Hey! Did you see that fight outside?

http://gawker.com/372012/the-pick+up-artist-looking-for-every-straight-man-who-isnt-drunk

I can think of several people who would be PERFECT for this televised sign that the Apocalypse is soon upon us (before the locusts and all that other business). 

Unfortunately for me (and for you), my dream candidates believe that they have already become master PUAs, having spent twenty-nine Saturday nights in a row slagging on pretty girls in hipster bars, being rejected by pretty girls in hipster bars, bro-fisting congratulations at their successfully maintained celibacy, before returning to an efficiency apartment for a nightcap/circle-jerk.   What more could Mystery, the Canadian magician who needed a top hat and a feather boa in order to lose his twentysomething virginity, bring to their already-solid game? 

I haven’t an answer to that - although I’m racking my brain to come up with one, as nothing would make me happier than to see these accomplished ‘artists’ in the same room as Mystery, Matador, J-Dogg, and the rest of the PUA Pound.

Just think of the circle-jerk that would be.

Page 139.

“They resembled each other in their dread of conflict, and the regularity of his evening calls, however much she disbelieved them, was a comfort to them both.  If this sham was conventional hypocrisy, she had to concede that it had its uses.  She had sources of contentment in her life - the house, the park, above all, the children - and she intended to preserve them by not challenging Jack.  And she did not miss his presence so much as his voice on the phone.  Even being lied to constantly, though hardly like love, was sustained attention; he must care about her to fabricate so elaborately and over such a long stretch of time.  His deceit was a form of tribute to the importance of their marriage.”  

Ian McEwan - Atonement

of Loss

My former and I had childhoods which were similar in that we both lost a parent at a young age, both to long illnesses.  How he and I chose to process these losses could not have been more conflicting in manner.

I think of my father often.  I talk to him, when I am driving alone in the car, when I am lying in bed at night, when I feel as if there is no one to talk to - I talk to my Dad.  It’s an open-wound way of coping, in that it keeps the loss fresh and right there on the surface, but it works for me.  The thought of my father has the power to inspire fast, hot tears, but the alternative - to bury him from my thoughts in order to avoid that pain - that is not an option where I am concerned.  My memories may cause me pain, but I would rather remember than not. 

My former had gone the opposite route.  When his mother passed away, she was buried, both figuratively and literally.  He chose to block out the loss by blocking out the memory of her entirely.  His method of coping was to create himself a world of denial - a safer world in which he had not been forced to witness his mother’s illness and her subsequent death.  He buried with her body all of his grief, piling sod and sand atop all memory of her, until her plot was miles beneath the ground he walked.  He made every effort to forget the effect her suffering had had on him and, in the process, forced himself to forget her.  

But we never truly forget.  We can bury our misery deep in the ground, denying it water and light, but our grief will always find a way to the surface.  And when it does, it will knock us sideways and render us immobile, with no choice but to face the blossoming anguish.  You cannot avoid the prickly thorns of loss.

His long-buried grief has roots; roots that he is beginning to feel, growing and moving beneath his feet.  And I’m scared for him, for I know that -when it does hit, it is not going to feel good.  It’s going to feel very far from good.  But I also know that, in order for him to survive and move on from it, he has to feel it.

I only hope that, once unearthed, he allows his past to remain above ground - choosing not to dig himself another ditch that will one day swallow him whole.

The Right to Bear Children

Our third date may be our last.

We had a nice evening together.  A little Vietnamese, followed by bourbon-laced cocktails.  On barstools, facing each other, knees touching.  He asked about my relationships-past, and I told him as much as I could stomach.  He knows that it is all still fresh, that I’m all about putting myself and my happiness first.  He seems to get that.

We were discussing his need of a haircut.  He ran his hands through his hair and complimented himself on his still-intact hairline - takes after his Grandfather, he mused.  I asked after his father, confirming my suspicion that he indeed was not as blessed in the locks department. 

“It seems to skip a generation, meaning that your son will likely be follicularly challenged.”

“I’m not having a son…or a daughter.  I’m too old to have children.  I mean, what kid wants a 50 year-old father?  That would be awful.”

The man is 38 years-old, and the youngest of six children.  His parents had him at the age he now finds himself to be.

I am on the fence when it comes to kids - to have or not to have.  Because of this, I’ve never really felt pressure to meet someone, settle down and procreate.  This is a good thing when you end a relationship, or when you begin a new one.  The lack of a ticking clock makes your courtship feel far less dire, because you aren’t quite so concerned as to where ‘it’ is going.

But I don’t want to have the option removed from the table entirely. 

If I meet someone with whom I want to settle down and procreate, I want for that to be a possibility.  I do not accept that there would be predefined terms to falling in love and coupling up.  If I reach an age where I am too old to carry a child but decide that I want one, I will adopt.  I will foster.  I will surrogate.  No woman who wants to love a child should be denied her opportunity, and I will not be denied mine.

Upon hearing from my date that children, for him, were an impossibility**, I lost the remainder of my already waning interest.  I feel a bit bitchy for my internal rejection of him, as he really is a lovely man.  But, ultimately, we want what we want.

And, right now, what I want is a choice.

** That, and his very matter-of-fact pronouncement that he “shaves his nads.”  Um, ew.

Miss Fairchild, if You’re Nasty

I had a second date last week, the highlight of which involved our going to the seediest of all the seedy stripclubs.

I made $100.  Classy, eh?

I don’t even know how to relay the night’s events, but I’ll take a crack at it:

Was to meet Date at 8pm, but arrived early.  Decided to wait at the bar next door, and texted him with this information. 

By 8:15, no date. 

I texted SugarCookie, who advised that I give him 20 mins total, then leave and have dinner with her.

8:20, I had officially been stood up.  I left the bar, and ran into Date on the street.  He’d forgotten his cell phone, had not gotten my message, and was waiting at our intended meeting place.  He thought that it was I who had been a no-show.

We went to a dive.  Had a beer.  Went for Mexican.  Had a margarita (yay!).  Shared a tamale.  Smooched.

Hopped in a cab to meet up with SugarCookie, who was holding court at her local cocktailery, surrounded by three 40-something contractors, two bartenders and a couple of moony-eyed barbacks.  Rounds of shots for all. 

SugarCookie: “C’mon.  We’re leaving!  Strip Club!!!!”

The rest is a blur.  I know that, while Date and I were sitting at a table, an exotic dancer walked by with a drunken businessman at her side.  Said drunken businessman stopped at our table, looked at me with hugely blackened pupils, dug into his pockets and handed me a crumpled $20 bill.  And then another $20, and another, and another, and another.  Seeing my deer-in-the-headlights expression and crumpled wad of filthy money in my hand, the dancer who was escorting him mouthed for me to, “TAKE IT!”  So I did.  It was quickly shoved into the bowels of my handbag, which I clutched tightly to my person.

I made $100.  At a strip club.  While wearing nerdy eyeglasses and a turtleneck.  So, essentially, I had been paid to keep my clothing on.  I’m like the anti-Stripper.  Aces.

SugarCookie and I were quite the hit with the establishment’s talent.  As we were leaving, one of the dancers quickly hopped down from her pole and pulled out two business cards (which, in hindsight, I don’t want to even think about where she must have been storing them). 

Maggie Fairchild, Sr. Account Executive, [Large Mortgage Company].

“Oh!  You work there, too?!?”

“No.  Not anymore.  But the cell’s still good.”

The next morning, I woke with the feeling that it was going to go one of two ways: my date would either be completely smitten or would want nothing to do with me.

He’s smitten.  We’re going out again tomorrow.  I think somewhere much more wholesome, where I won’t have to declare supplemental income come tax time.

SugarCookie and I now have a new term to indicate a good time:

“How was your date last night?”

“It was good…..but it was no Maggie Fairchild.”

God bless drunken businessmen.  God bless SugarCookie.  God bless margaritas.  God bless coming home with more moolah than you started out with.  God bless waterproof (or fluidproof) business cards.  God bless be-turtlenecked bosoms and the anecdotes they inspire.

God bless Maggie Fairchild, Senior Account Executive and Stripper Extraordinnaire.

God bless second dates.

Amen.

UPDATE****SugarCookie is miffed that I left out the bit about the cops, the ambulance, the police report.  But a gal has to retain some level of mystery.  I’ll leave it to her to chime in with her version of events.

I’m Special!

So, my second date with Kevin is tonight (and NO, he will not be getting some.  I was in a right state when I vomited that out the other day.) and I’ve no idea what to wear.  All I know is that I have no intention of shaving my legs, so I have to be covered up with tights — or with socks that come all the way up to the knee.

I will be sporting a haircut often seen on little girls who decide to mess about with Mommy’s crafting scissors.  I look quite ’special’.  So perhaps the unshaven pins aren’t even a concern.  That’s the absolute last time I go for an impulse trim at [local haircutting chain].  I asked for Heidi Klum and walked out “The Other Sister.”   But Juliette Lewis has her fans, no?  Here’s hoping - otherwise I’ve got about 6-8 loveless weeks to look forward to, which is about how long it will take for the bald spots to fill in.

My hair-don’t and I had a lovely dinner with a friend last night who, as we were getting the check, told me the most hysterical story about a former colleague of ours.  It’s so good, I’m bursting at the seams to spill it to anyone and everyone who crosses my path.  Only I’ve been sworn to secrecy.  Bugger.  I’m still trying to decide if blabbing via blog is a violation of the vow of silence.  I’ll have to get back to you on that….or not.

I’ve just figured out what I’m going to wear tonight.  Kills two birds (or two stubbled tree trunks and a Special Ed ‘do) with one nylon zipper and some kicky stripes. 

Quite festive, don’t you think?  I hope he likes it but, really, how could he not?  It’s adorable.

Costanza Has His Day

I was surfing the web yesterday, and ‘accidentally’ found myself on http://theknot.com

I ‘accidentally’ entered the name of a prior boyfriend, the one who preceded my most recent former. 

He was this intense, curmudgeonly guy.  Very New England.  Very flinty.  I adored him.  We had a six month relationship, then did the reconcile/breakup/reconcile/breakup thing a few times, before becoming friends.  Good friends (until a threatened girlfriend issued an ultimatum to him that did not work out in my favor).

As his friend, I would listen as he lamented the myriad of women who came and went through the revolving door that was his heart.  Wonderful women, most of them, but there was always something missing, something which inspired him to move on to the next, and to the next, and to the next. 

“I don’t know what it is,” he moaned over a tumbler of whiskey.  “I get so close.  So close, and then it just stops.  I want to take things further, but I can’t. ”

I remember when he broke up with me for the first time.  We were sitting at a bar, as we had been known to do quite often, and he was doing his best to let me down easily.

“One day, I’m going to be sitting alone at a bar, getting drunk.  And I will wish that I hadn’t let you go.” 

But he did let me go, and went on to many others, whom he would also let go, eventually.  Initially, my friends consoled me with promises that he would never find what he was looking for; that he would be alone for the rest of his life; that he wasn’t rejecting me (or the others who followed), but was rejecting the ‘relationship’. 

Sweet friends.  It’s the good ones who will lie to you when you are feeling low.

So, as I ’accidentally’ entered the web address for the all-things-wedding website and ‘accidentally’ entered the first two characters of his first name and all nine characters of his last, his wedding page ‘accidentally’ popped up.

He’ll be married in the Summer, seaside in New England.  There is a picture of the happy couple attached, and they look just that - happy.  His face is smushed into the side of hers; her head is tilted back, mid-laugh.  And my flinty, curmudgeonly ex-boyfriend is wearing an expression on his face that I had failed to see throughout our time together.  He is beaming.  There is nothing missing.  He has everything he wants.  And I smiled at this, despite myself.

He will not be sitting alone at a bar, thinking of me, or of any other who preceded or followed.  He will be at home, with his wife.  And he will be content.

I’m delighted for him.

I’ll lay your soul to waste

I have a date on Thursday.  Poor fucking bastard.  Has no idea what he’s in for.

Who am I kidding?  He’ll probably get laid, during which I’ll probably beat the crap out of him.  Everybody wins!  Woot!

I find the idea of sitting across the table from this sweet, unassuming guy absolutely hysterical.  He thinks I’m a doll; the modern-day Girl Next Door.  I’ve big blue eyes and rosy pink cheeks.  My hair is a halo of silky, spun gold.  My bosom is full and welcoming.  I’m like a hot cherub. 

Little does he know, I’m a cherub in desperate need of an exorcism.  Or a good roll in the hay and a few smacks on the bottom.   Sharp pain to erase the dull aches.  Anything.

Whatever.  I’ve been the angel for far too many lifetimes.  It’s time to embrace the demon.

Heaven help me that Hell won’t have me.

of Grief

January 13th: We woke that morning, curled up as spoons, naked and warm. We dressed and made our way out for coffee and hash browns. As we cut across my neighborhood streets, he talked of buying a new television, and of the work he had in the coming months. There were plans made to see a movie the following weekend, or possibly the weekend after that, depending upon our schedules. He held my hand.

The diner was too crowded and, standing there with our greasy, oversized menus, I lost my appetite. I drove him home, both of us with empty bellies, parked the car and kissed him goodbye. He told me that he would call me later.

It was six weeks before I learned that he was seeing someone, that he had been seeing this someone for the last month. Two weeks after he left my bedroom, two weeks after he had kissed me goodbye and promised to call, he had taken up with a friend of a friend. “It just happened,” he said later, apologetically. And, yes, it had most certainly happened, but there was nothing just about it.

His calls and texts to me never diminished in number. Our now-visitless weekends were excused with a sick note, then a full plate of work and studies. I was used to this; it didn’t seem abnormal, this disappearance. Because, though gone, his means of contact acted as a substitute for his presence. He was still reaching out to me, maintaining a connection through a phone line. I accepted his excuses as truths and believed these obstacles to be only temporary. History had shown that he would be back; that he would pull away for a period and that he would return. I waited, as I always do.

Weeks later, when he was found out, he argued that it had been over from the moment he walked out my door that Sunday morning; that he and I both had known this.

But I hadn’t known and, still, looking back on it, I cannot see how this could be as clear as he had implied. His kiss didn’t tell me that it was over. His calls didn’t convey this fact. His constant text messages didn’t clue me in on the demise of the relationship. It was not over for me - his constant contact kept the idea of ‘us’ very much alive.

Tonight, I’m doing the math. January 13th, he’s with me. January 19th, he’s ill. January 26th, he’s studying. January 27th, he’s hungover. His texts are a timeline - easy to piece together and impossible to ignore, much as I would like to.

He left his books and went out that night, January 26th, where he met her. And, I imagine because it was easier for him to rationalize the actions he was about to take, he assured himself that we were, in fact, over. He pursued her, likely in the same manner in which he pursued me at our beginning. He called her, doted upon her and, ultimately, he obtained her.

But all the while, he was phoning me. Keeping the lines open, communicating nothing. The morning after it had ‘just happened’, he ‘just happened’ to text me. The day of their first date, he dialed my number. The night after he fucked her for the first time, he was my goodnight call.

All this time, while he was cooing and wooing and taking the steps one takes when something ‘just happens’, I was waiting.

But was I in denial? Is it denial to take someone at their word? Is it denial to remain involved with one who has not formally detached themselves from you?  Apparently, yes. 

They say that after denial comes anger.  I can feel this anger rising, but am uncertain as to its rightful target. It would be easy to unleash this rage upon him, but to what purpose? He knows what he did, as do I. Do I savor my fury? Do I punish him for having hurt me? Will that lead me with ease into the next stage?  Will it push me along, toward the sweet light of acceptance?

I don’t know the answer to that. Maybe it would be easier to not think about it. Maybe it would be better to not push it; if it were to ’just happen’.

Because, you know, sometimes things ‘just happen’, or so I’ve been told.

It would be so easy if that didn’t ‘just happen’ to be complete and utter bullshit.

I’ve most definitely reached the anger stage. Hmmph. Wow.

It just happened.

We’ve Got the Funk

I had a good weekend.  Really.  I really, really did. 

Friday and Saturday were just about perfect.  I vegged on the sofa Friday night with George the Dog.  Saturday, I went to Shamrockfest with a fun group of boys and girls, drank my weight in non-green beer, kissed a handful of men (and women!) and finished up with a night of dancing and ice cream sundaes.  Good times.

I have no explanation for the funk that descended upon me Sunday morning.  None.  I tried to remedy it with my new favorite tradition, “Mimosa Sunday.”  Made a quick trip to the Mini-Mart and got myself a bottle of bubbly, a quart of OJ, and a pint of Chubby Hubby.  It’s not often I indulge in these sorts of treats, so one would think that I would savor every sip and every spoonful, and relish the temporary decadence, this treat. 

Nope.  Still funky.  God, I’m a fucking trainwreck.  You know it’s hopeless when ice cream doesn’t improve the mood.

I took a walk, then a nap.  I planned a date.  I phoned a friend.

The funk remained. 

I took to my bed Sunday night, still reeking of it.  I hoped that it would evaporate as I slept.

It didn’t.  It’s still here, this funk.  I’m fighting it, but my arms are getting tired. 

I got my exam results this weekend and they were good.  More importantly, I got some other results back this week, and they were also good.  I’m going to live, and I’m apparently not an idiot.   Why does this not make me happy?  I should be happy.  Why am I not? 

Of course, I’m back to keeping these things, these feelings, to myself.  Every time I’ve shared, I’ve walked away feeling like an awful human being, one with no redeeming qualities.  Criticism, whether constructive or not, is a hard pill to swallow when you’ve already had such copious amounts of bile shoved down your throat.

You, my little blog, you are my sole confidant.  The walls have ears and eyes, but their future knowledge will be indirect and of no concern to me.  Their ears and eyes more apt to refrain from bullying my funk away.  They will not try to give me a pep talk in the form of, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself!  Get a new job!  Make a lot of money!  Be somebody, Slacker!”  

They will not make me feel suckier than I already do.  They will not make me feel as if I’m a failure in life.  So, that’s it.  It’s 1) You, 2) Dog, 3) Blog. 

Putting the Batshit in Insane Since March, 2008.

My former worried that something within in me had “broken” after this past weekend’s events.  Another friend seemed certain that I was “skidding toward a nervous breakdown.”

I’m not a fearful person by nature, but there are certain things in life that absolutely terrify me:

The Osmond Family

Sharks

Mushrooms

Being homeless

Losing my mental faculties

Having a little bump in the noggin could be resolved with therapy and a script for an mood stabilizer.  But, fatalist that I am, a confirmed bump in the noggin would mean that my mind is failing to support me, which means that I’m in danger of being unable to support myself, the thought of which chills me to the bone.  So hearing from those whom I trust that they are concerned for my mental “wellness,” it actually adds to the weight that I’m currently carrying, giving me yet another thing to worry about. 

Here’s the thing: I’ve had a rough go of it lately.  There’s been some anguish.  There’s been pain.  I’ve had dark thoughts - they were fleeting and mildly consoling in my state of wallow - but they weren’t seriously entertained.  My mistake was not keeping these thoughts to myself.  Even if those words did somehow make me feel a bit better and less burdened, I scared a few folks in speaking them aloud.  What I considered to be venting was viewed as a request for advice.  And, when you are dealing with a mess of such grand proportions, your friend is going to defer to a professional, and you are I am going to feel as if your my grip on reality has been challenged.  And it is going to freak you me the fuck out, because that grip has been your my saving grace, time and time again.

At 15, after some pretty horrible occurrences, I would fashion nooses for myself out of my mother’s taupe, control-top pantyhose.  I would sit, crying on my bedroom floor, listening to sad music and making this elastic death machine.  By the time I had finished knotting and pulling the fabric to the desired length, my eyes would be beyond recognition in their puffiness and I’d have lost 10 pounds in mucus and water weight.  But, oddly, I would feel better.  Much better.  Exhausted and sucking in hiccups of air instead of calm, deep breaths, but better.  Purged.  The pantyhose would then be unknotted and placed back in my mother’s dresser drawer.  I would climb into bed and fall into a deep sleep. 

And, in the morning, it was a brand new day, and I was a brand new Me.  Really.  I was ”new” every day - still am.

The difference between then and now is that, when I felt such despair, I kept it to myself.   I didn’t have anyone to share it with, so I dealt with it on my own.  Now, 20 some-odd years later, I do have people with whom I can share my fears, my sorrows, my heart.  But, while I am willing to share these things, and often do in great detail, it doesn’t occur to me that my doing so tends to put some of the onus to help upon them.  Where I am looking for someone to listen, what I am communicating is that I can’t manage without their assistance.  And that’s not so.  I’m grateful to have their support - more than they could ever know - and I love them dearly for every bit of it.  It’s just not something that I require in order to heal.  A therapist and a script might assist me in the process but, again, it’s not a mandatory step in that healing.  So, while I may decide to go that route, I recognize it as an aid and not a cure.  It is nice to know that there is help out there should I need it, but I’m not sure I need that help just yet. 

I do love a good wallow, and I do enjoy the temporary state of feeling sorry for oneself.  But I also trust in my own resilience, and know that I am able to survive most anything, and that it is my mind that allows me that ability.  I can get through anything.  I’ve had a lot of practice and a lot of success in doing so.  I’m proud of where I’ve come from and that I’ve survived it.  This survival defines me.   

When it comes right down to it, my issues are my own, and it is not necessary that I share them in order to overcome them.  I can, and have, gotten through far worse on my own.  I can do it again, and again, and again - even if I don’t have to.  Perhaps my methods are ill-advised, and I make it harder on myself than I need to, but it is what it is, and I am who I am.

Wipe the tears and the snot away, and I’m a strong person with an even stronger resolve.  I’m a survivor - a warrior.  And everything always turns out all right in the end.  I always come out the other side intact, with another battle wound and another tally of obstacles overcome.

I have faith that this time will be no exception.

Burden of Proof

I am, for lack of a better term, an eejit.

After numerous on-again/off-agains with my former, I was sent a bit of closure - in the form of a picture message sent by a friend.  A friend who was delighted to share the bad news - not because it would hurt me, but because it would teach me a lesson; one that she had been trying to teach me for the last 17 months.

The former, when we broke up for the umpteenth time a few weeks ago, lied to me.  A bold, blatant lie to a very direct question:

“Are you seeing someone else?”

His answer was a resounding NO.  He didn’t have time to date, didn’t have time for a relationship.  Not for me, not for anyone.

It was a lie; one that was quickly discovered in a wonky twist of fate.

Cherry and Pumpkin were out with me that night.  I left them at the bar and took a cab home, walked the dog and collapsed on the sofa.  I was half-watching a recorded episode of SNL when the message arrived:

“You need to call me NOW.”

I dialed Pumpkin’s number, groggy with fatigue and too much alcohol.

“We just saw him.  With a girl.  Holding hands, walking down the street.  Smiling.  We were at the stoplight, and they just walked on by.  You need to get down there now.”  And then she sent the picture message.

There he was, my former, flanked by Cherry and a smiling girl in V-neck top.

“He’s been dating her since January.  Cherry talked to her.”

It wasn’t difficult to do the math.  After fighting his attempts at a reconciliation throughout the month of December, in January I was defeated.  I succumbed to his declarations of love, his pleading to be with me.  I let him in, both figuratively and literally.

The next morning would be the last I was to see of him.

He called and texted in the days and weeks that followed, but the declarations of love, the pleading, were no longer.  As I’ve been more times than not in this “relationship,” I again found myself in Limbo.

Did he pull away?  Was it too much, being back?  Did he just want to see if he could still have me?  Had reaching that goal satisfied him to slink back into the woodwork?

Apparently, yes.

But he never said anything.  He called, he texted, he sent emails for the next month, while I struggled to fall asleep at night, plagued with the mindfuck that is uncertainty.

After a month of sitting on my hands and biting my tongue, I pushed for an answer.  I asked for definition. 

“Should we try just being friends?  Should we try something else?”

He opted for friendship.  And I asked him the question:

“Are you seeing someone else?”

He said that he wasn’t. 

He lied. And I believed him. 90% because I wanted to, 10% because I thought I knew him to be unfailingly honest.

He was not. 

I thought of all the phone calls, all the texts - all of the opportunities to drop it into conversation.

“I’m dating someone.”

He kept it quiet.  He kept me in the dark.

But a telephone call and a picture message brought it into the light.  And, with that light, came the darkness that was the truth.

I had been fooled.  And I was foolish.

It’s a good thing, my knowing.  But it doesn’t feel good.  It feels quite the opposite of good.  Where a weight should be lifted, it’s been added - hard to carry and hard to toss aside.  Perhaps not permanent, but of a temporary status that seems impossible to bear.

He lied.  And I had loved him.

I was a fool.

Waltzing Matilda

A friend emailed me, after reading about my date with Kevin, “I’m all for your dating away the ex.”

If I believed that it were possible to date away the memory of another, I would be out with every man my dance card would allow.  But, still, that is what is getting me back out there; the idea that I can replace one with another and no longer feel the void that their absence has created.

My former calls me, often.  He interrupts my mornings at work with brief, perfunctory telephone calls.  Checking in, saying hello.  Saying goodbye.  Calls that he thinks nothing of, but that leave me with my face flushed and a sweeping rush of nausea.  Calls that have no substance, but have the power to overtake and transform my mood on a dime.

He texts me on his nights out with friends, and these texts inspire pangs of envy, sadness, and anger in me.  Envy that it is not I who is seated next to him, downing drinks, talking and laughing.  Sadness that it will never be I seated next to him.  Angry with myself for still wanting that seat.  Angry with him for removing that chair from the table, but consistently reminding me of its presence.

The former was not good to me, there is no question.  He was distant and absent, and I was miserable more often than I was satisfied.  Satisfied was the best that it ever was with us.  I went Christmases without telephone calls, and New Years Eves without kisses.  There were no Valentines, no vacations, no lazy Sundays in bed.  There were no meals shared, no handheld walks.  There was no talk of the future, no talk of the weekend, even.  There was love, but there was no action.  There was neglect.  I tolerated much more than any sane woman ever would, citing his damaged nature and turbulent past as reason for my being denied basic relationship rights.  I felt certain that, although he didn’t have enough gumption to display it himself, he loved me.  And I loved him.  Love him, still.

But he doesn’t get to have this.  He doesn’t get to have my devotion, my pining.  He doesn’t get another day, another year of me.  And, if dating him away will ensure that, I will pull my dance card from my pocket and see to it that it’s full for every free minute in the day.  And, I hope, somewhere along the way, I’ll be content to have it so.

My waltz may lack enthusiasm and grace, and I may step on a few toes as I circle ’round the floor, but I will dance.  Sitting on the bench is no longer an option. 

Kevin

So, I had a Saturday night date…with a living, breathing, heterosexual (I think) male.  I wasn’t expecting much, got more than was expected but, still, I’m a little iffy. 

My date was cute enough, very smart, well-traveled, genuine.  He made the restaurant reservation for us, arrived early to greet me, fixed a little plate for me off of his entree and passed it over, and wouldn’t allow me to contribute to the tab.   He complimented me at every opportunity and I believed these compliments to be sincere.   Post-dinner, he took me for cocktails and, when our glasses had been drained, he took my hand and led me through the crowded room and out the door.  After an awkward miss-kiss (kiss on the cheek from me/kiss on the lips from him), he put me in a cab.  He called the very next day, and asked me out for later in the week, and put it fully upon himself to come up with the plan.   And I said yes.  Yay, right?

Not really.  I’m not gaga.  I want to be, but I can’t fathom it.  Every guy I’ve ever dated has been so charismatic, so charming, so interesting.  They’ve also been ginormous mindfucking assholes, but I digress.  This new guy will never command a room, he’ll never send me into fits of laughter with his storytelling.  He’ll likely also never treat me like a masturbatory device and nothing else but, again, I digress.  He’ll likely not bring any drama to my life, will treat me well and with respect.  Why is this not a good thing? 

I fucking hate quoting Oprah, but I think I’ve had my very own “Aha!” moment.  Being treated well is such a foreign concept to me that, were I to find someone who did, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.  It’s beyond messed up but, in my damaged little mind, the asshole is safer.  They are consistent in their jackassery, and never fail to deliver the disappointment that is expected of them.  And, thus, I never have to worry about a future with them.  They will see to it that that never comes to pass.  I don’t have to claim a fear of commitment because they will always beat me to the punch.  They are, simply, a sure thing.

So, here I have this nice guy who wants to take me out and get to know me, and I’m ambivalent about him/it.  I’m already thinking of ways to extricate myself if he really starts to like me and wants to pursue something serious.  I suppose I should wait it out - give him a chance - give myself a chance.  It’s a little ridiculous that, after one date, I’m guesstimating as to whether or not there is “relationship potential”.  Maybe I need to just go with it and see what happens. 

If you know me, you are laughing your ass off at the notion of that ever happening.  Where this guy will never be a charmer, I’ll never be a go with the flow sort of girl. 

But I am going to try.  I’m going to try not to think too far ahead, to have a second date that is only a second date, and not a prelude to a lifelong obligation.  I’m going to try to be more positive, to be cautiously optimistic.  I’m going to try to be more open to the idea of dating for the sake of dating.  I’m going to try to ease into it and then figure it out. 

I’m going to try to avoid quoting fucking Oprah.

Cultured Cupcake

Hey there, Cookies.  Thanks for stopping in to visit us.  Let’s get this shindig going, shall we?

Last night, Lemon Square and I decided to behave as civilized folk and do as the civilized folk do.  We went to the theatre.  On purpose.  Who says that bottle blondes can’t be cultured ladies with interests outside of NASCAR and dressing their doggies in frilly bonnets?  Well, whomever it was that did say that, I am happy to tell you that you are m-i-s-t-a-k-e-n, Mister Sister.  Not only do we scout out the Monster Truck show when it comes into town and masturbate like fiends to CMT’s Top 20 Countdown, we also go to the Theatre.

But not before going out and getting sauced.  A classier kind of sauced, however.  The sixer of The Champagne of Beers that is the Friday night norm was replaced with two sugar-rimmed champagne cocktails, swallowed down with two long gulps, a daintily extended pinkie, and only the slightest, most demure belch in emission.

The champagne buzz made the show all the more enjoyable, although my bottom became a wee bit sore by its end, a combination of my own flatassedry and the theatre’s unupholstered wooden seating.  I don’t think Lemon Square suffered the same afflicition as I, but she had lapped me in cocktail quantity, so perhaps she and her buttocks had more of an alcoholic advantage going in.  I’ll have to conduct an experiment to determine the perfect cocktail/theatre combo, in order to avoid future tushal injuries.  Culture and Science, courtesy of a champagne flute and an envelope of season tickets.  Fun….and educational! 

Who could ask for anything more?