me a laptop pretty much sealed the deal when it came to me never leaving the bedroom.
4) Is it wrong that I don't want to talk to anyone right now? Even Billy? I don't know why...But I DO know that speaking to anyone in a way that does not involve a keyboard is out of the question. Because speaking, actually having a conversation with someone right now, could be dangerous.
5) I don't know why, but I'm extremely bitchy right now. It could be the fact that I haven't gone to bed before one in the morning for the past three nights, yet still had to get up before seven every morning. Which, I know, to some of you young whipper-snappers out there seems like a good night's sleep, but for ME? Not so much. It's like torture. So I'm cranky and tired and dying to go to sleep, yet I'm still fucking around on my laptop. Go figure.
6) I have to go to bed.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Because I don't really have anything else to say...
Does anyone else find it extremely odd that, in this whole scuttlebutt about how Madonna may or may not be adopting an African kid, the orphan's father is saying that, yes, Madonna is adopting his one year old son?
Isn't "orphan's father" a bit contradictory? I mean, doesn't the fact that the kid is an orphan mean that he doesn't have a father?
And, if the kid has a father who obiously knows him, why is he up for adoption? And no one finds this troublesome? That the kid's father is saying, yeah, I just gave up my son to an American pop singer? The whole thing is just weird, don't you think?
Isn't "orphan's father" a bit contradictory? I mean, doesn't the fact that the kid is an orphan mean that he doesn't have a father?
And, if the kid has a father who obiously knows him, why is he up for adoption? And no one finds this troublesome? That the kid's father is saying, yeah, I just gave up my son to an American pop singer? The whole thing is just weird, don't you think?
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