walking through dim stony corridors
the delicious cool warmness of new spring breeze
rolling across my skin
cross-hatching of sun-dappled avenues
the yellow-gray plaid of the city
speckled with a melange of wool-coated
and leather-booted pessimists, dewy browed,
and bare-forearmed optimists, the occassional
peeking set of toes or flash
of bare calf glinting in the sun
the occassional god
or goddess, perfectly suited
for the exact degree, percentage humidity,
miles-per-hour of wind,
and the rest of us wonder
how their contract with the devil reads
shimmering, slinky, silver, glass,
and marble gargoyle-encrusted towers
part perfectly just in this spot
the acoustics transforming
the churning, swirling belly of a cement mixer
into a humming choir.
the great library rises
swathed in bright yellow sun glaze
the steps pillowed with soft warm soaking bodies and
resurrection falls like fairy's dust from the buds
in the opening trees
we take a collective breath, deeper
and happier today than a week ago
amazed, perhaps, by the affect of a few degrees
and storm clouds on our outlook on life.
daffodils dance in evenly spaced clay pots
on the sidewalk, an approximation of spring
as the scarf makes the metamorphosis
from necessity to accessory
from tightly wound cocoon to floating butterfly wings
three carefully chosen hardbacks
tucked under my arm
the steps, the lolling masses wave for me to join them,
i long to lay for a moment,
to flip through these newly acquired treasures
i glance at the time and turn the other direction,
poems rustling as I walk about the nature of spring in New York.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The fear of the unknown
I fear loving you more than I fear hating you. The truth is that the latter is much easier, and temporary. If you walk into and then out of my life, I have no lasting obligation to you, I cannot be fully known by you, I am not given over and over and over again the opportunity to disappoint you. This idea of permanence terrifies me--Ronald's death, for instance, or, rather, not so much that he is dead but that he always will be--I want it to be a temporary state, so that he can come visit me for his 30th birthday after all.
I see the used condoms in the trash, and think that a part of you is here, but also I think of the fleeting nature of physical love. Sex is a failure without orgasm--orgasm signals its end. I wonder about love, and how similar it is to sex. In my experience, love is just as fleeting as the moment of orgasm, a moment in time, the flame-burst of a match. Yesterday, you lay where I lay now, our bodies slick with each other's sweat. Tonight, I wonder whether she will win you back--or, rather, if you will decide to return to her. Will you come to me, after all, and say, your different face but the same old words, "I'm sorry, but..." And then all we will have between us is the one night and the three used condoms I'll be putting out with the trash in the morning. I am afraid that this is the conversation that we will have, you, with a pained look on your face, ironically, as the hurter, and me, trying to act unmoved, as the one being hurt.
We are already keeping secrets; you, of her and what happened when you left here yesterday, me, of the date with my own ex tomorrow night--a pillow to help soften the blow I'm already flinching in anticipation of, not knowing if or when it will come.
Why only date one man who will use you up and leave you when you can stay unattached to several?
How does anyone continue to hope for love, when everything suggests that it is unsustainable? When the men you have loved have consistently disappointed you, how do you continue to believe that the next one, or one someday, won't? How do you cross the bridge from every relationship failing, failing, failing, to one that doesn't? At a certain point, don't you begin to believe that they simply will, and then you've damned them--they cannot survive.
Part of me wants to kill this thing now, before we get too deep. And then I look up at the invitation on my dresser to my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary, and i see in front of me the evidence that somewhere, somehow, my logic is off. Love has to be sustainable, at least in some form, even if I don't understand how. My grandparents have been married almost twice as long as I have been alive. It is not possible that I know more about love. I'd like to think that maybe I know more about heartache, but I don't think that after 50 years, that is possible either.
And now you and I are wrapped together with a thin satin white ribbon, and I'm afraid because, as always, the seeds are planted and beginning to grow, and the ax is never far away, and the longer you let it grow, the harder it is to cut it down. If you did it now, I would hate you and move on, to get my hopes up and be disappointed by someone else and someone else and someone else. But what I'm really afraid of is letting this thing between us grow, to see how big and leafy and beautiful it will get, because always in the back of my mind, I'll know that the ax is arm's length away, that you can never get comfortable, you can never let yourself totally go, you must always keep a part of you to yourself, because if I love you, then when will it happen? After 3 years? Marriage? Children? No. Better to enjoy each other now and not dread the day when the world will come crashing in around us, when we will wonder how we were so blind, when we will realize the terrible people we have become with each other. No, I'll put the condoms out with the trash. You won't have to see me any more.
(written December 8, 2008)
I see the used condoms in the trash, and think that a part of you is here, but also I think of the fleeting nature of physical love. Sex is a failure without orgasm--orgasm signals its end. I wonder about love, and how similar it is to sex. In my experience, love is just as fleeting as the moment of orgasm, a moment in time, the flame-burst of a match. Yesterday, you lay where I lay now, our bodies slick with each other's sweat. Tonight, I wonder whether she will win you back--or, rather, if you will decide to return to her. Will you come to me, after all, and say, your different face but the same old words, "I'm sorry, but..." And then all we will have between us is the one night and the three used condoms I'll be putting out with the trash in the morning. I am afraid that this is the conversation that we will have, you, with a pained look on your face, ironically, as the hurter, and me, trying to act unmoved, as the one being hurt.
We are already keeping secrets; you, of her and what happened when you left here yesterday, me, of the date with my own ex tomorrow night--a pillow to help soften the blow I'm already flinching in anticipation of, not knowing if or when it will come.
Why only date one man who will use you up and leave you when you can stay unattached to several?
How does anyone continue to hope for love, when everything suggests that it is unsustainable? When the men you have loved have consistently disappointed you, how do you continue to believe that the next one, or one someday, won't? How do you cross the bridge from every relationship failing, failing, failing, to one that doesn't? At a certain point, don't you begin to believe that they simply will, and then you've damned them--they cannot survive.
Part of me wants to kill this thing now, before we get too deep. And then I look up at the invitation on my dresser to my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary, and i see in front of me the evidence that somewhere, somehow, my logic is off. Love has to be sustainable, at least in some form, even if I don't understand how. My grandparents have been married almost twice as long as I have been alive. It is not possible that I know more about love. I'd like to think that maybe I know more about heartache, but I don't think that after 50 years, that is possible either.
And now you and I are wrapped together with a thin satin white ribbon, and I'm afraid because, as always, the seeds are planted and beginning to grow, and the ax is never far away, and the longer you let it grow, the harder it is to cut it down. If you did it now, I would hate you and move on, to get my hopes up and be disappointed by someone else and someone else and someone else. But what I'm really afraid of is letting this thing between us grow, to see how big and leafy and beautiful it will get, because always in the back of my mind, I'll know that the ax is arm's length away, that you can never get comfortable, you can never let yourself totally go, you must always keep a part of you to yourself, because if I love you, then when will it happen? After 3 years? Marriage? Children? No. Better to enjoy each other now and not dread the day when the world will come crashing in around us, when we will wonder how we were so blind, when we will realize the terrible people we have become with each other. No, I'll put the condoms out with the trash. You won't have to see me any more.
(written December 8, 2008)
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Where does love go?
I didn't find out until yesterday, even though it had been a week and a half. And on Facebook, of all places. I just happened to leave a comment on Lindsay's page, and she sent me a message: Have you heard about Ronald? And my heart seized up, a tiny panic right in the center of my chest. I don't know how we know these things about the people that we love, but we do. I clicked over to your page, and there was your picture, you smiling just as I remember you--olive skin and white teeth, kind dark eyes touched with mischief. And I began to read the comments, one after another, eulogies to a man who was well-loved, and a note from your sister to say thank you for the thoughts and prayers, and to say good night to you and not good bye, that you were home now. I couldn't imagine what had happened--a car accident maybe? I assumed that something tragic and unanticipated had taken you too soon.
Lindsay wrote back that she had few details besides that you died of liver disease on November 6. I didn't even know you were sick. I didn't even know you were dead. And here I was at work, where I couldn't cry, let alone think about it properly. A work buddy called on my office phone to say that his girlfriend of a year had broken up with him. I told him that I just found out a good friend from college had died. We pretended to be less sad than we were, mourning two separate but similar passings. We hung up quickly, maybe finding our own fronts flimsy and transparent, unwilling to seem vulnerable with one another. Later, at a meeting, I sat far from him, where we couldn't make eye contact, but all I could think of what you, and him, and each of our sadnesses.
I tried to put it to the back of my mind until I could go home and think about it, about you. But I avoided thoughts of you all evening, making dinner, watching TV, reading, readying for bed. Your ether permeated my dreams that night, and my first thought when I woke was of you. The alarm woke me at ten to six--I wanted to get up early to think and write about you and us. I hit the snooze until seven and finally woke, looking out my new bedroom's windows to a gray and orange dawn. I sat up--you. Put on my glasses--you. Padded to the kitchen and filled the coffeepot with water from the Brita. And I began to cry, silently, tears running slowly down my face, and I had the gradual and overwhelming feeling that you were standing behind me, watching me as I ground the beans and spooned them into the filter. It was the same feeling as when anyone is standing near you and you feel their presence before you see them. Unable to stand it any longer, and feeling rude for having my back to you, I finally turned, leaning against the counter, tears on my cheeks. I didn't see you, but I didn't need to--you embraced me, and I felt that you wanted me to know that you were okay. The moment passed, I turned on the coffeemaker and got in the shower. I didn't feel you there, or while I was getting ready for work--I hadn't tried to summon you, I hadn't expected you, I wasn't asking God for comfort. I wish I had said, while you were there with me, that I love you. I wish I had asked if you were okay. But I feel like you know and you are. I don't understand how this happened, but I'm not surprised that you found me, that you came to me, or that I knew it was you. I know it sounds unbelievable or like I somehow made myself believe that something happened that didn't, but the closest thing to what happened this morning is having a friend drop by unexpectedly--the only difference is that you didn't bring your body with you. I wish I could have seen you once more, said goodbye, kissed you one last time, heard your voice say that something, anything, was fabulous. But somehow, I also feel as though none of that really matters--that, in a way, we can still give and receive love even though you aren't here in the same way, and that somehow--is it possible?--we are closer now than we were before. And so, a standing invitation. Come whenever you like, you will always be welcome. And if you are not able to come, then good night, sweet friend, until we meet again.
(written November 18, 2008)
Lindsay wrote back that she had few details besides that you died of liver disease on November 6. I didn't even know you were sick. I didn't even know you were dead. And here I was at work, where I couldn't cry, let alone think about it properly. A work buddy called on my office phone to say that his girlfriend of a year had broken up with him. I told him that I just found out a good friend from college had died. We pretended to be less sad than we were, mourning two separate but similar passings. We hung up quickly, maybe finding our own fronts flimsy and transparent, unwilling to seem vulnerable with one another. Later, at a meeting, I sat far from him, where we couldn't make eye contact, but all I could think of what you, and him, and each of our sadnesses.
I tried to put it to the back of my mind until I could go home and think about it, about you. But I avoided thoughts of you all evening, making dinner, watching TV, reading, readying for bed. Your ether permeated my dreams that night, and my first thought when I woke was of you. The alarm woke me at ten to six--I wanted to get up early to think and write about you and us. I hit the snooze until seven and finally woke, looking out my new bedroom's windows to a gray and orange dawn. I sat up--you. Put on my glasses--you. Padded to the kitchen and filled the coffeepot with water from the Brita. And I began to cry, silently, tears running slowly down my face, and I had the gradual and overwhelming feeling that you were standing behind me, watching me as I ground the beans and spooned them into the filter. It was the same feeling as when anyone is standing near you and you feel their presence before you see them. Unable to stand it any longer, and feeling rude for having my back to you, I finally turned, leaning against the counter, tears on my cheeks. I didn't see you, but I didn't need to--you embraced me, and I felt that you wanted me to know that you were okay. The moment passed, I turned on the coffeemaker and got in the shower. I didn't feel you there, or while I was getting ready for work--I hadn't tried to summon you, I hadn't expected you, I wasn't asking God for comfort. I wish I had said, while you were there with me, that I love you. I wish I had asked if you were okay. But I feel like you know and you are. I don't understand how this happened, but I'm not surprised that you found me, that you came to me, or that I knew it was you. I know it sounds unbelievable or like I somehow made myself believe that something happened that didn't, but the closest thing to what happened this morning is having a friend drop by unexpectedly--the only difference is that you didn't bring your body with you. I wish I could have seen you once more, said goodbye, kissed you one last time, heard your voice say that something, anything, was fabulous. But somehow, I also feel as though none of that really matters--that, in a way, we can still give and receive love even though you aren't here in the same way, and that somehow--is it possible?--we are closer now than we were before. And so, a standing invitation. Come whenever you like, you will always be welcome. And if you are not able to come, then good night, sweet friend, until we meet again.
(written November 18, 2008)
Friday, June 27, 2008
'Spection
Reading:
"V." by Thomas Pynchon (sometimes a little complicated, sometimes a little mumbled, sometimes beautiful, always earthy. my approach: hang on, don't let go)
"What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by Raymond Carver (sweet, slow, and thick like molasses. perfect for on the train or bus or between people-watching at the park)
"Cast the First Stone" by Gwendolyn DeRosa (a tangy, bittersweet, and raw reminder of what it's like to grow up, and the kind of teenager I wish I'd been but never had the balls to be)
"Of Human Bondage" by M. Somerset Maugham (it's Maugham, what can I say? Pithy, perfect, rending, complete with adolescent humiliation, spiritual browbeating, and unrequited love)
Writing:
Short stories that may someday become a semi-autobiographical collection (theme: love, as always)
Novel editing will commence as soon as I work up the nerve
Some bad poetry
And I need to go back to the story i started in January about a child and mother who don't want, yet need, each other.
Doing:
Running, a lot. I logged 24 miles last week, 10 of which was actual running.
Eating, a lot. Due to running a lot, I can't seem to stay full (great side effect of running!)
Practices for Rollercon (a roller derby convention in Vegas at which the Jeerleaders will compete in the second annual Rollercon Cheerleading Competition)
Trying to find people to do all of the amazing free cultural things in NYC with me, and failing mostly
Thinking about:
School. The new idea is to take the GRE this fall and apply for MA/PhD programs in English and become a professor (while the current, or a new, company pays for it)
Road trip. I am in desperate need of some fresh country air and some time with the people who know and love me best. Chicago, Cincinnati, Atlanta, and Pittsburgh are calling me. I think I might rent a car and visit all four places over a couple of weeks in August/September.
Loneliness. I miss companionship. I miss being around people who really "get" me. I love New York, but I haven't really found that here.
Jobs. I may start looking for a new one that will pay me better so that I can accomplish some long-term financial goals a little quicker.
"V." by Thomas Pynchon (sometimes a little complicated, sometimes a little mumbled, sometimes beautiful, always earthy. my approach: hang on, don't let go)
"What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by Raymond Carver (sweet, slow, and thick like molasses. perfect for on the train or bus or between people-watching at the park)
"Cast the First Stone" by Gwendolyn DeRosa (a tangy, bittersweet, and raw reminder of what it's like to grow up, and the kind of teenager I wish I'd been but never had the balls to be)
"Of Human Bondage" by M. Somerset Maugham (it's Maugham, what can I say? Pithy, perfect, rending, complete with adolescent humiliation, spiritual browbeating, and unrequited love)
Writing:
Short stories that may someday become a semi-autobiographical collection (theme: love, as always)
Novel editing will commence as soon as I work up the nerve
Some bad poetry
And I need to go back to the story i started in January about a child and mother who don't want, yet need, each other.
Doing:
Running, a lot. I logged 24 miles last week, 10 of which was actual running.
Eating, a lot. Due to running a lot, I can't seem to stay full (great side effect of running!)
Practices for Rollercon (a roller derby convention in Vegas at which the Jeerleaders will compete in the second annual Rollercon Cheerleading Competition)
Trying to find people to do all of the amazing free cultural things in NYC with me, and failing mostly
Thinking about:
School. The new idea is to take the GRE this fall and apply for MA/PhD programs in English and become a professor (while the current, or a new, company pays for it)
Road trip. I am in desperate need of some fresh country air and some time with the people who know and love me best. Chicago, Cincinnati, Atlanta, and Pittsburgh are calling me. I think I might rent a car and visit all four places over a couple of weeks in August/September.
Loneliness. I miss companionship. I miss being around people who really "get" me. I love New York, but I haven't really found that here.
Jobs. I may start looking for a new one that will pay me better so that I can accomplish some long-term financial goals a little quicker.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Do What You Want = Be Happy
Yes, it's that time again folks. The time when I realize i haven't blogged in weeks and so must catch you all up in one giant crazy nonsensical stream-of-consciousness post that most of you won't read to the end anyway. Don't worry, it doesn't hurt my feelings. But i'm sure you weren't worried, as stopping reading a post halfway through indicates a) annoyance or b) boredom. probably both. but i'm not here for you (sorry, true). i'm here for me. and i do what i want! yay! and so should you!
here we go:
so i'm perusing myspace today, and i see the profile of this guy i used to ahem "see" who was a friend but isn't so much a friend anymore and i wondered, "Why don't we hang out more?" Before realizing that the answer is that we're too busy boinking other people. i like the word boink as a euphemism for sex. it always gives me the mental image of two people's heads accidentally knocking together in a playful accidental way. which, i guess probably could be a deeper metaphor for sex if i thought about it, but i'm not going to. onward!
This week has been CRAZY. It's so bad that i haven't had time to buy groceries (for those of you who don't know, groceries are very important to me. i don't trust restaurants not to feed me poo-slash-weird chemicals-slash AIDS. and also i'm cheap and hate paying for food.). so i've been subsisting on takeout all week, BUT the upside is that I get to wear TWO (count 'em, two!) costumes this week! Tonight, I get to be a pirate at the jeerleader super-fun band night pirate-themed fundraiser, and then on Saturday, I get to dress like a Beauty School Dropout Mermaid for the annual Coney Island Mermaid Parade. Yipee! Except that my beauty school dropout costume kind of looks like a futuristic military uniform of some sort, minus alien-evaporating ray gun. oh well. i'm sure everyone will understand once i'm hand-jiving. So that should be tons of fun, tonight and Saturday.
So, i've come across two articles in the past few days about changing from being a night person to being a morning person and here's what i think about that:
1. Night people get a bad rap as being lazy, but we aren't, we just function great while the morning people are being old-ish and going to bed at 9 pm.
2. But I don't WANT to be a morning person. I LIKE nighttime.
3. Night people should be able to work their corporate jobs on schedules that fit their sleep patterns. In today's global economy, i would think this would be an asset, as the morning people in Beijing could talk to the night people in the US, then we could have 24-hour-a-day office hours, thereby increasing productivity and strengthening the world global corporate machine. erm, wait. no. nevermind. that would never work. forget i said anything.
And D. There is too much emphasis on changing basic fundamental characteristics of who we are. Instead we should embrace ourselves instead of trying to change. Learn to love your nighttime awakeness, or your small boobs, or your giant schnoz, or your gayness (another article I read was about how they might someday try to "cure" homosexuality in the womb by flooding it with hormones so kids don't become queer...so, so disturbing), or your shyness or weirdness or nerdiness or can't talk to people of the opposite sex-ness. I say EMBRACE IT! Own it! I'm a nerd who doesn't have many friends and i can barely dress myself. so what do i do? I read books naked by myself! That's what. And do you know what else? It makes me happy! And if you're happy, it doesn't matter what other people think. unless killing people or something similar makes you happy. then you have a problem.
I've been writing quite a lot (for me, baby steps) lately, and i have an idea for a book that i've been working on and i'm really excited about it. i briefly (read: for 10 minutes) started to read the novel i wrote last October, but I wasn't really into it. So i stopped. I might revisit it later, when i'm done with my new super-fabulous (fingers crossed!) book idea. I would tell you about it, but I don't want to jinx it. I think it's going to be a cross between memoir, fiction, poetry, and short stories. I hope I can pull it off. But if not, it's still good practice, right? RIGHT! Which reminds me of this artist woman I was reading about who was talking about how adult people should be more like kids in the way that they create their art, as in, kids focus on the act of creating as their main goal, whereas adults focus on how their going to make money (or, rather, on the value of the end result), and how all of us adult artists might be more happy (and productive!) if we focused on the CREATING rather than what it may be worth to other people when we're done. i know that very idea has kept me from writing in the past, and the times when i write the most and best i'm writing to WRITE, not writing for other people. Which goes back to what I said about being happy. Do what you want = be happy. Write to write = be happy. Write worrying about what other people think = be unhappy.
Fantastic.
And finally and most importantly, a big shout out to one of the great loves of my life AND my first wife (her second), Ms. Gwendolyn Glover DeRosa, who was born today not so many years ago and who is a talented, gorgeous budding writer. Happy birthday, Gwen! I love you!
That's all i have for today. Kisses, babies!
here we go:
so i'm perusing myspace today, and i see the profile of this guy i used to ahem "see" who was a friend but isn't so much a friend anymore and i wondered, "Why don't we hang out more?" Before realizing that the answer is that we're too busy boinking other people. i like the word boink as a euphemism for sex. it always gives me the mental image of two people's heads accidentally knocking together in a playful accidental way. which, i guess probably could be a deeper metaphor for sex if i thought about it, but i'm not going to. onward!
This week has been CRAZY. It's so bad that i haven't had time to buy groceries (for those of you who don't know, groceries are very important to me. i don't trust restaurants not to feed me poo-slash-weird chemicals-slash AIDS. and also i'm cheap and hate paying for food.). so i've been subsisting on takeout all week, BUT the upside is that I get to wear TWO (count 'em, two!) costumes this week! Tonight, I get to be a pirate at the jeerleader super-fun band night pirate-themed fundraiser, and then on Saturday, I get to dress like a Beauty School Dropout Mermaid for the annual Coney Island Mermaid Parade. Yipee! Except that my beauty school dropout costume kind of looks like a futuristic military uniform of some sort, minus alien-evaporating ray gun. oh well. i'm sure everyone will understand once i'm hand-jiving. So that should be tons of fun, tonight and Saturday.
So, i've come across two articles in the past few days about changing from being a night person to being a morning person and here's what i think about that:
1. Night people get a bad rap as being lazy, but we aren't, we just function great while the morning people are being old-ish and going to bed at 9 pm.
2. But I don't WANT to be a morning person. I LIKE nighttime.
3. Night people should be able to work their corporate jobs on schedules that fit their sleep patterns. In today's global economy, i would think this would be an asset, as the morning people in Beijing could talk to the night people in the US, then we could have 24-hour-a-day office hours, thereby increasing productivity and strengthening the world global corporate machine. erm, wait. no. nevermind. that would never work. forget i said anything.
And D. There is too much emphasis on changing basic fundamental characteristics of who we are. Instead we should embrace ourselves instead of trying to change. Learn to love your nighttime awakeness, or your small boobs, or your giant schnoz, or your gayness (another article I read was about how they might someday try to "cure" homosexuality in the womb by flooding it with hormones so kids don't become queer...so, so disturbing), or your shyness or weirdness or nerdiness or can't talk to people of the opposite sex-ness. I say EMBRACE IT! Own it! I'm a nerd who doesn't have many friends and i can barely dress myself. so what do i do? I read books naked by myself! That's what. And do you know what else? It makes me happy! And if you're happy, it doesn't matter what other people think. unless killing people or something similar makes you happy. then you have a problem.
I've been writing quite a lot (for me, baby steps) lately, and i have an idea for a book that i've been working on and i'm really excited about it. i briefly (read: for 10 minutes) started to read the novel i wrote last October, but I wasn't really into it. So i stopped. I might revisit it later, when i'm done with my new super-fabulous (fingers crossed!) book idea. I would tell you about it, but I don't want to jinx it. I think it's going to be a cross between memoir, fiction, poetry, and short stories. I hope I can pull it off. But if not, it's still good practice, right? RIGHT! Which reminds me of this artist woman I was reading about who was talking about how adult people should be more like kids in the way that they create their art, as in, kids focus on the act of creating as their main goal, whereas adults focus on how their going to make money (or, rather, on the value of the end result), and how all of us adult artists might be more happy (and productive!) if we focused on the CREATING rather than what it may be worth to other people when we're done. i know that very idea has kept me from writing in the past, and the times when i write the most and best i'm writing to WRITE, not writing for other people. Which goes back to what I said about being happy. Do what you want = be happy. Write to write = be happy. Write worrying about what other people think = be unhappy.
Fantastic.
And finally and most importantly, a big shout out to one of the great loves of my life AND my first wife (her second), Ms. Gwendolyn Glover DeRosa, who was born today not so many years ago and who is a talented, gorgeous budding writer. Happy birthday, Gwen! I love you!
That's all i have for today. Kisses, babies!
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Stupid in love
It happened almost a week ago, and I am still really, really angry. So angry I hit a cab for not stopping at a stop sign to let me walk in front of it. So angry, I yelled at a pregnant woman in the park. So angry, in fact, that I feel like I'm revisiting those confusing, messed-up teenage years again, where all of these things just seem to be happening to me, and I don't have any control over them or my reactions to them. I haven't been sleeping. I've been buying (and smoking) cigarettes. I've been eating too much. I'm hurt. And because I'm wounded, I'm lashing out at anyone who gets close enough.
All because of a stupid, careless boy who was so wrapped up in his own feelings that he didn't stop to consider mine.
I guess part of the reason I'm so angry (or maybe most of it) is because i feel stupid. I should have seen this coming. But I didn't. I got wrapped up in my feelings, in the idea that i really really liked someone who really really liked me back, and i didn't want it to be anything but magic and so i believed that it was, in a way, magical. Because for all of my cynicism and feigned disinterest and obvious lack of emotion, what i really wanted was something real. and this guy came along and he gave me the illusion that i was looking for. and i let my guard down. and i let myself believe the things he said that i wanted to believe. and i trusted him.
And, here's the most embarrassing part. I even fell in love a little.
Now, I don't know what his side of the story is, but I thought we were on the same page. I thought the sparks were flying for both of us. I thought we were well on our way to happily ever after.
Because sometimes, you just have to believe in it, you know?
And then the rug was pulled out from under me. I was jolted from my dream. The boy said in no uncertain terms that I was wrong, he had only said he wanted to have fun, that there were no sparks, and that this was the end. "But, wait," I thought. "It's barely begun."
And once again, I found myself face down on my bed crying aloud, remembering how these feelings feel when they wash over you: the pain, the disappointment, the feeling of absolute and utter failure, the nagging questions. "What is wrong with me?" "Why doesn't he want me?" "What did i do wrong?" And even if you've done nothing wrong, it is still your fault, somehow, not his.
And once again, you realize that it is not the boy that you are mourning but the ideas you had about the future with that boy.
Maybe the truth is that he did like me a lot, but he got in over his head, he got scared, and then he realized that maybe he didn't want what he had said he wanted all along, and so he said he couldn't see me anymore.
But from my point of view, it seems a lot like this: He treated me like shit. He had absolutely no respect for me or regard for my feelings. He led me on. He lied to me and told me what he thought i wanted to hear so that i would trust him, and then he dropped me.
And honestly, the worst part is not what he did. It's that I fell for it. And it's the oldest fucking trick in the book.
All because of a stupid, careless boy who was so wrapped up in his own feelings that he didn't stop to consider mine.
I guess part of the reason I'm so angry (or maybe most of it) is because i feel stupid. I should have seen this coming. But I didn't. I got wrapped up in my feelings, in the idea that i really really liked someone who really really liked me back, and i didn't want it to be anything but magic and so i believed that it was, in a way, magical. Because for all of my cynicism and feigned disinterest and obvious lack of emotion, what i really wanted was something real. and this guy came along and he gave me the illusion that i was looking for. and i let my guard down. and i let myself believe the things he said that i wanted to believe. and i trusted him.
And, here's the most embarrassing part. I even fell in love a little.
Now, I don't know what his side of the story is, but I thought we were on the same page. I thought the sparks were flying for both of us. I thought we were well on our way to happily ever after.
Because sometimes, you just have to believe in it, you know?
And then the rug was pulled out from under me. I was jolted from my dream. The boy said in no uncertain terms that I was wrong, he had only said he wanted to have fun, that there were no sparks, and that this was the end. "But, wait," I thought. "It's barely begun."
And once again, I found myself face down on my bed crying aloud, remembering how these feelings feel when they wash over you: the pain, the disappointment, the feeling of absolute and utter failure, the nagging questions. "What is wrong with me?" "Why doesn't he want me?" "What did i do wrong?" And even if you've done nothing wrong, it is still your fault, somehow, not his.
And once again, you realize that it is not the boy that you are mourning but the ideas you had about the future with that boy.
Maybe the truth is that he did like me a lot, but he got in over his head, he got scared, and then he realized that maybe he didn't want what he had said he wanted all along, and so he said he couldn't see me anymore.
But from my point of view, it seems a lot like this: He treated me like shit. He had absolutely no respect for me or regard for my feelings. He led me on. He lied to me and told me what he thought i wanted to hear so that i would trust him, and then he dropped me.
And honestly, the worst part is not what he did. It's that I fell for it. And it's the oldest fucking trick in the book.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
What can you expect from love?
Please read this. It's an essay from The New York Times about love, and I don't think I could have said what this woman says any better than she does. Especially the part about always wanting men to stay and the transient nature of our modern relationships.
On a related note, the article in the New York magazine this week about men, cheating, monogamy, sex, etc, here.
My married friend Katie asked me the other day if i was sytematically dating every commitment-phobe in New York. I didn't know how to answer her. I mean, isn't everyone a commitment-phobe in this town, myself included? I have just passed the 2-year anniversary of the break-up of my longest, most meaningful relationship, which lasted 3 years. And it is just within the past month or so that I have come to a point where I am willing, nay, wanting, to enter into another committed, monogamous, "possibly going somewhere" relationship. I fully understand the hookup mentality, the friends with benefits, the late-night booty calls. I understand the separation between love and sex, feelings and fulfilling a need, intimacy and orgasm. I understand why we do it. In my case, I did it because I wasn't emotionally ready or available to enter into a relationship. A "friend" of mine is biding time and having fun until he's ready start looking for a wife. Another "friend" is 35, with no real career, who is a self-proclaimed commitment-phobe because he is afraid of becoming the absent father that he had.
When it comes down to the real root of it, we are all broken, and most of us realize that love isn't what we need to be fixed. We've been around the block a few times, we've been hurt, cheated on, lied to. We've had our expectations crushed. We've had our feelings not returned. It is so much easier to find someone to have a good time with, to have sex with, to spend a night with every once in awhile, than to think about a real commitment. Because commitment isn't fun. It's not exciting, or thrilling. It's monogamy, boredom, having to put up with someone else's bad habits. It is long-term. And for many of us who come from broken homes or whose parents had terrible marriages, it is fighting, and anger, and resentment. It is heartbreak and failure. And it is simply not realistic.
I still don't know if I believe that a happy, monogamous marriage is possible. And I'm still not sure that it's something I ever want to gamble on.
The New York mag article mentioned a book called The Ethical Slut. Here's the quote they used, in the context of polyamory, which (if i understand correctly) is having a primary relationship with many sexual partners: "With practice, we can develop an intimacy based on warmth and mutual respect, much freer than desperation, neediness, or the blind insanity of falling in love."
On some level, in order to have noncommittal "encounters," you have to have this kind of shallow intimacy, where you care about and respect the other person, but without the proprietariness, or jealousy, or, consequently, love. It is based on warmth and mutual respect. They are yours when you are with them, and you don't ask about what they do outside of that. What I don't know is if these kind of "relationships" are sustainable long-term. I kind of want the blind insanity of falling in love, don't you? And why can't you have monogamy without desperation or neediness? I think you can. I ordered the book from the library. I'll let you know how it goes (that is, if I can manage to read a book that isn't fiction. I usually get a couple chapters in and abandon ship).
I guess, in the end, we all have to decide what works for us. But is what works and what we want the same thing? I asked my friend Pat the other day whether I date (excuse the cliche) all the wrong guys. His answer surprised me. He said no, I didn't date the "wrong" guys (what does that mean anyway?), but that I was continually hopeful that each of the guys I dated was going to be the right one. It's that hope, I think, that has led me to this place where I'm tired of meaningless hookups, and I'm tired of the shallow "mutual respect and warmth" that stands in as a shoddy pinch-hitter for love. Really, at the end of the day, I'm just plain tired. But what can you do? I still, deep down, want mind-bending, heart-palpitating, I can't help but love you love that, when the dust settles, effortlessly (or effortly, for that matter) morphs into the kind of long-term, in it for the long haul, deep commitment and intimacy and friendship that can be sustained throughout a lifetime. And, honestly, deep down I do believe it's possible. I don't think it's easy to find or to keep or that a whole hell of a lot of people have it, but without that hope, that belief that it is attainable, that i deserve it, that i someday will have it, well, what's the point of continuing to date all of these not right guys if there isn't the possibility that i'm going to find the right one? Hell, maybe I've found him already, and I just don't know it yet.
What do you think?
On a related note, the article in the New York magazine this week about men, cheating, monogamy, sex, etc, here.
My married friend Katie asked me the other day if i was sytematically dating every commitment-phobe in New York. I didn't know how to answer her. I mean, isn't everyone a commitment-phobe in this town, myself included? I have just passed the 2-year anniversary of the break-up of my longest, most meaningful relationship, which lasted 3 years. And it is just within the past month or so that I have come to a point where I am willing, nay, wanting, to enter into another committed, monogamous, "possibly going somewhere" relationship. I fully understand the hookup mentality, the friends with benefits, the late-night booty calls. I understand the separation between love and sex, feelings and fulfilling a need, intimacy and orgasm. I understand why we do it. In my case, I did it because I wasn't emotionally ready or available to enter into a relationship. A "friend" of mine is biding time and having fun until he's ready start looking for a wife. Another "friend" is 35, with no real career, who is a self-proclaimed commitment-phobe because he is afraid of becoming the absent father that he had.
When it comes down to the real root of it, we are all broken, and most of us realize that love isn't what we need to be fixed. We've been around the block a few times, we've been hurt, cheated on, lied to. We've had our expectations crushed. We've had our feelings not returned. It is so much easier to find someone to have a good time with, to have sex with, to spend a night with every once in awhile, than to think about a real commitment. Because commitment isn't fun. It's not exciting, or thrilling. It's monogamy, boredom, having to put up with someone else's bad habits. It is long-term. And for many of us who come from broken homes or whose parents had terrible marriages, it is fighting, and anger, and resentment. It is heartbreak and failure. And it is simply not realistic.
I still don't know if I believe that a happy, monogamous marriage is possible. And I'm still not sure that it's something I ever want to gamble on.
The New York mag article mentioned a book called The Ethical Slut. Here's the quote they used, in the context of polyamory, which (if i understand correctly) is having a primary relationship with many sexual partners: "With practice, we can develop an intimacy based on warmth and mutual respect, much freer than desperation, neediness, or the blind insanity of falling in love."
On some level, in order to have noncommittal "encounters," you have to have this kind of shallow intimacy, where you care about and respect the other person, but without the proprietariness, or jealousy, or, consequently, love. It is based on warmth and mutual respect. They are yours when you are with them, and you don't ask about what they do outside of that. What I don't know is if these kind of "relationships" are sustainable long-term. I kind of want the blind insanity of falling in love, don't you? And why can't you have monogamy without desperation or neediness? I think you can. I ordered the book from the library. I'll let you know how it goes (that is, if I can manage to read a book that isn't fiction. I usually get a couple chapters in and abandon ship).
I guess, in the end, we all have to decide what works for us. But is what works and what we want the same thing? I asked my friend Pat the other day whether I date (excuse the cliche) all the wrong guys. His answer surprised me. He said no, I didn't date the "wrong" guys (what does that mean anyway?), but that I was continually hopeful that each of the guys I dated was going to be the right one. It's that hope, I think, that has led me to this place where I'm tired of meaningless hookups, and I'm tired of the shallow "mutual respect and warmth" that stands in as a shoddy pinch-hitter for love. Really, at the end of the day, I'm just plain tired. But what can you do? I still, deep down, want mind-bending, heart-palpitating, I can't help but love you love that, when the dust settles, effortlessly (or effortly, for that matter) morphs into the kind of long-term, in it for the long haul, deep commitment and intimacy and friendship that can be sustained throughout a lifetime. And, honestly, deep down I do believe it's possible. I don't think it's easy to find or to keep or that a whole hell of a lot of people have it, but without that hope, that belief that it is attainable, that i deserve it, that i someday will have it, well, what's the point of continuing to date all of these not right guys if there isn't the possibility that i'm going to find the right one? Hell, maybe I've found him already, and I just don't know it yet.
What do you think?
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
a little poetry...
firstly, a quote: “A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful implanted in the human soul.” --Johann Wolfgang Goethe
nextly, a poem about a lemon by Pablo Neruda, who i am in love with.
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium
Delicate merchandise!
the harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
nextly, a poem about a lemon by Pablo Neruda, who i am in love with.
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium
Delicate merchandise!
the harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
Monday, May 5, 2008
People You May Know
Monday 9:20 AM. I sit at my computer at work. Nothing has come across my desk yet, and so i'm checking my two personal e-mail accounts, myspace, facebook (in that order; every day in that order). I log on to Facebook, read the feed, see what everyone's up to, change a few things in my profile (delete, mostly--i'm feeling reclusive today), and notice, over the insistent throbbing of a growing migraine and under the heading "People You May Know" the profile of Ben Harris. Facebook has no way of knowing, of course, that I was in love with the man for 3 years (and if we're being honest, probably longer). It has no way of knowing that i fully believed that I would marry him and have his children. It has no way of knowing that, finally, 2 years after our breakup, am I just getting to the point of wanting another relationship, and that even now the thought half-terrifies me. I remember that he friended me about a year ago, and I accepted his friend request, but my wounds were still too raw to have him in my life even in this sterile electronic environment, and after a week or two of me sending him "What do you want? Why are you talking to me?" messages, he unfriended me because I was "obviously too stressed out" about the whole thing.
Taking my recent change of heart in the relationship department as a sign, I clicked on the "Add as Friend" button. I clicked "Add a Message," and I wrote, "Let's be friends. I promise not to freak out this time. J." And then I wondered what he would think when he read it. And I realized, due to recently relatively unrelated circumstances, that this may be a promise I can't keep. I looked at the Send button and hit Cancel.
Sometimes I realize that I haven't come as far as I would like to think. And I realize that no matter how long it's been or how much I would like it to be true, Ben will never just be one of the People You May Know.
Taking my recent change of heart in the relationship department as a sign, I clicked on the "Add as Friend" button. I clicked "Add a Message," and I wrote, "Let's be friends. I promise not to freak out this time. J." And then I wondered what he would think when he read it. And I realized, due to recently relatively unrelated circumstances, that this may be a promise I can't keep. I looked at the Send button and hit Cancel.
Sometimes I realize that I haven't come as far as I would like to think. And I realize that no matter how long it's been or how much I would like it to be true, Ben will never just be one of the People You May Know.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Boyfriend
Having a boyfriend is so much easier than dating. It makes problem solving exponentially simpler. For example
Q: What am I going to do this weekend?
A: Hang out with the boyfriend.
Q: Who am I going to have sex with?
A: The boyfriend.
Q: Who is going to take me out to dinner?
A: The boyfriend.
Q: Who is going to tell me that they like me just the way I am even if my fat is rolling over the top of my jeans?
A: The boyfriend.
Q: Who is going to help me haul this huge, heavy piece of furniture that i just happened to find on the street that is so nice that it doesn't even matter that i have zero free sqare feet in my place but i have to have it because it's FREEEEEE?
A: The boyfriend (and if you're lucky, one of his friends, leaving you free to supervise).
Q: Who is going to empty the mouse trap with the dead, mangled mouse in it?
A: They boyfriend.
And on and on like that.
Now, when you happen to find yourself in the extremely liberating position of SINGLENESS, the answers to all of those questions in 98% percent of cases become much less enticing. This, of course, is after that stage where you lie to yourself about all of the great things about being single. For instance
Q: What am I going to do this weekend?
A: Lay around in my sweatpants eating Ben and Jerry's and drinking wine because i was dating someone for so long that i no longer have any friends to hang out with.
Q: Who am I going to have sex with?
A: No one. My vibrator. That guy i used to sleep with along time ago, shit, except i lost his number. In that order.
Q: Who is going to take me out to dinner?
A: No one. Yourself. In that order. Which is really the same thing.
Q: Who is going to tell me that they like me just the way I am even if my fat is rolling over the top of my jeans?
A: Maybe the homeless guy on the corner asking for change. Maybe. But probably only if you give him some change.
Q: Who is going to empty the mouse trap with the dead, mangled mouse in it?
A: Oh, God. Oh god. Maybe the roommate will do it. No, no, she won't, she definitely won't. Oh God, I think I'm going to vomit. I cannot believe there are absolutely no men in my life who will do this for me. Oh god. I don't even want to touch it. Oh God.
And on and on like that.
Q: What am I going to do this weekend?
A: Hang out with the boyfriend.
Q: Who am I going to have sex with?
A: The boyfriend.
Q: Who is going to take me out to dinner?
A: The boyfriend.
Q: Who is going to tell me that they like me just the way I am even if my fat is rolling over the top of my jeans?
A: The boyfriend.
Q: Who is going to help me haul this huge, heavy piece of furniture that i just happened to find on the street that is so nice that it doesn't even matter that i have zero free sqare feet in my place but i have to have it because it's FREEEEEE?
A: The boyfriend (and if you're lucky, one of his friends, leaving you free to supervise).
Q: Who is going to empty the mouse trap with the dead, mangled mouse in it?
A: They boyfriend.
And on and on like that.
Now, when you happen to find yourself in the extremely liberating position of SINGLENESS, the answers to all of those questions in 98% percent of cases become much less enticing. This, of course, is after that stage where you lie to yourself about all of the great things about being single. For instance
Q: What am I going to do this weekend?
A: Lay around in my sweatpants eating Ben and Jerry's and drinking wine because i was dating someone for so long that i no longer have any friends to hang out with.
Q: Who am I going to have sex with?
A: No one. My vibrator. That guy i used to sleep with along time ago, shit, except i lost his number. In that order.
Q: Who is going to take me out to dinner?
A: No one. Yourself. In that order. Which is really the same thing.
Q: Who is going to tell me that they like me just the way I am even if my fat is rolling over the top of my jeans?
A: Maybe the homeless guy on the corner asking for change. Maybe. But probably only if you give him some change.
Q: Who is going to empty the mouse trap with the dead, mangled mouse in it?
A: Oh, God. Oh god. Maybe the roommate will do it. No, no, she won't, she definitely won't. Oh God, I think I'm going to vomit. I cannot believe there are absolutely no men in my life who will do this for me. Oh god. I don't even want to touch it. Oh God.
And on and on like that.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Some things i thought of today
First, that everyone dies of heart failure. I went to Easter dinner at a friend's mom's house somewhere in "this looks a lot like Western Pennsylvania" Long Island, and she is a pediatric ICU nurse who takes care of babies who most likely will die, and she said to me, over dinner, that everyone dies of heart failure. which is true because it's the last thing to go before you die, regardless of why it's going (and where...). But it didn't hit me until today, when i was editing some slides at work (yup, the glories of my job. i know, i know, you wish you were me, but you can't be. because i am.) for a drug that cannot be named because it would probably land me in jail (facetious, i don't really care, but these drug companies are super super anal about their drug names, anywhooo), and it's a drug for something called ACUTE heart failure, which is when heart failure gets really bad. (side note: i always thought that it was weird to call a disease "heart failure" as it implies a one-time deal, as in, my heart failed, and now i'm dead, but no, it's a disease people live with all the time until the LAST time their heart fails. and THEN they're dead.) And THEN, I remembered what my friend's mom said at Easter dinner: Everyone dies of heart failure. And then i started thinking about the relationship between heart failure and a broken heart, and whether there was one, because a friend i was talking to recently said that he didn't want to get into a relationship with a girl he was interested in because he was, (and he didn't come out and say it, but i inferred, and i assume correctly) afraid of her breaking his heart, or him hers. To which i wisely responded: "But it doesn't kill you. Everyone's heart has been broken. And it hurts, but it doesn't kill you. So why don't you just go for it?" But then you have the stories about people who love each other so much that when one partner dies, the other follows closely behind, like with Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash. And people like to say that Johnny Cash died of a broken heart because he loved June Carter Cash so much that he didn't want to live if she wasn't living too, but really, he didn't die of a broken heart. He died of heart failure.
I'm thinking about writing a story that explores those concepts a little more deeply. Though, it looks like i might have just done that. Humph. Oh, well.
The second thing I thought today was: "All I need is a baby golden retriever (what are those called? those have a special name? What is it? Oh yeah! Puppy!). All I need is a golden retriever puppy, and i could be in a J.Crew catalog. Well, that and skinny legs." Because i was wearing my new navy sailor mini chino skirt with a blue and white striped button down and a brown cardigan and those brown knee-high riding boots. i was very proud of myself for putting together such a typical and WASPy outfit. I felt like i thoroughly fit in with myself. Also, that it has been a LONG time since men last saw knees and lower thighs. A LONG TIME, friends. In the last 26 years combined, my legs have not had that much attention. If Tom Robbins were to write a book about me (and I hope he does, starring a not nearly as gross older perverted man as in his other books for me to have sex with), it would be titled "Fat Knees and All." No joke.
AND THEN, me and Toya went to a meeting way up on the 7th floor where the executives have their kegs and dancing girls while we minions toil and sweat in the windowless abyss that is the 5th floor (more like toil and shiver, actually, but that's just semantics) to hear a very cute and very nervous Maria Von Trapp look alike (pixie hair cut, ugly jacket) tell us about how we can volunteer at a camp for families affected by AIDS and that the company will LET US HAVE A FREE WEEK OF WORK OFF THAT DOESN'T COUNT TOWARD OUR VACATION. And I was like, "Hmm, be at work...be playing with kids. Be at work...be playing with kids." I believe I will be playing with kids. And also because I want to volunteer to help people who are affected by AIDS. And also because the most beautiful boy i have ever seen in my entire life up to this point including celebrities was sitting in that room today, and do you know what happened, friends, when he opened his mouth? An accent happened, that's what. An Australian accent. And do you know what I did when the meeting lady said "Yes, Jason?" I wrote down his first name on my meeting information sheet so that i could somehow stalk him later with only his first name to go on. And do you know what I did the entire rest of the meeting? I drooled all over my meeting information sheet while i took in his perfectly sculpted jawline and the muscles that bulged oh so subtly through his fatigue-colored button-up. And i said something to Toya, most likely too loudly (because i was titillated AND nervous) like "Kill me now. Or is it 'take me now?'" I AM GOING TO THAT CAMP AND I AM GOING TO STALK THAT BOY AND I AM GOING TO FORCE HIM TO LOVE ME AND MARRY ME AND HAVE MY CHILDREN. All because I want to help families affected by AIDS.
I'm thinking about writing a story that explores those concepts a little more deeply. Though, it looks like i might have just done that. Humph. Oh, well.
The second thing I thought today was: "All I need is a baby golden retriever (what are those called? those have a special name? What is it? Oh yeah! Puppy!). All I need is a golden retriever puppy, and i could be in a J.Crew catalog. Well, that and skinny legs." Because i was wearing my new navy sailor mini chino skirt with a blue and white striped button down and a brown cardigan and those brown knee-high riding boots. i was very proud of myself for putting together such a typical and WASPy outfit. I felt like i thoroughly fit in with myself. Also, that it has been a LONG time since men last saw knees and lower thighs. A LONG TIME, friends. In the last 26 years combined, my legs have not had that much attention. If Tom Robbins were to write a book about me (and I hope he does, starring a not nearly as gross older perverted man as in his other books for me to have sex with), it would be titled "Fat Knees and All." No joke.
AND THEN, me and Toya went to a meeting way up on the 7th floor where the executives have their kegs and dancing girls while we minions toil and sweat in the windowless abyss that is the 5th floor (more like toil and shiver, actually, but that's just semantics) to hear a very cute and very nervous Maria Von Trapp look alike (pixie hair cut, ugly jacket) tell us about how we can volunteer at a camp for families affected by AIDS and that the company will LET US HAVE A FREE WEEK OF WORK OFF THAT DOESN'T COUNT TOWARD OUR VACATION. And I was like, "Hmm, be at work...be playing with kids. Be at work...be playing with kids." I believe I will be playing with kids. And also because I want to volunteer to help people who are affected by AIDS. And also because the most beautiful boy i have ever seen in my entire life up to this point including celebrities was sitting in that room today, and do you know what happened, friends, when he opened his mouth? An accent happened, that's what. An Australian accent. And do you know what I did when the meeting lady said "Yes, Jason?" I wrote down his first name on my meeting information sheet so that i could somehow stalk him later with only his first name to go on. And do you know what I did the entire rest of the meeting? I drooled all over my meeting information sheet while i took in his perfectly sculpted jawline and the muscles that bulged oh so subtly through his fatigue-colored button-up. And i said something to Toya, most likely too loudly (because i was titillated AND nervous) like "Kill me now. Or is it 'take me now?'" I AM GOING TO THAT CAMP AND I AM GOING TO STALK THAT BOY AND I AM GOING TO FORCE HIM TO LOVE ME AND MARRY ME AND HAVE MY CHILDREN. All because I want to help families affected by AIDS.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Amy Hempel
Let me begin by saying this: Amy Hempel is a goddess.
And this: at the risk of sounding trite, or like i'm lying, I have just added her to my list of women that I would go gay for, should the opportunity arise. Here is my list:
1. Maggie Gyllenhal (of course)
2. Angelina Jolie
3. Amy Hempel
From my vantage point in the "Lillian somethingorother Writer's House" (about halfway back a narrow room, behind a doorway, sans doors, that used to lead from what i assume was the drawing room into what i imagine was the parlor), I watched as Ms. Hempel took her place behind a small podium with a microphone. I sat a few chairs away from the speaker, set on one of those old wooden folding chairs. She has thick white hair, but as I watched her read from (the scarcest book i've ever tried to buy) her collection of short stories ("The Collected Stories") I swear, she wasn't a day over 26. She was breathtaking. I witnessed this transformatory magic as her words swelled toward, and then enveloped me. I was in love.
She writes short stories and what she calls "short shorts" that are only a page or two long. I am in awe of her brevity. And how much meaning she packs into every. single. word. Let me find you an excerpt. Here's one, the end of a short story about a friend who dies.
"I think of the chimp, the one with the talking hands.
In the course of the experiment, that chimp had a baby. Imagine how her trainers must have thrilled when the mother, without prompting, began to sign to her newborn.
Baby, drink milk.
Baby, play ball.
And when the baby died, the mother stood over the body, her wrinkled hands moving with animal grace, forming again and again the words: Baby, come hug, Baby, come hug, fluent now in the language of grief."
Fuck me. This woman is a genius.
After the reading (which could have gone on for hours, in my book), the guy (an NYU professor with prematurely gray hair and a high voice), asked her some questions before they opened it up to the audience. I always hate that part, cringing with (I assume) the writer every time a precocious 19-year-old asks a stupid question. Yet, i never have the nerve to ask one of my own. I'm strangely timid at readings. I go alone. I sit in the back. I take notes. I buy the book if i have the money. I leave, taking a good long look at the writer's face before I do. I suppose I'm looking for whatever it is that I hope I have, too.
Although I loved her writing, i was a little disappointed with her answers. I don't just go to readings to try to glimpse the writer's soul or hear them read: I go because I want them to teach me something about writing that will help me write. She said a few helpful but relatively clicheed things, that beginning writers should "be obsessed," that successful writing is not about talent but about will and wanting it most, that you should "do the thing that unglues you." But when it came down to discussing her process, she was...a bit flighty. The most interesting thing she said was that most writers write about the "main event" but that her stories often look to the side, at what is happening beside that event. She said that she writes a story already knowing the first and last lines, but that she doesn't think of them: they come to her. She says that she doesn't edit after she writes: it COMES OUT THAT WAY. She said, when asked how she writes that way, "Oh, it's really a lot like magic." MAGIC?? ARE YOU KIDDING ME, MAGIC? I CAN'T DO MAGIC! my insides screamed. "That's it. I'm fucked."
She reminded me a lot of Sarah, whose spiritual/other-worldly sense is probably stronger than her other five combined. I bet Sarah would have understood what Amy was talking about. But I didn't, and I wish I had. I try to not even rely on physical things i can touch; can you imagine relying on magic?
Though, maybe there's something there. The something that you can't always put your finger on about the literature that moves you. I guess you could call that magic. Maybe we all have the magic, and it's just a matter of letting it out. Maybe it was that magic that i was looking for as I left quietly, gazing at her face.
And this: at the risk of sounding trite, or like i'm lying, I have just added her to my list of women that I would go gay for, should the opportunity arise. Here is my list:
1. Maggie Gyllenhal (of course)
2. Angelina Jolie
3. Amy Hempel
From my vantage point in the "Lillian somethingorother Writer's House" (about halfway back a narrow room, behind a doorway, sans doors, that used to lead from what i assume was the drawing room into what i imagine was the parlor), I watched as Ms. Hempel took her place behind a small podium with a microphone. I sat a few chairs away from the speaker, set on one of those old wooden folding chairs. She has thick white hair, but as I watched her read from (the scarcest book i've ever tried to buy) her collection of short stories ("The Collected Stories") I swear, she wasn't a day over 26. She was breathtaking. I witnessed this transformatory magic as her words swelled toward, and then enveloped me. I was in love.
She writes short stories and what she calls "short shorts" that are only a page or two long. I am in awe of her brevity. And how much meaning she packs into every. single. word. Let me find you an excerpt. Here's one, the end of a short story about a friend who dies.
"I think of the chimp, the one with the talking hands.
In the course of the experiment, that chimp had a baby. Imagine how her trainers must have thrilled when the mother, without prompting, began to sign to her newborn.
Baby, drink milk.
Baby, play ball.
And when the baby died, the mother stood over the body, her wrinkled hands moving with animal grace, forming again and again the words: Baby, come hug, Baby, come hug, fluent now in the language of grief."
Fuck me. This woman is a genius.
After the reading (which could have gone on for hours, in my book), the guy (an NYU professor with prematurely gray hair and a high voice), asked her some questions before they opened it up to the audience. I always hate that part, cringing with (I assume) the writer every time a precocious 19-year-old asks a stupid question. Yet, i never have the nerve to ask one of my own. I'm strangely timid at readings. I go alone. I sit in the back. I take notes. I buy the book if i have the money. I leave, taking a good long look at the writer's face before I do. I suppose I'm looking for whatever it is that I hope I have, too.
Although I loved her writing, i was a little disappointed with her answers. I don't just go to readings to try to glimpse the writer's soul or hear them read: I go because I want them to teach me something about writing that will help me write. She said a few helpful but relatively clicheed things, that beginning writers should "be obsessed," that successful writing is not about talent but about will and wanting it most, that you should "do the thing that unglues you." But when it came down to discussing her process, she was...a bit flighty. The most interesting thing she said was that most writers write about the "main event" but that her stories often look to the side, at what is happening beside that event. She said that she writes a story already knowing the first and last lines, but that she doesn't think of them: they come to her. She says that she doesn't edit after she writes: it COMES OUT THAT WAY. She said, when asked how she writes that way, "Oh, it's really a lot like magic." MAGIC?? ARE YOU KIDDING ME, MAGIC? I CAN'T DO MAGIC! my insides screamed. "That's it. I'm fucked."
She reminded me a lot of Sarah, whose spiritual/other-worldly sense is probably stronger than her other five combined. I bet Sarah would have understood what Amy was talking about. But I didn't, and I wish I had. I try to not even rely on physical things i can touch; can you imagine relying on magic?
Though, maybe there's something there. The something that you can't always put your finger on about the literature that moves you. I guess you could call that magic. Maybe we all have the magic, and it's just a matter of letting it out. Maybe it was that magic that i was looking for as I left quietly, gazing at her face.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
love and hate
hiya, babies! how are you? it's been a few days, so i thought i'd write something, even though i'm not sure yet what that's going to be.
let's start with the BF. I know i sometimes get frustrated with him, but at the moment i'm so enamored it's kind of disgusting and i would like to just say that he showed up on my doorstep at a completely reasonable hour last night OUT OF THE BLUE and we snuggled and talked in my bed until the wee hours of the night. and he said something sickening like "I love looking into your eyes," and then i said something sickening, like "I love how we can just lay around and talk." in fact, here's a short list of the things i love about him.
1. he likes my fat (erm, curves)
2. he likes me in spite of (and possibly in part because of) my crazy psychopathic tendencies (like wanting to plan everything, or flipping out over minute infractions)
3. he is a fantastic listener
4. he always knows when something is wrong (sometimes before i do)
5. he is hot, hot, hot, and does that boy know how to dance! mmm.
6. he owns more pairs of shoes than i do.
did you just throw up a little in your mouth? sorry about that. i couldn't help myself.
moving on. I read an article this morning about my alma mater, one Oral Roberts University, which fucked me up more than i care to let on. if you don't know the entire story, it's documented practically daily by the Tulsa World. Because nothing else really happens down there. (HA! I just got a really weird mental image of the "down there" of the United States being in Oklahoma. Oklahoma, the vagina of the US. god, how depressing!) The first article i read was about how the place is on the upswing, because a guy basically said "I'll give you $62 million dollars if you let me make the rules" and ORU was like "yeah, sure. sounds good." which has a couple of alumni i know really excited that the place is now on the right track (these are former "I hate ORUers" who are now giving money to the university). but i'm (more than) a little skeptical. isn't that just trading one monarchy for another? isn't that continuing the tradition of BOWING TO THE DOLLAR instead of God? I'm not convinced. I mean, anything, ANYTHING is better than Richard and Lindsey. A monkey, a chocolate bar, a waitress from Hooters. Marilyn Manson. Anything. (side note: although, i do actually have a lot of respect for MM. i like the guy. he's smart and well-spoken, and i think in many ways he is more "christian" than most self-proclaimed christians.) But I'm not sure that the corruption is gone. i'm not sure that ORU hasn't traded one "evil" for another. the second article i read was about a former accountant who has stepped forward and alleges that ORU was funneling $1 billion annually through the university out to not only Richard and Lindsey but also to the Regents. Though I doubt that it's possible that that much money was coming through ORU, it would explain why the Regents were so reluctant to deal with the allegations brought by the former professors who filed the lawsuit. What? More corruption in the church? I'm shocked.
all of that to say that i'm not convinced that anything has changed. and it will be a long time before i am. at this point, though i feel much less like blowing up the prayer tower or hoping to someday watch a giant tornado level the campus, i am still so scarred by my four years there that i'm not sure that any amount of change could convince me to ever forgive ORU its former evils. and although some former "I hate ORUers" have come to a place where they are now supporting the university financially, i don't know that i will ever even be able to speak well of it. I'm still angry, and it's going to take more than a little restructuring to change that. ORU took my soul. it's not getting my money, too.
let's start with the BF. I know i sometimes get frustrated with him, but at the moment i'm so enamored it's kind of disgusting and i would like to just say that he showed up on my doorstep at a completely reasonable hour last night OUT OF THE BLUE and we snuggled and talked in my bed until the wee hours of the night. and he said something sickening like "I love looking into your eyes," and then i said something sickening, like "I love how we can just lay around and talk." in fact, here's a short list of the things i love about him.
1. he likes my fat (erm, curves)
2. he likes me in spite of (and possibly in part because of) my crazy psychopathic tendencies (like wanting to plan everything, or flipping out over minute infractions)
3. he is a fantastic listener
4. he always knows when something is wrong (sometimes before i do)
5. he is hot, hot, hot, and does that boy know how to dance! mmm.
6. he owns more pairs of shoes than i do.
did you just throw up a little in your mouth? sorry about that. i couldn't help myself.
moving on. I read an article this morning about my alma mater, one Oral Roberts University, which fucked me up more than i care to let on. if you don't know the entire story, it's documented practically daily by the Tulsa World. Because nothing else really happens down there. (HA! I just got a really weird mental image of the "down there" of the United States being in Oklahoma. Oklahoma, the vagina of the US. god, how depressing!) The first article i read was about how the place is on the upswing, because a guy basically said "I'll give you $62 million dollars if you let me make the rules" and ORU was like "yeah, sure. sounds good." which has a couple of alumni i know really excited that the place is now on the right track (these are former "I hate ORUers" who are now giving money to the university). but i'm (more than) a little skeptical. isn't that just trading one monarchy for another? isn't that continuing the tradition of BOWING TO THE DOLLAR instead of God? I'm not convinced. I mean, anything, ANYTHING is better than Richard and Lindsey. A monkey, a chocolate bar, a waitress from Hooters. Marilyn Manson. Anything. (side note: although, i do actually have a lot of respect for MM. i like the guy. he's smart and well-spoken, and i think in many ways he is more "christian" than most self-proclaimed christians.) But I'm not sure that the corruption is gone. i'm not sure that ORU hasn't traded one "evil" for another. the second article i read was about a former accountant who has stepped forward and alleges that ORU was funneling $1 billion annually through the university out to not only Richard and Lindsey but also to the Regents. Though I doubt that it's possible that that much money was coming through ORU, it would explain why the Regents were so reluctant to deal with the allegations brought by the former professors who filed the lawsuit. What? More corruption in the church? I'm shocked.
all of that to say that i'm not convinced that anything has changed. and it will be a long time before i am. at this point, though i feel much less like blowing up the prayer tower or hoping to someday watch a giant tornado level the campus, i am still so scarred by my four years there that i'm not sure that any amount of change could convince me to ever forgive ORU its former evils. and although some former "I hate ORUers" have come to a place where they are now supporting the university financially, i don't know that i will ever even be able to speak well of it. I'm still angry, and it's going to take more than a little restructuring to change that. ORU took my soul. it's not getting my money, too.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
completely unoriginal valentine's day blog
is there ANYONE in the western world who actually LIKES valentine's day? Seriously, anyone? I would like to meet them. Because regardless of your personal life, Valentine's Day is bound to be frought with 1) too-high expectations, 2) self-pity, 3) anxiety, and 4) crushedness.
at least when you're single, you know exactly what to expect. when you've got a boyfriend, you WANT to expect, but you don't want to expect too much, because you don't want to be disappointed, but you do know that he cares about you, so that means he's going to do something, right? but then maybe he won't...this is the anxiety. i'm hoping to avoid the self-pity and crushedness this year. gah.
i don't remember ever having a good valentine's day. Oop! Wait. Yes, there was one! I was in 4th grade, which would have made me, um, roughly 10 years old. I was "going with" (what did we used to call it? god, it was so long ago) a cute little black boy named Chris Byers. And on Valentine's Day, he delivered. I got a box of candy and a cheap gold-plated heart necklace that turned my neck green almost immediately. I remember being so embarrassed to tell my mom that i had a boyfriend that i left the chocolate at school in my "cubby." i don't think i ever even ate it. (i've never been a huge fan of chocolate. strangely.) but i'll tell you one thing. that boy liked me. and he let me know it.
i admit, this is probably part of the reason that i dislike valentine's day now (and have since). because if it's so easy that a 10-YEAR-OLD BOY can do it, why don't more men get it right? For Chrissakes, it's not that difficult. And women are so easy to buy for: flowers, chocolate, stuffed animals, jewelry, dinner. Granted, the only thing on that list that really excites me is dinner. and jewelry. but a heartfelt gesture, no matter how off-point, is still a heartfelt gesture. why, then, do so many men balk and simply do nothing? C'mon guys! You know you're supposed to do something. So do something! It doesn't even have to be a big something. it doesn't have to be an expensive something. A card with a handwritten note in it telling us how much you care about us. A carefully picked CD or book. A token of your love and/or affection. I don't need diamonds. I don't even really need dinner (well, I do need dinner, due to my blood sugar issues, but it doesn't have to be fancy). All I want to know is that I am important to you, that you care about me, and that you feel lucky to have me in your life. that's it.
i think it's a pretty small price to pay for guaranteed sex.
at least when you're single, you know exactly what to expect. when you've got a boyfriend, you WANT to expect, but you don't want to expect too much, because you don't want to be disappointed, but you do know that he cares about you, so that means he's going to do something, right? but then maybe he won't...this is the anxiety. i'm hoping to avoid the self-pity and crushedness this year. gah.
i don't remember ever having a good valentine's day. Oop! Wait. Yes, there was one! I was in 4th grade, which would have made me, um, roughly 10 years old. I was "going with" (what did we used to call it? god, it was so long ago) a cute little black boy named Chris Byers. And on Valentine's Day, he delivered. I got a box of candy and a cheap gold-plated heart necklace that turned my neck green almost immediately. I remember being so embarrassed to tell my mom that i had a boyfriend that i left the chocolate at school in my "cubby." i don't think i ever even ate it. (i've never been a huge fan of chocolate. strangely.) but i'll tell you one thing. that boy liked me. and he let me know it.
i admit, this is probably part of the reason that i dislike valentine's day now (and have since). because if it's so easy that a 10-YEAR-OLD BOY can do it, why don't more men get it right? For Chrissakes, it's not that difficult. And women are so easy to buy for: flowers, chocolate, stuffed animals, jewelry, dinner. Granted, the only thing on that list that really excites me is dinner. and jewelry. but a heartfelt gesture, no matter how off-point, is still a heartfelt gesture. why, then, do so many men balk and simply do nothing? C'mon guys! You know you're supposed to do something. So do something! It doesn't even have to be a big something. it doesn't have to be an expensive something. A card with a handwritten note in it telling us how much you care about us. A carefully picked CD or book. A token of your love and/or affection. I don't need diamonds. I don't even really need dinner (well, I do need dinner, due to my blood sugar issues, but it doesn't have to be fancy). All I want to know is that I am important to you, that you care about me, and that you feel lucky to have me in your life. that's it.
i think it's a pretty small price to pay for guaranteed sex.
Friday, February 8, 2008
yes, actually, i am planning to party like it's my birthday
BECAUSE IT IS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
i was thinking today, because it's my birthday, about birthdays. specifically, about how people react to their birthdays. i think there are two types of birthday people.
1. The denyers
2. The shameless attention whores
Denyers won't admit, even to themselves, that it's their birthday. They tell no one, they lie about it if someone brings it up, and they shut themselves in their apartments/rooms/closets/bathrooms curled in the fetal position and rocking from side to side, waiting for it all to be over.
Shameless attention whores, on the other hand, begin announcing their birthday NO LATER than six months before the event. This usually begins with me, SHOUTING TO EVERYONE on August 8, "HEY! IT'S MY HALF-BIRTHDAY! GET READY! IN SIX MONTHS, IT WILL BE MY REAL BIRTHDAY!" then giving people weekly updates to let them know just how much longer they have before i expect them to shower me with attention, presents, cake (mmmm, a cake shower...can you even imagine????), love, adoration, facebook comments, text messages, phone calls, singing telegrams, clowns, strippers/exotic dancers, vacations to cabo, etc. also, attention whores pretty much base their self esteem for the entire year on how many people show them love on their birthday.
so far, this is the best birthday i've had since i was 21. AND IT'S ONLY 1:35 PM. AND I'M AT WORK.
I've gotten a LOT of love so far today (strangely, though, no vacations to Cabo. but it's still early). my boyfriend called AND texted at midnight last night, my mom called this morning, and several friends have texted, e-mailed, sent e-cards (2 birthday, 1 mammogram!), called, facebook/myspace messaged/commented, or walked over to my desk to give me a birthday song and dance routine (okay, only one of those. so far. but keep 'em coming.)
ANYHOW, all of that to say that it's been a really really really long time since i had a good birthday (really). and i feel so blessed (agh, i hate that word, but it's true) and lucky to have such a supportive, loving family of friends (and family, too, but mostly friends).
and to not be sitting alone in a big, scary house drinking a bottle of wine by myself and watching "Sex and the City" and crying because i have no friends.
man, 23 was rough.
i heart you all.
thank you for indulging my attention-whoreishness.
i was thinking today, because it's my birthday, about birthdays. specifically, about how people react to their birthdays. i think there are two types of birthday people.
1. The denyers
2. The shameless attention whores
Denyers won't admit, even to themselves, that it's their birthday. They tell no one, they lie about it if someone brings it up, and they shut themselves in their apartments/rooms/closets/bathrooms curled in the fetal position and rocking from side to side, waiting for it all to be over.
Shameless attention whores, on the other hand, begin announcing their birthday NO LATER than six months before the event. This usually begins with me, SHOUTING TO EVERYONE on August 8, "HEY! IT'S MY HALF-BIRTHDAY! GET READY! IN SIX MONTHS, IT WILL BE MY REAL BIRTHDAY!" then giving people weekly updates to let them know just how much longer they have before i expect them to shower me with attention, presents, cake (mmmm, a cake shower...can you even imagine????), love, adoration, facebook comments, text messages, phone calls, singing telegrams, clowns, strippers/exotic dancers, vacations to cabo, etc. also, attention whores pretty much base their self esteem for the entire year on how many people show them love on their birthday.
so far, this is the best birthday i've had since i was 21. AND IT'S ONLY 1:35 PM. AND I'M AT WORK.
I've gotten a LOT of love so far today (strangely, though, no vacations to Cabo. but it's still early). my boyfriend called AND texted at midnight last night, my mom called this morning, and several friends have texted, e-mailed, sent e-cards (2 birthday, 1 mammogram!), called, facebook/myspace messaged/commented, or walked over to my desk to give me a birthday song and dance routine (okay, only one of those. so far. but keep 'em coming.)
ANYHOW, all of that to say that it's been a really really really long time since i had a good birthday (really). and i feel so blessed (agh, i hate that word, but it's true) and lucky to have such a supportive, loving family of friends (and family, too, but mostly friends).
and to not be sitting alone in a big, scary house drinking a bottle of wine by myself and watching "Sex and the City" and crying because i have no friends.
man, 23 was rough.
i heart you all.
thank you for indulging my attention-whoreishness.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
a REAL new yorker now
hi again! didja miss me? i missed you. really. i did. man, i am farting like crazy today. that's the great thing about being alone. you can fart all you want and it doesn't matter. or pick the gunk out of your toenails. or masturbate. whatever you want! that's why i love being alone. why do you love being alone?
i know i said a couple of posts ago that i was going to start doing a "question of the day." and then the universe stomped on my baby toe and broke it, thus derailing my line of thought for a few days, but i am back, people. i am back! right. so, in case you were wondering, the question up there, in that last paragraph, was NOT the question of the day. that was just a random question. though it may end up being the question of the day if i don't think of anything better by the end of this post. which i have entitled (as you may or may not have noticed) "a REAL new yorker now." (i just farted like 6 times writing that paragraph)
Like most women everywhere all over the planet who are pretty much any adult age do, i base whether or not i am having a great new york life on how directly it correlates to anything i've ever seen in "Sex and the City." And last night, i had a VERY NEW YORK moment. i don't know how many people live here. A lot, okay? Which means that when i lived in West Bumblefuck, I never ever believed it when Carrie or Miranda or Charlotte or Samantha just "happened" to run into someone they used to fuck on the street. I thought to myself, "There are a gajillion people in New York, and they run into that guy? Yeah, right!"
But then, I moved to New York. And what I found out was this: i know less than 1% of the population of this city, easily, probably less than one half of 1%. And yet, every few weeks, i run into someone i know on the street or in a store or in the subway. my theory (which i'm still working on), is something like a ven diagram (and if i knew how to put pictures in my posts, i would draw one for you and put it right here: BLOOP. Where that bloop was. but i don't know how. so you will have to imagine it with me. because i can't see one either. okay, so my theory is that everyone you know is in New York and everyone you know...hmmm, is this really like a ven diagram? nevermind. my point is that everyone you know is probably somewhat like you and runs in the same kind of circles as you and goes to the same kinds of places, so it makes sense if you run into people you know. also, this is a very tiny island. there aren't many places for people to go. i mean, there are. but there aren't. does that make sense?
ALL of that to say that last night, the boyfriend (who has informed me that "Bud" is not a proper moniker and would like to be called "something sexier") and I (and my crutches, and the torrential downpour) went to see a friend of mine perform in a monologue slam (which she won last month, btw). after the show (in which she was amazing but didn't win because the douchebag stage guy forgot to put up a chair for her), she, her husband, the boyfriend, me, and her "photographer" and his wife, traipsed off to look for a close bar because i was on crutches and 80% of my body weight is in my legs, making their use relatively uncomfortable. we found a suitably nondescript Irish bar in NYU territory that didn't seem to be full of too many underage college kids. Booths lined the wall opposite the bar. We found an empty booth, and as everyone was taking their coats off, i heard my name, in stereo, from the booth i was standing in front of.
I didn't hear it at first, then thought someone must be yelling at someone else, but eventually realized i must be the closest person with my name to them and looked over.
It was an ex-boyfriend and several of his female friends that we used to hang out with. My friends saw a bigger, better booth and beelined over, and i said i'd be there in a second. I smiled, asked how they were. They asked why i was on crutches. I told them. I looked at the ex. He was smiling, that light in his eyes. He apparently had forgotten that i had treated him like shit. Well, that's probably good, i thought to myself. At least he wasn't a jerk. After a minute, i politely excused myself to my friends. I hobbled to the booth where they sat, thinking how crazy it was that we just wandered into a random bar and happened to run into my ex. and then, i thought, Oh my God, I must be a real New Yorker. I've lived here long enough that I'm running into exes with my new boyfriend! I'm in! I made it! This totally happened in "Sex and the City"!
We get our drinks. We talk. We laugh. The ex-boyfriend awkwardly brings over a beer at some point "to help my foot get better." i thank him. then i notice that he has scootched to the edge of his booth so that he can watch me from across the bar. so i ignore him. then he gets up and goes to the bathroom, staring at me. i ignore him, the boyfriend's hand on my knee. i add in an extra head toss-back laugh so the the ex knows i'm having fun. because the reason i broke up with him was because he was needy and emotional and got way too attached way to quickly, and then tell him to never speak to me again. several times. he was a leech. a sweet, artistic, sensitive leech. that suffocated me.
we have our drinks. we discuss our next steps. we decide to go back to my place so i can take off my rain boots, which are crunching my toe. we walk outside and the boyfriend asks if i can walk to my house. i say no. he says "let us carry you." I say no. they say it again, as though i'm going to let myself be given a piggy back ride as a 25-year-old through the streets of Manhattan. I don't have much pride, friends, but i do have a little. finally, we decide to take the subway one stop to my apartment. as we begin to walk away, i hear my name again. I turn. The ex is smoking outside the bar.
"It was good to see you."
"You too," I say. I smile. I do try to be nice to people sometimes.
"So, I'll talk to you soon? If that's okay? Is that okay?"
I nod, beneficently, like a queen nodding to a peasant. "Sure. Bye."
"Take care of that foot!" He yells after me as I hobble away. I hate feeling pity for people. Maybe that's why i stopped talking to him. I just want to tell them, "I can't give you what you need. Please stop asking me to."
The boyfriend didn't say anything about it. We just walked through the warm moist air, away from my past. We went home. We made love. Everything was as it should be.
i know i said a couple of posts ago that i was going to start doing a "question of the day." and then the universe stomped on my baby toe and broke it, thus derailing my line of thought for a few days, but i am back, people. i am back! right. so, in case you were wondering, the question up there, in that last paragraph, was NOT the question of the day. that was just a random question. though it may end up being the question of the day if i don't think of anything better by the end of this post. which i have entitled (as you may or may not have noticed) "a REAL new yorker now." (i just farted like 6 times writing that paragraph)
Like most women everywhere all over the planet who are pretty much any adult age do, i base whether or not i am having a great new york life on how directly it correlates to anything i've ever seen in "Sex and the City." And last night, i had a VERY NEW YORK moment. i don't know how many people live here. A lot, okay? Which means that when i lived in West Bumblefuck, I never ever believed it when Carrie or Miranda or Charlotte or Samantha just "happened" to run into someone they used to fuck on the street. I thought to myself, "There are a gajillion people in New York, and they run into that guy? Yeah, right!"
But then, I moved to New York. And what I found out was this: i know less than 1% of the population of this city, easily, probably less than one half of 1%. And yet, every few weeks, i run into someone i know on the street or in a store or in the subway. my theory (which i'm still working on), is something like a ven diagram (and if i knew how to put pictures in my posts, i would draw one for you and put it right here: BLOOP. Where that bloop was. but i don't know how. so you will have to imagine it with me. because i can't see one either. okay, so my theory is that everyone you know is in New York and everyone you know...hmmm, is this really like a ven diagram? nevermind. my point is that everyone you know is probably somewhat like you and runs in the same kind of circles as you and goes to the same kinds of places, so it makes sense if you run into people you know. also, this is a very tiny island. there aren't many places for people to go. i mean, there are. but there aren't. does that make sense?
ALL of that to say that last night, the boyfriend (who has informed me that "Bud" is not a proper moniker and would like to be called "something sexier") and I (and my crutches, and the torrential downpour) went to see a friend of mine perform in a monologue slam (which she won last month, btw). after the show (in which she was amazing but didn't win because the douchebag stage guy forgot to put up a chair for her), she, her husband, the boyfriend, me, and her "photographer" and his wife, traipsed off to look for a close bar because i was on crutches and 80% of my body weight is in my legs, making their use relatively uncomfortable. we found a suitably nondescript Irish bar in NYU territory that didn't seem to be full of too many underage college kids. Booths lined the wall opposite the bar. We found an empty booth, and as everyone was taking their coats off, i heard my name, in stereo, from the booth i was standing in front of.
I didn't hear it at first, then thought someone must be yelling at someone else, but eventually realized i must be the closest person with my name to them and looked over.
It was an ex-boyfriend and several of his female friends that we used to hang out with. My friends saw a bigger, better booth and beelined over, and i said i'd be there in a second. I smiled, asked how they were. They asked why i was on crutches. I told them. I looked at the ex. He was smiling, that light in his eyes. He apparently had forgotten that i had treated him like shit. Well, that's probably good, i thought to myself. At least he wasn't a jerk. After a minute, i politely excused myself to my friends. I hobbled to the booth where they sat, thinking how crazy it was that we just wandered into a random bar and happened to run into my ex. and then, i thought, Oh my God, I must be a real New Yorker. I've lived here long enough that I'm running into exes with my new boyfriend! I'm in! I made it! This totally happened in "Sex and the City"!
We get our drinks. We talk. We laugh. The ex-boyfriend awkwardly brings over a beer at some point "to help my foot get better." i thank him. then i notice that he has scootched to the edge of his booth so that he can watch me from across the bar. so i ignore him. then he gets up and goes to the bathroom, staring at me. i ignore him, the boyfriend's hand on my knee. i add in an extra head toss-back laugh so the the ex knows i'm having fun. because the reason i broke up with him was because he was needy and emotional and got way too attached way to quickly, and then tell him to never speak to me again. several times. he was a leech. a sweet, artistic, sensitive leech. that suffocated me.
we have our drinks. we discuss our next steps. we decide to go back to my place so i can take off my rain boots, which are crunching my toe. we walk outside and the boyfriend asks if i can walk to my house. i say no. he says "let us carry you." I say no. they say it again, as though i'm going to let myself be given a piggy back ride as a 25-year-old through the streets of Manhattan. I don't have much pride, friends, but i do have a little. finally, we decide to take the subway one stop to my apartment. as we begin to walk away, i hear my name again. I turn. The ex is smoking outside the bar.
"It was good to see you."
"You too," I say. I smile. I do try to be nice to people sometimes.
"So, I'll talk to you soon? If that's okay? Is that okay?"
I nod, beneficently, like a queen nodding to a peasant. "Sure. Bye."
"Take care of that foot!" He yells after me as I hobble away. I hate feeling pity for people. Maybe that's why i stopped talking to him. I just want to tell them, "I can't give you what you need. Please stop asking me to."
The boyfriend didn't say anything about it. We just walked through the warm moist air, away from my past. We went home. We made love. Everything was as it should be.
Friday, February 1, 2008
little toe, big mistake
So, I have been cooped up in my 3 square foot apartment since I got home from the emergency room on Sunday. I have gotten out of bed to walk A) to the couch, B) to the bathroom, or C) (and this is the big adventure) downstairs to smoke outside. I was a good girl. I kept my foot elevated, iced, and my toes taped together. When i walked around, I walked on my heel. My boss was nice enough to let me do work from home, so i sat, laptop on lap, leg elevated, and edited. my toe felt pretty good. it only started to ache when i went downstairs, and then quickly felt better when i elevated it again.
So, feeling guilty because my toe was feeling better and because my boss was calling every day to ask how i was feeling and when might i be back at work, and not wanting to go back until monday, I compromised and told him that i would come in for half a day today (Friday), and if i felt good enough, i'd stay through the day.
i took the bus so i wouldn't have to navigate the subway stairs (and the L train full of hipsters). Too many opportunities to have my foot tromped on. At least on the bus, i can tuck my bad foot under the seat. so i stuffed the bad foot into my rain boots (because it was raining and the attractive blue canvas open-toe bootie with velcro straps they gave me wasn't going to cut it) and hobbled to the the bus stop. one transfer and 45 minutes later, i limped into work, already in pain. as i type this, i'm sitting, left leg on my desk next to the keyboard, waiting until lunchtime so i can go home. thank god i'm flexible enough to elevate my leg and type at the same time.
right. so now i'm in worse pain than i've been in all week and worried that i've just gone and undone all the good i did being cooped up in that tiny fucking apartment all week.
side note: the lesser of the two evil roommates is dog sitting this weekend. and the dog is staying with us. which i was okay with until i came home last night to find a disgusting chewed-up slobbery bone on MY COUCH and see that the roommate decided to use my bowls (yes, the human bowls. mine. that i EAT out of.) as the dog's food and water dishes. DISGUSTING. absolutely disgusting.
so, as i always try to do when life pelts me with lemons, i try and make sense of it all by learning something. So, here's what i feel i've learned this week.
1. I am either allergic to having a broken toe or my apartment. Judging by the amount of dust in my apartment, i'm leaning toward that explanation.
2. When you are hurt such that you are house-ridden and unable to go out for the basic necessities (ie, cigarettes, booze, oranges), you find out who really loves you and who doesn't. The people who love you call first to ask what they should bring you, then come over bearing a) the items you need, and b) presents. This is, of course, quite a matter of proximity. Those who are unable to come over show their love by texting constantly throughout the day, having two-hour-long phone conversations at night to help you stave off the boredom, and sending you cab money. (i heart grandma. so much.)
3. You sometimes come to the unfortunate, surprising, and very disheartening realization that someone who should love you and be there for you and be taking care of you and asking you if you need anything and having two-hour-long conversations to stave off the boredom is nowhere to be found.
Sometimes, the people you don't expect to show up do. And the people you think are going to be there for you aren't. That's something I've never understood. How the people who are closest to us are able to let us down so completely.
so here i am, broken toe and all, feeling raw and vulnerable, frustrated by my limited mobility, guilty because friends have so unselfishly offered their help to me, abandoned by someone close to me. maybe i'm making too big a deal out of a lousy broken toe. but if you can't depend on someone when it's something as small as a toe, what's going to happen when something more crippling happens?
maybe i made a bigger mistake than coming to work this morning. maybe my big mistake was depending on people who weren't there for me when i needed them.
on the other hand, i have some fantastic, amazing friends who really came through for me this week. and for them, i am truly grateful. i feel blessed to be so loved. to them i would like to say thank you. I am deeply moved by your selflessness.
So, feeling guilty because my toe was feeling better and because my boss was calling every day to ask how i was feeling and when might i be back at work, and not wanting to go back until monday, I compromised and told him that i would come in for half a day today (Friday), and if i felt good enough, i'd stay through the day.
i took the bus so i wouldn't have to navigate the subway stairs (and the L train full of hipsters). Too many opportunities to have my foot tromped on. At least on the bus, i can tuck my bad foot under the seat. so i stuffed the bad foot into my rain boots (because it was raining and the attractive blue canvas open-toe bootie with velcro straps they gave me wasn't going to cut it) and hobbled to the the bus stop. one transfer and 45 minutes later, i limped into work, already in pain. as i type this, i'm sitting, left leg on my desk next to the keyboard, waiting until lunchtime so i can go home. thank god i'm flexible enough to elevate my leg and type at the same time.
right. so now i'm in worse pain than i've been in all week and worried that i've just gone and undone all the good i did being cooped up in that tiny fucking apartment all week.
side note: the lesser of the two evil roommates is dog sitting this weekend. and the dog is staying with us. which i was okay with until i came home last night to find a disgusting chewed-up slobbery bone on MY COUCH and see that the roommate decided to use my bowls (yes, the human bowls. mine. that i EAT out of.) as the dog's food and water dishes. DISGUSTING. absolutely disgusting.
so, as i always try to do when life pelts me with lemons, i try and make sense of it all by learning something. So, here's what i feel i've learned this week.
1. I am either allergic to having a broken toe or my apartment. Judging by the amount of dust in my apartment, i'm leaning toward that explanation.
2. When you are hurt such that you are house-ridden and unable to go out for the basic necessities (ie, cigarettes, booze, oranges), you find out who really loves you and who doesn't. The people who love you call first to ask what they should bring you, then come over bearing a) the items you need, and b) presents. This is, of course, quite a matter of proximity. Those who are unable to come over show their love by texting constantly throughout the day, having two-hour-long phone conversations at night to help you stave off the boredom, and sending you cab money. (i heart grandma. so much.)
3. You sometimes come to the unfortunate, surprising, and very disheartening realization that someone who should love you and be there for you and be taking care of you and asking you if you need anything and having two-hour-long conversations to stave off the boredom is nowhere to be found.
Sometimes, the people you don't expect to show up do. And the people you think are going to be there for you aren't. That's something I've never understood. How the people who are closest to us are able to let us down so completely.
so here i am, broken toe and all, feeling raw and vulnerable, frustrated by my limited mobility, guilty because friends have so unselfishly offered their help to me, abandoned by someone close to me. maybe i'm making too big a deal out of a lousy broken toe. but if you can't depend on someone when it's something as small as a toe, what's going to happen when something more crippling happens?
maybe i made a bigger mistake than coming to work this morning. maybe my big mistake was depending on people who weren't there for me when i needed them.
on the other hand, i have some fantastic, amazing friends who really came through for me this week. and for them, i am truly grateful. i feel blessed to be so loved. to them i would like to say thank you. I am deeply moved by your selflessness.
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