Two and a half minutes. I can't believe I've gone two and half minutes. This is a record. I always break by now. Just sitting and blinking at your patient for as long as it takes them to start talking again has got to be some kind of Jedi mind trick. No wonder med school is so expensive --
The last time you were here you were in a very dark place. Did you end up needing to go to emergency?
First of all, I can't imagine what I would say. A reasonably well-dressed chick walks into the emergency ward carrying a wicked purse and tells the unit clerk I'm here because my shrink told me I should come if I ever found myself googling how much asprin could potentially kill a person when taken all at once. Should I have a seat over by the door or can I just lay down on that blood stained stretcher in the hallway? Also, and this is awkward, but should you decide to put me on suicide watch like I'm some kind of crazy person, can you please make sure the hospital security guard having to sit there and watch me nap doesn't also moonlight as a Bomb Technician and didn't spend a couple of years fighting in Afghanistan...? If you could just make sure before I check myself in, that would be awesome, because he and I used to date. Kind of. Which is how I know that would be part of his job, and frankly that would just be all kinds of awkward so...
Did you?
No. No I didn't go.
You were very sad the last time you were here. How have you been feeling since?
Very sad? Very sad?? I was very sad at the end of Brokeback Mountain. I was very sad when Rose couldn't move her ass over on that floating door to let Jack cimb up out of the arctic waters so they could both cuddle for safety and go on to make 'Titantic II - Even Wetter.' I was very sad when I developed a severe and sudden allergy to certain kinds of shoe leather and found my favorite shoes now cause my feet to explode. These things all made me very sad. Sad enough to cry. But this...this is not just sad...this is...
Has there been any changes?
It's all about the same.
How are you getting through?
How does anybody get through lady? Auto-pilot. Pick up right foot. Shift right foot forward. Transfer body weight to right foot. Pick up left foot. Shift left foot forward. Transfer body weight to left fo --
I keep doing what I'm supposed to do. I get up, I get dressed, I go to work, I go home.
I think you're grieving.
I think you're wrong.
This may be short-term.
What loss am I grieving?
You would know that best.
Oh for fuckssake.
I've been here before. There's no sudden loss. This happens every few years and I have to figure out what to do to make it stop.
And the countdown starts again. Can we beat two and a half minutes? I think so. I don't know what to say. I don't know how to fix this. I don't know what to say. I don't know how to fix --
How are your relationships?
Relationships? Are your notes mixed up? I don't have relationships.
What relationships?
You broke off communications with the BT. Are you still not speaking?
If by breaking off communications you mean I blocked him on MSN and then ignored his calls then yes, yes I sure did.
Still not speaking, and that's fine.
Have you thought about talking to him again? You were quite close. He called you once contemplating suicide, which really upset you. You helped him through a cancer scare. You were making plans for him in your life.
Why do I have to be reminded I'm an idiot?
I know.
His betrayal must have hurt you.
Actually, no. When he suddenly found a woman he wanted to date and that woman turned out not to be me, I wasn't actually surprised. That's what hurt. Being all of those things to somebody and still being not good enough to be the girlfriend - that's what hurt. What pissed me off was how he treats her.
His betrayal wasn't entirely unexpected. Things don't work out, so what? It happens to people all the time. He just liked her better.
Why do you say that?
Goddammit. This must be what they pay for in medical school. Open ended questions and now I'm going to either have to sit here and say nothing or sound like an R-Tard. May as well go full R-Tard...
Facebook. That's how I know. Our second date I thought we were going to dinner but he drove way out in the middle of nowhere because he didn't want his ex or any of her friends seeing us and giving him a hard time. We didn't even go to a restaurant in the middle of nowhere. He found a Beer and Wine store and wanted to just go sit on a beach somewhere. I guess it could have been romantic, but I was kind of sad he didn't want to be seen with me.
How is his new relationship different?
New status updates all the time. Lovey-dovey. How he's with the most beautiful girl in the world, life is so good, he's so lucky, and they're out on a patio downtown drinking wine.
So his Facebook upset you?
I can't articulate. Why can't I say anything properly? We sat on a beach drinking ciders because he wouldn't buy wine and I was still having fun because he was funny and making me laugh and I liked that and then I had to pee. On a beach, freezing my ass of as it was, dressed like I was going for dinner, and there's no trees, no bushes, nothing for miles. I had to hike it down shore in my heels, and find a log big enough I could squat behind. I was so proud of myself for accomplishing the job, adjusting my pants over my heeled boots afterward when I found one of my pantlegs was wet. Awesomeness. I peed on my pants. I get driven 20 minutes past where Jesus lost his sandals so I can pee on my pants, and I'm pretty sure he had nothing romantic to say afterward. Whoever he's seeing now gets wine on a patio and lovey-dovey comments. This is why I'm upset. This is always the difference, and I'm not even smart enough to see it until afterward.
He treats her better. He treats her like a girlfriend. Not just like something to do when he was bored or wanted to vent.
Are you still talking to Alex?
Jesus Christ lady are you seriously trying to make me cry now?
No.
Not at all?
Fuck me. What do you mean, "Not at all?" No phone calls, no texts, no MSN but the carrier pigeon is surprisingly reliable? No means no.
No. Not at all.
Why is that?
I'm fairly certian it's not because he's dead, or suffering from amnesia, or been kidnapped and held by ransom. He doesn't want to talk to me, and so he doesn't.
I just don't hear from him.
You don't contact him?
I'd rather pretend he'd be happy if I did. I'd rather pretend that like me, he's not getting in touch because he thinks I don't want to. I'd rather pretend he misses me instead of knowing for certain that he doesn't.
No, I don't contact him. It's easier to miss him.
That's interesting.
Not really.
Are you still seeing the guy who's married?
The firefighter? Yeppers.
On occasion.
When was the last time?
We were supposed to get together yesterday, but it didn't happen. I was relieved.
Why were you relieved?
I just couldn't do it. Thinking about it made me tired. I had no interest. None at all. I didn't know if I could fake it. How much more can I possibly fake?
I just wasn't interested. Like...I had no interest at all. I was actually kind of dreading it.
That should make her happy. She's been harping on and on about how I shouldn't be interested. How the jealousy I feel towards his wife can be crippling. How it's just not healthy. How it goes against everything I say I want, which I suppose is true. But on the other hand...so FUN. She's going to see this as progress at last...
I realize you've taken medication in the past, and experienced some significant side effects. Perhaps with closer monitoring, you may want to reconsider...?
Holy. Crap. She's been thinking I'm having a bad week. Maybe a bad month. Any moment I'll perk right up. I tell her I have absolutely zero interest in doing the firefighter and suddenly I should be trying medication again. Apparently me not wanting to have sex with a firefighter is the fifth horsemen of the apocolypse. Cutting my wrists? Mild cry for help. Doesn't want to get naked with the firefighter? MEDS! STAT! Sweet cracker sandwich...that's...it's...fucking hilarious. I can't believe I'm actually laughing!
I can reconsider - I'm willing to talk about it at least. Talking like this has been really helpful actually...
Friday, August 6, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Enter the Intern
I don't have an office. Office space at my organization is a status symbol, and my cubicle backs into the office kitchen. This puts me in such a lowly position I can barely even claim to work here at all, but at least I always know when somebody's microwaved lunch is ready.
I should be glad to be on top of something I suppose, since I'm not even sure who I report to on any given day. In the last three months my particular portfolio has been transferred back and forth to three different vice-presidents, so I'm just waiting for the day when they realize I was supposed to have been laid off back in January but my pink slip got lost in all the confusion.
I don't have doors, so the entire department can see me updating my Facebook status, and everybody knows when my next PAP smear is scheduled. There is one positive stemming from my office real estate - if I were to one day pass away from corporate ennui, janitors would find my body quickly. I don't even have walls.
There is a desk next to mine, and for at least a year this vacant spot has been acknowledged as the second worst real estate in the building. My proximity to the kitchen makes me number one. As of last week, this conjoined desk is no longer empty -- another department needed a space to stick their intern.
Let's call the intern Cathy. Cathy is very, very enthusiastic. I was introduced to Cathy this way:
"Cathy, this is Bambi. You'll be sitting next to her, and Bambi is really, really funny so I'm sure you'll get along great! Bambi isn't actually part of our department any more - who do you report to now Bambi? Really...since when? Huh. Oh well, she still sits here and can answer any questions you have. Bambi - anything witty you can say to get Cathy started?"
Yes. Get out now Cathy. Run like the goddamned wind.
Everybody agreed that my deadpan delivery and somber tone was indeed, hilarious. This makes me wonder what kind of tone I'll have to use should I ever need to yell for everybody to evacuate the building, because obviously being completely serious didn't work out. Cathy tacked some pictures of her boyfriend to her monitor, and she's obviously staying.
Cathy is always smiling, and this bothers me. Her teeth must be dry, and thinking of dry teeth makes me want to bite my own ear. She always wants to talk business, and there is nothing better to Cathy than "being on the same page."
Regardless of the conversation, she must consistently check that we are on the same page, close to being on the same page, nearly on the same page, or completely on that same page. I'm quite sure I don't have to describe what I want to do to that fucking page at this moment.
This is not Cathy's fault. It's not her fault she's sharing office space with Girl Interrupted and it's not her fault she doesn't know where the envelopes are and it's not her fault she looks way better in a pencil skirt than I ever will and it's not her fault she has a voice that goes up at the end of every sentence and it's not her fault we can't be on the same page and it's not her fault I lost the page a long time ago, and it's not her fault I'm not as excited as she is to be here.
It also won't be her fault when I inevitably throw a stapler at her head.
I should be glad to be on top of something I suppose, since I'm not even sure who I report to on any given day. In the last three months my particular portfolio has been transferred back and forth to three different vice-presidents, so I'm just waiting for the day when they realize I was supposed to have been laid off back in January but my pink slip got lost in all the confusion.
I don't have doors, so the entire department can see me updating my Facebook status, and everybody knows when my next PAP smear is scheduled. There is one positive stemming from my office real estate - if I were to one day pass away from corporate ennui, janitors would find my body quickly. I don't even have walls.
There is a desk next to mine, and for at least a year this vacant spot has been acknowledged as the second worst real estate in the building. My proximity to the kitchen makes me number one. As of last week, this conjoined desk is no longer empty -- another department needed a space to stick their intern.
Let's call the intern Cathy. Cathy is very, very enthusiastic. I was introduced to Cathy this way:
"Cathy, this is Bambi. You'll be sitting next to her, and Bambi is really, really funny so I'm sure you'll get along great! Bambi isn't actually part of our department any more - who do you report to now Bambi? Really...since when? Huh. Oh well, she still sits here and can answer any questions you have. Bambi - anything witty you can say to get Cathy started?"
Yes. Get out now Cathy. Run like the goddamned wind.
Everybody agreed that my deadpan delivery and somber tone was indeed, hilarious. This makes me wonder what kind of tone I'll have to use should I ever need to yell for everybody to evacuate the building, because obviously being completely serious didn't work out. Cathy tacked some pictures of her boyfriend to her monitor, and she's obviously staying.
Cathy is always smiling, and this bothers me. Her teeth must be dry, and thinking of dry teeth makes me want to bite my own ear. She always wants to talk business, and there is nothing better to Cathy than "being on the same page."
Regardless of the conversation, she must consistently check that we are on the same page, close to being on the same page, nearly on the same page, or completely on that same page. I'm quite sure I don't have to describe what I want to do to that fucking page at this moment.
This is not Cathy's fault. It's not her fault she's sharing office space with Girl Interrupted and it's not her fault she doesn't know where the envelopes are and it's not her fault she looks way better in a pencil skirt than I ever will and it's not her fault she has a voice that goes up at the end of every sentence and it's not her fault we can't be on the same page and it's not her fault I lost the page a long time ago, and it's not her fault I'm not as excited as she is to be here.
It also won't be her fault when I inevitably throw a stapler at her head.
Monday, July 12, 2010
The Ninja
I spend an inordinate amount of time trying not to die. It's fair to say that most people don't make a point of throwing themselves in front of moving vehicles or scanning the sky for incoming meteors and positioning their lawn chairs accordingly for maximum impact, but I'm not most people.
I suffer from major depressive disorder, and in hindsight, it's something that I was likely born with. I was several weeks late in being born, (yes, weeks) and it's probably because I was floating around, thinking to myself that there really wasn't much point in coming out. Not when I can just sleep, eat, not care and comfortably put my legs over my head for the last time in my existence.
Depression is the least fun of all the mental disorders, and certainly low priority when considering what to tell people at parties. Anorexia will at least get you out of bed, and everybody wants to know a nymphomaniac. People with bi-polar disorder can be fun for part of the time, and are slightly more likely to have the energy to clean their kitchens after they stay up baking cupcakes for 48 hours.
Yes, I'm being completely facetious, but I've earned the right to make fun of my fellow crazies. I've dealt with anxiety, panic attacks, OCD behaviours, post-traumatic stress disorder and for my co-workers who have to view my desk every day, possibly hoarding. Each one is crippling on its own merits, but none are quite so dangerous as depression.
I've nicknamed my depression the Ninja, because of how it sneaks up on me so slowly, by the time I realize it's there I'm already fighting for my life. The Ninja walks softly, appearing as a black silhouette, a negative cut-out shape in the fabric of my world.
The Ninja does not fuck around. If depression has a goal and a purpose it's to kill. Up to 60% of people who off themselves have depression or another mood disorder, and it's because when the Ninja starts to talk, it can be very persuasive.
That's how I know the Ninja has arrived and is now sharing my couch, my bed, and hogging the sink when I brush my teeth. There are other signs before the Ninja officially drops luggage in my hallway, but they can be easy to write off until the voice starts. When the Ninja starts talking, I need to start fighting if I think there's the slightest chance I might want to see future seasons of Glee.
Depression feels like grief. It's every sadness you've ever experienced, washing over you in continuing waves, stripping every happy thought, pleasurable moment, and your bathing suit right along with it. When I'm living with the Ninja, everything slows down. I move more slowly. My arms and legs are so heavy. I talk more slowly, and I don't remember things. I grasp for words, the ends of my thoughts and any kind of a life line.
I cry all the time, and so this at least hastens my morning beauty routine. There's no point in mascara and carefully applied eye-liner when I have a 25 minute weeping appointment to keep as part of my drive to work. If you were to ask me why I'm crying I would have no fucking idea. I can't explain why. The grief is all consuming but I don't know what to point to as a cause.
I force myself to do things I normally love to do. Socializing, reading, movies, exercise, firefighters...all of these things become a chore. I want to eat. That's all. I also want to sleep, and the rare night I even manage it. The rest of the time I wake up at the oddest hours, wider awake than I am during any time of the day.
That all starts before the Ninja starts to whisper though, and I guess that's because if the voice started in my ears any earlier, it might not make such poisonous sense.
What the Ninja starts saying is, "Just do it. Just die already. Take yourself out. So much easier for you, and better for everybody in the long run."
Arguing doesn't work. The Ninja is an assassin and there's no reasoning with an assassin. All I can hope to do is be smarter than the voice in my head, and failing that, hide.
At one time or another, I've been prescribed every anti-depressant on the market. I've thrown up, been constipated for days on end, jittered and jived when sitting still, gotten dizzy when turning my head, felt my eyeballs pulsing and shook, wept, sweat and moaned through three solid days and nights of withdrawal when doctors acknowledged the medication wasn't working, but there was no better plan to get me off of them.
Anti-depressants don't work for at least 10% of the population. I'm also a proud member of the 10% of people unable to see Magic Eye pictures, so somebody really should look into a correlation.
What's worked so far in keeping me alive is my family. When the Ninja starts telling me how easy it would be to crank the wheel hard when I'm driving through the mountains, or whispering about how some drug interactions can be surprisingly fatal, I think about what it would do to those I love most. Even when the Ninja tells me my family would be better off and would realize I was a total failure anyways eventually, I'm able to think that's not for me to decide.
My friends for the most part know I'm a fuck-up, so the Ninja has to fight for ground there too. It's not enough to say my friends don't know I'm actually a total failure - most of them probably do, and as long as I bring wine, nobody really cares.
With me though, the Ninja has a lot of pull. It's so hard to keep fighting, and so easy to just stop. I've started trying to outsmart that black shape by making lists.
Lists of books I want to read, trips I'm supposed to take, clothing I want to fit into again and songs I like but haven't danced to. It sounds ridiculous, but it's surprisingly effective. When I say I don't want to kill myself just yet because I haven't finished the trilogy of books featuring the girl with the dragon tattoo, the Ninja let's me have that one. I don't think it knows what to say to that. And hopefully, it lets me have the next one after that and the next one after that until my arms and legs don't feel so heavy and I can rest.
Depressive episodes pass on their own. The trick is surviving. Eventually every book, every trip and every experience on my list will start to feel good again, and the colour will seep back into the black, ninja shaped hole in my life. I have to believe in it.
Magic eye pictures however, remain highly suspect.
I suffer from major depressive disorder, and in hindsight, it's something that I was likely born with. I was several weeks late in being born, (yes, weeks) and it's probably because I was floating around, thinking to myself that there really wasn't much point in coming out. Not when I can just sleep, eat, not care and comfortably put my legs over my head for the last time in my existence.
Depression is the least fun of all the mental disorders, and certainly low priority when considering what to tell people at parties. Anorexia will at least get you out of bed, and everybody wants to know a nymphomaniac. People with bi-polar disorder can be fun for part of the time, and are slightly more likely to have the energy to clean their kitchens after they stay up baking cupcakes for 48 hours.
Yes, I'm being completely facetious, but I've earned the right to make fun of my fellow crazies. I've dealt with anxiety, panic attacks, OCD behaviours, post-traumatic stress disorder and for my co-workers who have to view my desk every day, possibly hoarding. Each one is crippling on its own merits, but none are quite so dangerous as depression.
I've nicknamed my depression the Ninja, because of how it sneaks up on me so slowly, by the time I realize it's there I'm already fighting for my life. The Ninja walks softly, appearing as a black silhouette, a negative cut-out shape in the fabric of my world.
The Ninja does not fuck around. If depression has a goal and a purpose it's to kill. Up to 60% of people who off themselves have depression or another mood disorder, and it's because when the Ninja starts to talk, it can be very persuasive.
That's how I know the Ninja has arrived and is now sharing my couch, my bed, and hogging the sink when I brush my teeth. There are other signs before the Ninja officially drops luggage in my hallway, but they can be easy to write off until the voice starts. When the Ninja starts talking, I need to start fighting if I think there's the slightest chance I might want to see future seasons of Glee.
Depression feels like grief. It's every sadness you've ever experienced, washing over you in continuing waves, stripping every happy thought, pleasurable moment, and your bathing suit right along with it. When I'm living with the Ninja, everything slows down. I move more slowly. My arms and legs are so heavy. I talk more slowly, and I don't remember things. I grasp for words, the ends of my thoughts and any kind of a life line.
I cry all the time, and so this at least hastens my morning beauty routine. There's no point in mascara and carefully applied eye-liner when I have a 25 minute weeping appointment to keep as part of my drive to work. If you were to ask me why I'm crying I would have no fucking idea. I can't explain why. The grief is all consuming but I don't know what to point to as a cause.
I force myself to do things I normally love to do. Socializing, reading, movies, exercise, firefighters...all of these things become a chore. I want to eat. That's all. I also want to sleep, and the rare night I even manage it. The rest of the time I wake up at the oddest hours, wider awake than I am during any time of the day.
That all starts before the Ninja starts to whisper though, and I guess that's because if the voice started in my ears any earlier, it might not make such poisonous sense.
What the Ninja starts saying is, "Just do it. Just die already. Take yourself out. So much easier for you, and better for everybody in the long run."
Arguing doesn't work. The Ninja is an assassin and there's no reasoning with an assassin. All I can hope to do is be smarter than the voice in my head, and failing that, hide.
At one time or another, I've been prescribed every anti-depressant on the market. I've thrown up, been constipated for days on end, jittered and jived when sitting still, gotten dizzy when turning my head, felt my eyeballs pulsing and shook, wept, sweat and moaned through three solid days and nights of withdrawal when doctors acknowledged the medication wasn't working, but there was no better plan to get me off of them.
Anti-depressants don't work for at least 10% of the population. I'm also a proud member of the 10% of people unable to see Magic Eye pictures, so somebody really should look into a correlation.
What's worked so far in keeping me alive is my family. When the Ninja starts telling me how easy it would be to crank the wheel hard when I'm driving through the mountains, or whispering about how some drug interactions can be surprisingly fatal, I think about what it would do to those I love most. Even when the Ninja tells me my family would be better off and would realize I was a total failure anyways eventually, I'm able to think that's not for me to decide.
My friends for the most part know I'm a fuck-up, so the Ninja has to fight for ground there too. It's not enough to say my friends don't know I'm actually a total failure - most of them probably do, and as long as I bring wine, nobody really cares.
With me though, the Ninja has a lot of pull. It's so hard to keep fighting, and so easy to just stop. I've started trying to outsmart that black shape by making lists.
Lists of books I want to read, trips I'm supposed to take, clothing I want to fit into again and songs I like but haven't danced to. It sounds ridiculous, but it's surprisingly effective. When I say I don't want to kill myself just yet because I haven't finished the trilogy of books featuring the girl with the dragon tattoo, the Ninja let's me have that one. I don't think it knows what to say to that. And hopefully, it lets me have the next one after that and the next one after that until my arms and legs don't feel so heavy and I can rest.
Depressive episodes pass on their own. The trick is surviving. Eventually every book, every trip and every experience on my list will start to feel good again, and the colour will seep back into the black, ninja shaped hole in my life. I have to believe in it.
Magic eye pictures however, remain highly suspect.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Paved with good intentions? What can go wrong?
I made a decision. I made several actually, which is rather astonishing considering it's not beneath me to spend 25 minutes in the frozen foods aisle at Safeway, paralyzed with doubt and confusion over what I should spend the next week eating for lunch.
The revelation that continuing to do stupid shit can actually result in stupid shit happening got me to thinking.
First, I thought it was stupid that I would continue to do nothing at all but miss Alex in my life and that missing him constantly could lead to overlooking something that might be staring me right in the face. Strangely, missing him constantly has never caused me to overlook dessert.
I erased his numbers from my phone. That's right - looked him up and deleted contact. Not to brag, but the enormity of this one action has probably made me deserving of some kind of international award. If Al Gore can win an Academy Award for a PowerPoint presentation, I should at least be considered for "Best Something or Other" by some international committee.
Then I joined Weight Watchers. Weight Watchers is by no means paying me to say this, I am in fact paying them, and the organization would likely want to pay me to not proclaim any association because the first thing I did when I got my little booklet containing all the points values of food I may be considering for the next year of my life or however long it takes me to lose the equivalent of an obese kindergartner, was look up the points values for alcohol.
Also, they likely wouldn't pay for my endorsement because I only have six readers, so there's that.
The point is, I've joined, I'm following the plan and I've lost close to ten pounds. This is really a drop in the bucket and it seems to have come off of my boobs which is just a tad bit demoralizing, but I'm sticking with it.
Next, I've been avoiding the married firefighter. Note that I'm physiologically incapable of actually saying "NO" to the married firefighter. I just can't bring myself to deny him outright - I feel that doing so could actually lead all of my internal organs to strike at once, so I just avoid him. I've managed to come up with an astonishing array of excuses, such as:
I think I have my period.
I might be getting my period.
I'm not sure if I'm getting my period.
I might be getting a cold. And my period.
I have a cold. Also, my period.
I'm busy playing Just Dance for the Wii.
With my period.
Now I'm fairly certain he's concerned for my womanly health and shopping for a new gaming system.
In the midst of all this shining behaviour, and by what should be considered jaw-dropping rejections of both a firefighter and Alex, (which feels just as crazy to me as passing on oxygen and water because we're all full up over here)I thought about what could actually be important to me, romantically speaking.
For the last several months, it's been just one guy who makes me laugh. Who I talk to everyday. Who knows great stuff about me and really horrible stuff about me and who still talks to me every day. One guy who cares whether I had a bad day, or at least pretends to care enough to ask.
One guy who's met my sister and never got weird about meeting my family. One guy who's met my friends and never got weird, even when they told him my type was "entirely cro-magnon overly macho asshole."
One guy who still looks at me like he wants me really badly, even though I promised him it would be a long time before I ever jumped into bed with him. One guy who stuck around when I promised that long time to wait.
For all of his issues, and Goddess knows there are a few...the BT has really come through. Yes, he has some emotional/anxiety/trauma issues...but so do I. We'd match! Yes, so far the extent of our physical relationship has consisted of him wanting to jack off for me while I watch and try to look interested, but really, there is no safer sex than that. Even Mormons might agree. It's something to build on at least.
I've been attracted to him all along, interested in some way all along, and didn't some hippies once sing "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with?" I'm pretty sure they did. Normally I don't consider life advice from a group of people known best for preferring patchouli to deodorant, but this same demographic of people likely invented the party bong, so they can't be wrong all of the time.
For more than six months now, the BT has told me at various times that he needs to be more settled in his life to have a real relationship, the kind I told him I want. When I got impatient waiting he told me he hoped I could hold out just a little longer, and since it's not like I have anything else going on, that turned out to be quite easy.
I knew what it meant when he sat across from me in my living room, one lazy Friday night and told me his life was settled. Really settled. He was happy, he was in a good place and I was happy for him. And for me. Patience and friendship were paying off, so when I kissed him good-bye that night I felt pretty content too.
Who knew making smart decisions resulted in good things happening?
The BT is throwing a housewarming party this weekend, and I was actually quite nervous because it's been so long since I've been dating anybody, and even longer since I met the friends. I needed a little social support, so I sent the BT a text message asking if it would be OK if I brought an extra girl or two along.
As expected, he had no problem with that, and then his next message said, "Just so you know, I have a date coming to my party."
Just as an aside, it is completely bizarre how most of my life plays out over text messages and MSN. I think it's weird, and I've vowed that I should really try for more personal interactions, but for this instance, I was so grateful to be on MSN and not the phone that I probably would have kissed Bill Gates' platinum covered ass right then in gratitude.
If I had called instead of texting, all he would have heard on the other line was a series of gasping breaths and hard swallows. And not in a sexy way.
As it was, I texted back, "I'm happy you have a date coming." This was not what I was thinking, but it seemed more civilized than the "HOLY FUCKING SHIT ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??!!??" which was really the closest other option.
He writes back, "I just didn't want things to be awkward."
Dude. Having something stuck in your teeth is awkward. Forgetting somebody's name - also awkward. Dislocated limbs, possible arson and whatever the arresting and first officer on the scene is likely to be yelling through a bullhorn when he comes across that scene is not exactly what I would describe as being, "awkward." Dangerous? Yes. Epic? Quite possibly. Awkward...? Not exactly.
Then the BT asked me if this ruined my plans. I was so confused for a moment -- I couldn't think of what he was talking about, or how he knew about my plans. How did he know I was planning to stop doing stupid shit? How did he know my plan was to try for meaning and quality in my relationships? How did he know this could seriously fuck with my Weight Watchers points for the week? How was he inside my brain??
It turns out, he wanted to know if this ruined my plans to stop by his party with some girlfriends. Did I still want to come? I told him I really wasn't sure, and he said he could appreciate that. I was in fact, completely sure I would not be going to that party. I would go to the lost city of Atlantis before that party, and possibly, outer space.
What to do about this particular friendship is a decision I'm holding off on. I debated cutting all ties, I debated pretending everything is fine and I debated being an adult and having a conversation about why this hurts and why I need to go away for a while if him and I are to ever really be friends. It's a lot to think about.
Right now though, I have other things I need to get to. I need to buy groceries because I'm still on the Weight Watchers plan against all odds, and I need to clean my house.
The married firefighter's stopping by for a visit tonight.
As it turns out, somethings don't require that much thinking about after all.
The revelation that continuing to do stupid shit can actually result in stupid shit happening got me to thinking.
First, I thought it was stupid that I would continue to do nothing at all but miss Alex in my life and that missing him constantly could lead to overlooking something that might be staring me right in the face. Strangely, missing him constantly has never caused me to overlook dessert.
I erased his numbers from my phone. That's right - looked him up and deleted contact. Not to brag, but the enormity of this one action has probably made me deserving of some kind of international award. If Al Gore can win an Academy Award for a PowerPoint presentation, I should at least be considered for "Best Something or Other" by some international committee.
Then I joined Weight Watchers. Weight Watchers is by no means paying me to say this, I am in fact paying them, and the organization would likely want to pay me to not proclaim any association because the first thing I did when I got my little booklet containing all the points values of food I may be considering for the next year of my life or however long it takes me to lose the equivalent of an obese kindergartner, was look up the points values for alcohol.
Also, they likely wouldn't pay for my endorsement because I only have six readers, so there's that.
The point is, I've joined, I'm following the plan and I've lost close to ten pounds. This is really a drop in the bucket and it seems to have come off of my boobs which is just a tad bit demoralizing, but I'm sticking with it.
Next, I've been avoiding the married firefighter. Note that I'm physiologically incapable of actually saying "NO" to the married firefighter. I just can't bring myself to deny him outright - I feel that doing so could actually lead all of my internal organs to strike at once, so I just avoid him. I've managed to come up with an astonishing array of excuses, such as:
I think I have my period.
I might be getting my period.
I'm not sure if I'm getting my period.
I might be getting a cold. And my period.
I have a cold. Also, my period.
I'm busy playing Just Dance for the Wii.
With my period.
Now I'm fairly certain he's concerned for my womanly health and shopping for a new gaming system.
In the midst of all this shining behaviour, and by what should be considered jaw-dropping rejections of both a firefighter and Alex, (which feels just as crazy to me as passing on oxygen and water because we're all full up over here)I thought about what could actually be important to me, romantically speaking.
For the last several months, it's been just one guy who makes me laugh. Who I talk to everyday. Who knows great stuff about me and really horrible stuff about me and who still talks to me every day. One guy who cares whether I had a bad day, or at least pretends to care enough to ask.
One guy who's met my sister and never got weird about meeting my family. One guy who's met my friends and never got weird, even when they told him my type was "entirely cro-magnon overly macho asshole."
One guy who still looks at me like he wants me really badly, even though I promised him it would be a long time before I ever jumped into bed with him. One guy who stuck around when I promised that long time to wait.
For all of his issues, and Goddess knows there are a few...the BT has really come through. Yes, he has some emotional/anxiety/trauma issues...but so do I. We'd match! Yes, so far the extent of our physical relationship has consisted of him wanting to jack off for me while I watch and try to look interested, but really, there is no safer sex than that. Even Mormons might agree. It's something to build on at least.
I've been attracted to him all along, interested in some way all along, and didn't some hippies once sing "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with?" I'm pretty sure they did. Normally I don't consider life advice from a group of people known best for preferring patchouli to deodorant, but this same demographic of people likely invented the party bong, so they can't be wrong all of the time.
For more than six months now, the BT has told me at various times that he needs to be more settled in his life to have a real relationship, the kind I told him I want. When I got impatient waiting he told me he hoped I could hold out just a little longer, and since it's not like I have anything else going on, that turned out to be quite easy.
I knew what it meant when he sat across from me in my living room, one lazy Friday night and told me his life was settled. Really settled. He was happy, he was in a good place and I was happy for him. And for me. Patience and friendship were paying off, so when I kissed him good-bye that night I felt pretty content too.
Who knew making smart decisions resulted in good things happening?
The BT is throwing a housewarming party this weekend, and I was actually quite nervous because it's been so long since I've been dating anybody, and even longer since I met the friends. I needed a little social support, so I sent the BT a text message asking if it would be OK if I brought an extra girl or two along.
As expected, he had no problem with that, and then his next message said, "Just so you know, I have a date coming to my party."
Just as an aside, it is completely bizarre how most of my life plays out over text messages and MSN. I think it's weird, and I've vowed that I should really try for more personal interactions, but for this instance, I was so grateful to be on MSN and not the phone that I probably would have kissed Bill Gates' platinum covered ass right then in gratitude.
If I had called instead of texting, all he would have heard on the other line was a series of gasping breaths and hard swallows. And not in a sexy way.
As it was, I texted back, "I'm happy you have a date coming." This was not what I was thinking, but it seemed more civilized than the "HOLY FUCKING SHIT ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??!!??" which was really the closest other option.
He writes back, "I just didn't want things to be awkward."
Dude. Having something stuck in your teeth is awkward. Forgetting somebody's name - also awkward. Dislocated limbs, possible arson and whatever the arresting and first officer on the scene is likely to be yelling through a bullhorn when he comes across that scene is not exactly what I would describe as being, "awkward." Dangerous? Yes. Epic? Quite possibly. Awkward...? Not exactly.
Then the BT asked me if this ruined my plans. I was so confused for a moment -- I couldn't think of what he was talking about, or how he knew about my plans. How did he know I was planning to stop doing stupid shit? How did he know my plan was to try for meaning and quality in my relationships? How did he know this could seriously fuck with my Weight Watchers points for the week? How was he inside my brain??
It turns out, he wanted to know if this ruined my plans to stop by his party with some girlfriends. Did I still want to come? I told him I really wasn't sure, and he said he could appreciate that. I was in fact, completely sure I would not be going to that party. I would go to the lost city of Atlantis before that party, and possibly, outer space.
What to do about this particular friendship is a decision I'm holding off on. I debated cutting all ties, I debated pretending everything is fine and I debated being an adult and having a conversation about why this hurts and why I need to go away for a while if him and I are to ever really be friends. It's a lot to think about.
Right now though, I have other things I need to get to. I need to buy groceries because I'm still on the Weight Watchers plan against all odds, and I need to clean my house.
The married firefighter's stopping by for a visit tonight.
As it turns out, somethings don't require that much thinking about after all.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Really, really long post about getting older, love, sex and why I'm still stupid.
Getting older is supposed to mean getting wiser. I thought having a birthday and the intrinsic wisdom that would kick-in upon turning 34 would by far make up for the increased episodes of heartburn and growing number of visible veins on my legs that I'm experiencing instead.
Suddenly I would be capable of a knowing look, and most importantly...I would stop doing stupid shit. Luckily for my six readers, all my advancing age has left me with is heartburn and varicose veins.
My birthday weekend started rather sweetly, as most anything soaked in champagne for several hours tends to be.
(It's important to note that as I get older, I'm taking longer to celebrate my birthday. For now, it's an entire weekend. By the time I'm 80, those of my friends still alive and not incarcerated will be asked to take an entire year off. Prepare yourselves accordingly.)
I combined my birthday party with a long overdue housewarming party, not wanting to vacuum more than once a year. Work colleagues dropped by early, and left before the more serious drinkers showed up. This was how I found myself quite alone with the BT in the lull between.
(Bomb Tech for those of you who've forgotten anything I might once have posted, given how long it's taken me to update this blog.)
Alone and quite tipsy I might add, and I mean that literally. I chose the highest, sexiest shoes I could find to wear. I wanted to impress him, and I'm sure watching me be one mildly drunken footstep away from a severed spinal cord was truly awesome, if only he were to find that kind of thing arousing.
It was feeling like a lucky day. My unsteadiness on my shoes had the BT fetching my drinks for me, and the only time I really had to get up was when I launched myself across the room and threw my arms around him.
I should probably back up. (I know, I know. If I just updated my blog more often I wouldn't have to bother with all of this exposition. Now shut-up and keep reading.)
(The BT and I had a bit of a falling out you may remember when a mutual friend told me she and the BT had been fooling around on a regular basis, which really sucked. I stopped talking to him, and intended to make that disconnect in communications permanent, until the BT was diagnosed with cancer. When he told me that, whatever fooling around he had done with my former good friend didn't mean much anymore.)
(Not one of the good kinds of cancers either by the way, but the kind that means the good-byes should probably be rushed. He was terrified, his family was devastated and I was both. Actually, I was asking why the Grand Poobah in the sky couldn't just let me break it off with a guy - why did the guy have to actually go and die?? After losing Jesse, and now this, I was ready to order Alex into a protective bubble immediately.)
(I know - what kind of a selfish bitch does that make me? Yes, I know how hard your impending painful death might be for you, but think about me dammit!)
(A week or so passed and the BT's doctor started to back peddle his diagnosis. The BT sought second and third opinions, and was given a clear bill of health. The original blood tests showed elevated blood sugar - that was all.)
(This was why when the BT told me he was OK, no really, he was fine and there was nothing wrong, I sort of threw myself at him, risky shoes be damned. At the time, I thought it might be one of the best hugs ever, but I was wrong. That hug was actually coming the next night...I know. I know. Lame plot device. Now shut-up and keep reading.)
(Also, sorry for all of the brackets.)
Now that I knew he wasn't dying, I could really let him have it. He knew I was upset over something to do with our mutual friend, and I had assumed he knew exactly why because after all...wouldn't he have been there?
When I launched into the part about how I knew he and I were not exclusive but he could have at least manage to stick it in somebody I didn't know he became confused. Like, genuinely confused. He asked me what I thought he'd done with this girl. I told him what I thought, because that's what she told me they did. Apparently...nothing of the sort ever happened.
I won't bore you with the he said/she said details, but I will say that I believed him. Him, and not her. What he said made sense, and he's not a good enough actor to pull off that level of shock. We sat there blinking at each other, the realization that we'd both been played really starting to sink in. That's when the buzzer rang, and we weren't going to be alone anymore that night.
Which naturally didn't stop me from throwing him against my hall closet and making out with him just before he left a while later, which seemed to highly amuse the assembled peanut gallery. I blame this on the lack of balance caused by my shoes. They were just so high I had no choice but to lean way forward and practically fall onto his face when seeing him out.
(Yes, that is the story I'm sticking with. Now shut-up and keep reading.)
There is no glory in waking up 34 years old with a hangover not seen since my early days in university. While I wasn't praying for death, a light coma or perhaps a nap deep within the confines of a silent monastery would not have gone unappreciated. Every movement brought an entirely new level of weariness, right up until the phone rang late that afternoon.
Now that I was 34 with a hangover and reconciled with a guy who defuses bombs for a living, one would think I'd exhausted the stupidity supply for one weekend. One would think that when there's suddenly a certain really hot, really married firefighter I know on the other end of the phone line who's proposing performing several acts that are legal only in Bangkok if I would just come over for a visit that night, that I might decline.
I might tell the really hot married firefighter that I had reached my stupidity quota no matter how many visible abs he has and that his marriage was really a problem for me.
I might do those things, or I might go shave my legs and get in the car and drive to his place. Which is exactly what I did.
I know I'm supposed to be weaning myself off of firefighters. I know they're bad for me, and I would be better off with settling for a fire extinguisher in my kitchen and buying the damned calendar like normal people but as Mae West once said, I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it.
Several hours later I'm back at home, pondering whether I should go back to my Catholic roots just so I can confess to somebody every salacious detail of how I managed to cure my hang-over and possibly even my varicose veins in just one evening due to elevating my legs and repeatedly calling out to God.
Ahem.
The phone rings again, and I almost don't answer it. It's late, I'm in my PJs, I'm eating cold pizza left over from the party the night before and I have to get up early to go to a conference for work the next morning, despite the next morning being Sunday. Even earlier if I was planning to suddenly start going to Confession.
I finally answer the phone and all I hear is Lady Gaga singing "Bad Romance." This is actually both fitting and prescient, but I simply assume somebody's ass pocket has dialled me from the gay bar, and I hang up. The phone rings again, and this time I hear Lady Gaga and a guy's muffled voice asking me what I'm doing.
I assume it's my friend John, actually dialling me from the gay bar. (Hi John!) I ask him what does he possibly think I'm doing? I'm hung-over as hell, in my PJs, eating cold pizza and I just got back from a date with the firefighter and you know what that means...
The voice says, "I don't know what that means at all - I was just hoping you could give me a tour of your beautiful city, beautiful girl."
He'd stepped outside whatever bar he was in, Bad Romance was silenced and now I knew that voice. Just to be sure it was time to drop the pizza and freak the fuck out, I asked him who was calling.
It was Alex. Didn't I know? Didn't I recognize his voice? His number? He's in town, he's surprising me and he wants me to come pick him up and he's at the waterfront and do I know how pretty it is at night with all the lights and the boats? Hurry up!
Many land speed records have been broken with jet-fueled cars somewhere in the deserts of Nevada, but I can assure you I broke whatever land speed records have ever been set by a woman wearing hastily thrown on clothing, lip gloss and driving a Grand-Am. My record will stand for years.
I could not believe Alex was in my city. I could not believe I was going to see him in mere moments. I could not believe what a slutty weekend I was suddenly having.
I want to say that when I saw him walking towards me on the Inner Harbour, lights reflecting off the water and him smiling at me looking a little like I might be imagining him, just because I always do, that I played it cool. I'd like to say that, but instead I ran at him like I was on a war-torn roof top and he was the last flight out of Saigon.
For one moment of my life it was like being the romantic lead in a movie. He spun me around and a little old lady sitting with her little old husband on the bench behind us said, "Awww...."
Then I pulled away and started yelling at him. What kind of an ass calls a girl up at 11:30 at night with no notice?? A little notice next time Alex because..." At that point he was kissing me and the little old man was clapping and laughing.
If it was weird seeing Alex in my city it was completely surreal seeing him brushing his teeth in my living room.
January will mark three years that Alex has been part of my life, one way or another. Three years of long-distance unrequited love on my part, and three years of wondering what will ever happen, and trying to accept that nothing will ever happen.
Three years of trying to be OK with that, and trying to be with somebody else if I can't be with him. Three years of refusing to even have sex with him, knowing how many other women he has and needing to not take whatever fall that could mean if I let myself become one of the many. Three years of wanting and nothing happening.
Something did happen this time though, even if it wasn't what I expected or even something I can explain. We still didn't have sex, and yet we still blew each other's minds nonetheless which at this point and with this man, is not surprising.
(This feeling is at least mutual, and I know this because Alex sent me a message days later saying his mind was blown, and expressing amazement at just how good his time with me was. I'm not sure whether to be pleased with myself or insulted that he's amazed.)
What happened this time was a realization and unwilling comparison. I'd just spent a few hours in the company of a really hot firefighter, whom I know loves his wife despite whatever shenanigans he engages in with me. Trust me, it's complicated.
I've seen him kiss her, and seeing that has always hurt my heart a little. He doesn't kiss me that way, and nobody ever has. Whenever I've seen that I've wondered what it would be like to be the girl who's kissed that way.
With Alex I'm that girl. Let's be clear. The firefighter is very good at what he does when he's with me. His technical performance is beyond reproach. In fact, I'd consider him a national treasure and gift that should be shared with more of the female population because...well...damn.
He's good is what I'm saying. Very, very good. The Russian judges would give a 10 for technical merit but the judges from France would only give 8.5 because there's no heart. There's no feeling.
With Alex there's feeling. Whatever is missing with anybody else is there with him. And therein lies the problem. Alex is not here for me. Not geographically, not physically, not emotionally, and I need to either be where he is and face the distinct possibility that even if we shared a fence line it wouldn't work out, or be where I am and be with somebody else.
Three years of unrequited love, turning 34 and realizing that this love is not fading maxed my stupidity quota for that weekend and proved I know less now than what I did last year and the year before that.
My early morning conference meant I had to kick Alex out of my bed before 7:00 a.m. and once again we couldn't spend a whole day together.
Kicking him out of my car moments later because I had to be at a stupid networking breakfast starting ten minutes earlier meant I was eventually sitting in a conference hall wearing a sticky name-tag with my eyes red from crying.
I had no choice but take my sun glasses off when an extremely well-dressed older woman came over to sit with the loner picking at her breakfast danish. As soon as she saw my eyes she said how awful allergies are this time of year, and she has just the thing to fix me up in her purse.
Great, I thought. Just what I need is a dose of Benadryl from this lady's purse after a night spent not sleeping and smiling in the darkness as Alex alternated between stealing the blankets and snoring in my ear, and me refusing to sleep so I wouldn't miss a moment of it. At this rate I would be drooling through the key-note.
Instead the woman pulled out three drink tickets and put them in front of me. There was a reception later on as part of the conference, and she wasn't going. If I was going, she wanted me to have her drink tickets. She's always found her allergies clear right up after a few.
I'm not any wiser than I was at any other age, but at least this woman gave me hope. She obviously became very wise in her years ahead of me.
Suddenly I would be capable of a knowing look, and most importantly...I would stop doing stupid shit. Luckily for my six readers, all my advancing age has left me with is heartburn and varicose veins.
My birthday weekend started rather sweetly, as most anything soaked in champagne for several hours tends to be.
(It's important to note that as I get older, I'm taking longer to celebrate my birthday. For now, it's an entire weekend. By the time I'm 80, those of my friends still alive and not incarcerated will be asked to take an entire year off. Prepare yourselves accordingly.)
I combined my birthday party with a long overdue housewarming party, not wanting to vacuum more than once a year. Work colleagues dropped by early, and left before the more serious drinkers showed up. This was how I found myself quite alone with the BT in the lull between.
(Bomb Tech for those of you who've forgotten anything I might once have posted, given how long it's taken me to update this blog.)
Alone and quite tipsy I might add, and I mean that literally. I chose the highest, sexiest shoes I could find to wear. I wanted to impress him, and I'm sure watching me be one mildly drunken footstep away from a severed spinal cord was truly awesome, if only he were to find that kind of thing arousing.
It was feeling like a lucky day. My unsteadiness on my shoes had the BT fetching my drinks for me, and the only time I really had to get up was when I launched myself across the room and threw my arms around him.
I should probably back up. (I know, I know. If I just updated my blog more often I wouldn't have to bother with all of this exposition. Now shut-up and keep reading.)
(The BT and I had a bit of a falling out you may remember when a mutual friend told me she and the BT had been fooling around on a regular basis, which really sucked. I stopped talking to him, and intended to make that disconnect in communications permanent, until the BT was diagnosed with cancer. When he told me that, whatever fooling around he had done with my former good friend didn't mean much anymore.)
(Not one of the good kinds of cancers either by the way, but the kind that means the good-byes should probably be rushed. He was terrified, his family was devastated and I was both. Actually, I was asking why the Grand Poobah in the sky couldn't just let me break it off with a guy - why did the guy have to actually go and die?? After losing Jesse, and now this, I was ready to order Alex into a protective bubble immediately.)
(I know - what kind of a selfish bitch does that make me? Yes, I know how hard your impending painful death might be for you, but think about me dammit!)
(A week or so passed and the BT's doctor started to back peddle his diagnosis. The BT sought second and third opinions, and was given a clear bill of health. The original blood tests showed elevated blood sugar - that was all.)
(This was why when the BT told me he was OK, no really, he was fine and there was nothing wrong, I sort of threw myself at him, risky shoes be damned. At the time, I thought it might be one of the best hugs ever, but I was wrong. That hug was actually coming the next night...I know. I know. Lame plot device. Now shut-up and keep reading.)
(Also, sorry for all of the brackets.)
Now that I knew he wasn't dying, I could really let him have it. He knew I was upset over something to do with our mutual friend, and I had assumed he knew exactly why because after all...wouldn't he have been there?
When I launched into the part about how I knew he and I were not exclusive but he could have at least manage to stick it in somebody I didn't know he became confused. Like, genuinely confused. He asked me what I thought he'd done with this girl. I told him what I thought, because that's what she told me they did. Apparently...nothing of the sort ever happened.
I won't bore you with the he said/she said details, but I will say that I believed him. Him, and not her. What he said made sense, and he's not a good enough actor to pull off that level of shock. We sat there blinking at each other, the realization that we'd both been played really starting to sink in. That's when the buzzer rang, and we weren't going to be alone anymore that night.
Which naturally didn't stop me from throwing him against my hall closet and making out with him just before he left a while later, which seemed to highly amuse the assembled peanut gallery. I blame this on the lack of balance caused by my shoes. They were just so high I had no choice but to lean way forward and practically fall onto his face when seeing him out.
(Yes, that is the story I'm sticking with. Now shut-up and keep reading.)
There is no glory in waking up 34 years old with a hangover not seen since my early days in university. While I wasn't praying for death, a light coma or perhaps a nap deep within the confines of a silent monastery would not have gone unappreciated. Every movement brought an entirely new level of weariness, right up until the phone rang late that afternoon.
Now that I was 34 with a hangover and reconciled with a guy who defuses bombs for a living, one would think I'd exhausted the stupidity supply for one weekend. One would think that when there's suddenly a certain really hot, really married firefighter I know on the other end of the phone line who's proposing performing several acts that are legal only in Bangkok if I would just come over for a visit that night, that I might decline.
I might tell the really hot married firefighter that I had reached my stupidity quota no matter how many visible abs he has and that his marriage was really a problem for me.
I might do those things, or I might go shave my legs and get in the car and drive to his place. Which is exactly what I did.
I know I'm supposed to be weaning myself off of firefighters. I know they're bad for me, and I would be better off with settling for a fire extinguisher in my kitchen and buying the damned calendar like normal people but as Mae West once said, I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it.
Several hours later I'm back at home, pondering whether I should go back to my Catholic roots just so I can confess to somebody every salacious detail of how I managed to cure my hang-over and possibly even my varicose veins in just one evening due to elevating my legs and repeatedly calling out to God.
Ahem.
The phone rings again, and I almost don't answer it. It's late, I'm in my PJs, I'm eating cold pizza left over from the party the night before and I have to get up early to go to a conference for work the next morning, despite the next morning being Sunday. Even earlier if I was planning to suddenly start going to Confession.
I finally answer the phone and all I hear is Lady Gaga singing "Bad Romance." This is actually both fitting and prescient, but I simply assume somebody's ass pocket has dialled me from the gay bar, and I hang up. The phone rings again, and this time I hear Lady Gaga and a guy's muffled voice asking me what I'm doing.
I assume it's my friend John, actually dialling me from the gay bar. (Hi John!) I ask him what does he possibly think I'm doing? I'm hung-over as hell, in my PJs, eating cold pizza and I just got back from a date with the firefighter and you know what that means...
The voice says, "I don't know what that means at all - I was just hoping you could give me a tour of your beautiful city, beautiful girl."
He'd stepped outside whatever bar he was in, Bad Romance was silenced and now I knew that voice. Just to be sure it was time to drop the pizza and freak the fuck out, I asked him who was calling.
It was Alex. Didn't I know? Didn't I recognize his voice? His number? He's in town, he's surprising me and he wants me to come pick him up and he's at the waterfront and do I know how pretty it is at night with all the lights and the boats? Hurry up!
Many land speed records have been broken with jet-fueled cars somewhere in the deserts of Nevada, but I can assure you I broke whatever land speed records have ever been set by a woman wearing hastily thrown on clothing, lip gloss and driving a Grand-Am. My record will stand for years.
I could not believe Alex was in my city. I could not believe I was going to see him in mere moments. I could not believe what a slutty weekend I was suddenly having.
I want to say that when I saw him walking towards me on the Inner Harbour, lights reflecting off the water and him smiling at me looking a little like I might be imagining him, just because I always do, that I played it cool. I'd like to say that, but instead I ran at him like I was on a war-torn roof top and he was the last flight out of Saigon.
For one moment of my life it was like being the romantic lead in a movie. He spun me around and a little old lady sitting with her little old husband on the bench behind us said, "Awww...."
Then I pulled away and started yelling at him. What kind of an ass calls a girl up at 11:30 at night with no notice?? A little notice next time Alex because..." At that point he was kissing me and the little old man was clapping and laughing.
If it was weird seeing Alex in my city it was completely surreal seeing him brushing his teeth in my living room.
January will mark three years that Alex has been part of my life, one way or another. Three years of long-distance unrequited love on my part, and three years of wondering what will ever happen, and trying to accept that nothing will ever happen.
Three years of trying to be OK with that, and trying to be with somebody else if I can't be with him. Three years of refusing to even have sex with him, knowing how many other women he has and needing to not take whatever fall that could mean if I let myself become one of the many. Three years of wanting and nothing happening.
Something did happen this time though, even if it wasn't what I expected or even something I can explain. We still didn't have sex, and yet we still blew each other's minds nonetheless which at this point and with this man, is not surprising.
(This feeling is at least mutual, and I know this because Alex sent me a message days later saying his mind was blown, and expressing amazement at just how good his time with me was. I'm not sure whether to be pleased with myself or insulted that he's amazed.)
What happened this time was a realization and unwilling comparison. I'd just spent a few hours in the company of a really hot firefighter, whom I know loves his wife despite whatever shenanigans he engages in with me. Trust me, it's complicated.
I've seen him kiss her, and seeing that has always hurt my heart a little. He doesn't kiss me that way, and nobody ever has. Whenever I've seen that I've wondered what it would be like to be the girl who's kissed that way.
With Alex I'm that girl. Let's be clear. The firefighter is very good at what he does when he's with me. His technical performance is beyond reproach. In fact, I'd consider him a national treasure and gift that should be shared with more of the female population because...well...damn.
He's good is what I'm saying. Very, very good. The Russian judges would give a 10 for technical merit but the judges from France would only give 8.5 because there's no heart. There's no feeling.
With Alex there's feeling. Whatever is missing with anybody else is there with him. And therein lies the problem. Alex is not here for me. Not geographically, not physically, not emotionally, and I need to either be where he is and face the distinct possibility that even if we shared a fence line it wouldn't work out, or be where I am and be with somebody else.
Three years of unrequited love, turning 34 and realizing that this love is not fading maxed my stupidity quota for that weekend and proved I know less now than what I did last year and the year before that.
My early morning conference meant I had to kick Alex out of my bed before 7:00 a.m. and once again we couldn't spend a whole day together.
Kicking him out of my car moments later because I had to be at a stupid networking breakfast starting ten minutes earlier meant I was eventually sitting in a conference hall wearing a sticky name-tag with my eyes red from crying.
I had no choice but take my sun glasses off when an extremely well-dressed older woman came over to sit with the loner picking at her breakfast danish. As soon as she saw my eyes she said how awful allergies are this time of year, and she has just the thing to fix me up in her purse.
Great, I thought. Just what I need is a dose of Benadryl from this lady's purse after a night spent not sleeping and smiling in the darkness as Alex alternated between stealing the blankets and snoring in my ear, and me refusing to sleep so I wouldn't miss a moment of it. At this rate I would be drooling through the key-note.
Instead the woman pulled out three drink tickets and put them in front of me. There was a reception later on as part of the conference, and she wasn't going. If I was going, she wanted me to have her drink tickets. She's always found her allergies clear right up after a few.
I'm not any wiser than I was at any other age, but at least this woman gave me hope. She obviously became very wise in her years ahead of me.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Nine to Five
The question I'm asked most often by my seven or so dedicated Bambi readers is why I don't post more often. Actually, that's not true. The questions I'm asked most often are in fact, a)When are you coming over? b)When you come over, can you bring wine? and c) You know it's not a good idea to keep seeing that guy...right? To be fair, that last one is really more of a statement, and definitely rhetorical in nature.
After all of that is said and done, I'm usually asked why in the hell it's taken me so long to post anything new. There is an explanation for this phenomenon, and I wish I could say it's because my time has been occupied by much better causes like my dedicated volunteer work with Pool Boys for Puppies or Women Against Bedazzled Vaginas, but I can't. I can't even say these charitable causes currently exist, but perhaps when I'm able to blog as often as I like I can start grassroots movements I'm passionate about.
Also, if you weren't aware there are women out there who bedazzle their vaginas, there are. I'm not certain which of the four horesmen of the Apocalypse bedazzled vaginas represents, but there you have it.
What usually prevents me from writing anything new is actually stress, and lately stress has been preventing me from a lot of activities I would normally perform on a regular basis. Important ones like breathing, and knowing when to stop shovelling dessert into my face.
I try very hard not to write about work, but to not say anything at all about it seems disingenuous at this point. It may be shocking for anybody who only knows me from my blog that I have a career. Long-time readers of this blog would probably be shocked to learn I manage to put my underpants on the right way on the first try, nearly half of the time.
Lately though, my career is in serious jeopardy. My company is being "streamlined." This is what the consultants who've been hired to escort former staff members from their offices to their cars and then off of the company property call the process.
There usually isn't any warning, but I have heard a few times that employees who were let go did receive some hints they should start looking for a cardboard box to pack up their belongings.
On at least one occasion, a staffer on the chopping block received an auto-generated email notice alerting him that his contact details had been removed from the internal distribution list, hours before he was actually called to the HR office and officially told his position had been eliminated.
So far, there hasn't been any way to predict who might be leaving. Purely by accident, I was standing nearby and overheard a discussion amongst key decision makers in the "streamlining" process. They had printed out the company phone list and were trailing their fingers down the alphabetized names asking, "Who is this person again?" and "What does she do?" followed by, "Is that important?"
Abject terror that the axe will swing my way, causing me to lose my home, much needed medical benefits and everything I've worked for to this point would be bad enough, given my rather limited options in this stunted economy. My voice would be much too snarky for either phone sex or fast food drive throughs, and I'm way too pudgy for porn. Basically, I'm totally screwed.
I'm used to random panic. I've written about my rather unique anxiety disorder on this blog, and I admit I'm the worst kind of hypochondriac. Just this morning I convinced myself that the sudden pain in my head and strong smell of toast were sure signs of an oncoming stroke, even though I was eating toast at the time.
The point is, I'm very good at freaking the fuck out for very little reason, but what happens when I have reason?
I spent an hour sitting opposite the vice-president of my company this morning, having a strip surgically removed from my side. The vice-president shared that the president of the company is not happy with me. Is in fact, "livid" with me. Has been for weeks.
Apparently the president thought I did a very poor job of planning a recent event. I made a point of asking how the president could be angry with my work on this recent event when the president hadn't bothered to attend.
This is the point where I begin to question my sanity in 5...4...3...2...
The vice-president said the president said he was there. For the record, the vice-president was also unable to attend, so had to rely on the president for feedback, and I swear on everything holy up to and including Bernard Callebaut chocolate drizzled on a hot naked firefighter that the goddamned president did not attend.
It was a small venue, with a crowd of less than 50 people. I was looking for the president the entire time, as I had several people wanting an introduction. Granted, I didn't look under the tables or check the mens bathroom, but if he was there I would have seen him. And so I reiterated. The president was not there. The VP reiterated that the president said he was. I said that can't be. Then my head exploded.
I'm concerned my company has grown tired of paying severance packages and is going a different route. Employees will now be fired for a combination of simple errors stemming from mind-numbing overwork (after all, the tasks associated with all those eliminated positions have to be picked up somewhere), and failing that, they'll just make shit up to get staff off the payroll.
Hours I could be spending writing are now used fruitlessly searching for job openings. The rest of my time is spent weeping in the fetal position and wondering how much money I can get if I sold one of my eggs. Maybe an ovary? It's not like I'm using any of them.
After all of that is said and done, I'm usually asked why in the hell it's taken me so long to post anything new. There is an explanation for this phenomenon, and I wish I could say it's because my time has been occupied by much better causes like my dedicated volunteer work with Pool Boys for Puppies or Women Against Bedazzled Vaginas, but I can't. I can't even say these charitable causes currently exist, but perhaps when I'm able to blog as often as I like I can start grassroots movements I'm passionate about.
Also, if you weren't aware there are women out there who bedazzle their vaginas, there are. I'm not certain which of the four horesmen of the Apocalypse bedazzled vaginas represents, but there you have it.
What usually prevents me from writing anything new is actually stress, and lately stress has been preventing me from a lot of activities I would normally perform on a regular basis. Important ones like breathing, and knowing when to stop shovelling dessert into my face.
I try very hard not to write about work, but to not say anything at all about it seems disingenuous at this point. It may be shocking for anybody who only knows me from my blog that I have a career. Long-time readers of this blog would probably be shocked to learn I manage to put my underpants on the right way on the first try, nearly half of the time.
Lately though, my career is in serious jeopardy. My company is being "streamlined." This is what the consultants who've been hired to escort former staff members from their offices to their cars and then off of the company property call the process.
There usually isn't any warning, but I have heard a few times that employees who were let go did receive some hints they should start looking for a cardboard box to pack up their belongings.
On at least one occasion, a staffer on the chopping block received an auto-generated email notice alerting him that his contact details had been removed from the internal distribution list, hours before he was actually called to the HR office and officially told his position had been eliminated.
So far, there hasn't been any way to predict who might be leaving. Purely by accident, I was standing nearby and overheard a discussion amongst key decision makers in the "streamlining" process. They had printed out the company phone list and were trailing their fingers down the alphabetized names asking, "Who is this person again?" and "What does she do?" followed by, "Is that important?"
Abject terror that the axe will swing my way, causing me to lose my home, much needed medical benefits and everything I've worked for to this point would be bad enough, given my rather limited options in this stunted economy. My voice would be much too snarky for either phone sex or fast food drive throughs, and I'm way too pudgy for porn. Basically, I'm totally screwed.
I'm used to random panic. I've written about my rather unique anxiety disorder on this blog, and I admit I'm the worst kind of hypochondriac. Just this morning I convinced myself that the sudden pain in my head and strong smell of toast were sure signs of an oncoming stroke, even though I was eating toast at the time.
The point is, I'm very good at freaking the fuck out for very little reason, but what happens when I have reason?
I spent an hour sitting opposite the vice-president of my company this morning, having a strip surgically removed from my side. The vice-president shared that the president of the company is not happy with me. Is in fact, "livid" with me. Has been for weeks.
Apparently the president thought I did a very poor job of planning a recent event. I made a point of asking how the president could be angry with my work on this recent event when the president hadn't bothered to attend.
This is the point where I begin to question my sanity in 5...4...3...2...
The vice-president said the president said he was there. For the record, the vice-president was also unable to attend, so had to rely on the president for feedback, and I swear on everything holy up to and including Bernard Callebaut chocolate drizzled on a hot naked firefighter that the goddamned president did not attend.
It was a small venue, with a crowd of less than 50 people. I was looking for the president the entire time, as I had several people wanting an introduction. Granted, I didn't look under the tables or check the mens bathroom, but if he was there I would have seen him. And so I reiterated. The president was not there. The VP reiterated that the president said he was. I said that can't be. Then my head exploded.
I'm concerned my company has grown tired of paying severance packages and is going a different route. Employees will now be fired for a combination of simple errors stemming from mind-numbing overwork (after all, the tasks associated with all those eliminated positions have to be picked up somewhere), and failing that, they'll just make shit up to get staff off the payroll.
Hours I could be spending writing are now used fruitlessly searching for job openings. The rest of my time is spent weeping in the fetal position and wondering how much money I can get if I sold one of my eggs. Maybe an ovary? It's not like I'm using any of them.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Seriously...don't tickle me.
I'm leaving for a mini-holiday in Banff to visit a great friend this long weekend, and I couldn't be more excited to drink and eat her and her lovely husband out of house and home for four days (Hi Heidi! I apologize in advance for any damage to your property! Please send me an itemized invoice upon my return to the island.)
Since moving to Banff, my friends have taken up all kinds of extreme outdoor pursuits such as snowshoeing, hiking in areas without flush toilets, and leaving the house. While they're very excited about their new lifestyle, I'm excited just to know people who do things for fun that I would only consider doing as part of a desperate attempt to survive following some sort of horrible apres ski chalet collapse. I'm open to the idea of trying anything this weekend though, because I will most likely be drunk.
I've been trying many new exciting things lately while sober too, and the results have not been stellar. My list of things I'm getting really, really tired of hearing has expanded lately, with several friends telling me (more than once)that I should probably think about lowering my standards with regards to dating.
Initially I felt that if I lowered my standards any more I'd be trying to show off my cleavage while still dressing for the cold in the local morgue, because a steady pulse rate has really been the only requirement I've refused to compromise. After more careful consideration though, I thought that maybe my friends might have a point.
Despite my love for firefighters and all men with demonstrably more testosterone than brains, what I'm looking for is actually more nuanced than that. I would like to find a man who I consider to be attractive, who is intelligent and kind, and who makes me laugh. For anything to work out, he would also have to think that I am the fucking rapture. It's actually not a long list of must-haves, but I realized that perhaps I'd have to be more flexible in at least one area.
For example, the men I find most attractive don't often feel the same way about me. After extensive research, and by research I mean waiting to see who replies to my profile on Plenty of Fish, I've discovered that the segment of the male population most interested in meeting me are the short, bald, and egg-shaped contingent.
It's easy to understand how my thinking may change when told enough times that what I'm looking for is just unrealistic. When I used to watch Seinfeld I would marvel at the idea that a guy like George Costanza was always dating hot women. Now I understand that those women likely had friends telling them they should probably give their previously higher standards a bit of a rest.
Perhaps by only pursuing men I might one day want to see naked in this lifetime, I was really setting my standards too high. The little bald guy with dandruff on his bare head and boobs bigger than mine wearing a stained Star Trek t-shirt two sizes too small may actually be a diamond in the rough. Surrounded by tonnes of coal. Buried deep, deep within a yet undiscovered mine, but a diamond nonetheless. He may treat me well. He may be fabulously wealthy. He may look the other way when I hump the pool boy's leg in some future fit of unrequited lust. Who am I to judge based solely on appearances?
Lately, I've been accepting dates with guys whose online pictures might once have made me cringe a little bit. If he seems to be a nice guy then I will give him a chance. This is how I found myself in a Starbucks last night, feigning interest in my date's story about how he never leaves the house without his inhaler, sunscreen and cough drops, because his throat and skin are very delicate. In his defense, he was quite pale and the comb over wouldn't do very much to protect his head from UV rays.
Finally, I had to interrupt to ask something important. While we had chatted on MSN for a little while before agreeing to meet, I only knew him by his screen name, and felt very foolish meeting somebody without knowing his actual name. I told him his screen name was very cute, but we should probably be properly introduced.
Apparently...the screen name he goes by is his real name. He was quite surprised and insulted I would imply otherwise, because his name is not that unusual. Even though I try very hard not to use real names in my little blog, I have to share this one with my six loyal readers.
People...his name was Elmo.
El. Mo.
Elmo.
Certainly, this isn't unusual at all. I've met so many people named after a fire-engine red giggling muppet that I can't even recollect them all. And this was the moment I had an epiphany.
I am a shallow, shallow bitch. I really am. Let's set aside the fact that this guy wouldn't make my lady parts quiver if his was the very last penis left on earth, and I won't even mention how he had these long yellow and curved thumb nails for some godforsaken reason that made me want to retch and let's ignore the fact that if I really truly have to lower my standards enough to spend one more second listening to the sound his tongue made every time he licked his lips and glanced at my tits I will commit flamboyant ritual suicide. Let's set all of that aside, because none of that matters.
I will NOT date somebody named Elmo. Apparently, I've found a low I will not sink to, and in doing so, I'm embracing my inner shallow bitch.
From now on, when I see my date I want my panties to fall off, my knees to go weak and my heart to flutter. I will wait for this, even if it means a lifetime spent with my only physical comfort coming from a well-stocked battery supply for my vibrator and whatever animals I eventually end up hoarding.
I deserve nothing less.
Since moving to Banff, my friends have taken up all kinds of extreme outdoor pursuits such as snowshoeing, hiking in areas without flush toilets, and leaving the house. While they're very excited about their new lifestyle, I'm excited just to know people who do things for fun that I would only consider doing as part of a desperate attempt to survive following some sort of horrible apres ski chalet collapse. I'm open to the idea of trying anything this weekend though, because I will most likely be drunk.
I've been trying many new exciting things lately while sober too, and the results have not been stellar. My list of things I'm getting really, really tired of hearing has expanded lately, with several friends telling me (more than once)that I should probably think about lowering my standards with regards to dating.
Initially I felt that if I lowered my standards any more I'd be trying to show off my cleavage while still dressing for the cold in the local morgue, because a steady pulse rate has really been the only requirement I've refused to compromise. After more careful consideration though, I thought that maybe my friends might have a point.
Despite my love for firefighters and all men with demonstrably more testosterone than brains, what I'm looking for is actually more nuanced than that. I would like to find a man who I consider to be attractive, who is intelligent and kind, and who makes me laugh. For anything to work out, he would also have to think that I am the fucking rapture. It's actually not a long list of must-haves, but I realized that perhaps I'd have to be more flexible in at least one area.
For example, the men I find most attractive don't often feel the same way about me. After extensive research, and by research I mean waiting to see who replies to my profile on Plenty of Fish, I've discovered that the segment of the male population most interested in meeting me are the short, bald, and egg-shaped contingent.
It's easy to understand how my thinking may change when told enough times that what I'm looking for is just unrealistic. When I used to watch Seinfeld I would marvel at the idea that a guy like George Costanza was always dating hot women. Now I understand that those women likely had friends telling them they should probably give their previously higher standards a bit of a rest.
Perhaps by only pursuing men I might one day want to see naked in this lifetime, I was really setting my standards too high. The little bald guy with dandruff on his bare head and boobs bigger than mine wearing a stained Star Trek t-shirt two sizes too small may actually be a diamond in the rough. Surrounded by tonnes of coal. Buried deep, deep within a yet undiscovered mine, but a diamond nonetheless. He may treat me well. He may be fabulously wealthy. He may look the other way when I hump the pool boy's leg in some future fit of unrequited lust. Who am I to judge based solely on appearances?
Lately, I've been accepting dates with guys whose online pictures might once have made me cringe a little bit. If he seems to be a nice guy then I will give him a chance. This is how I found myself in a Starbucks last night, feigning interest in my date's story about how he never leaves the house without his inhaler, sunscreen and cough drops, because his throat and skin are very delicate. In his defense, he was quite pale and the comb over wouldn't do very much to protect his head from UV rays.
Finally, I had to interrupt to ask something important. While we had chatted on MSN for a little while before agreeing to meet, I only knew him by his screen name, and felt very foolish meeting somebody without knowing his actual name. I told him his screen name was very cute, but we should probably be properly introduced.
Apparently...the screen name he goes by is his real name. He was quite surprised and insulted I would imply otherwise, because his name is not that unusual. Even though I try very hard not to use real names in my little blog, I have to share this one with my six loyal readers.
People...his name was Elmo.
El. Mo.
Elmo.
Certainly, this isn't unusual at all. I've met so many people named after a fire-engine red giggling muppet that I can't even recollect them all. And this was the moment I had an epiphany.
I am a shallow, shallow bitch. I really am. Let's set aside the fact that this guy wouldn't make my lady parts quiver if his was the very last penis left on earth, and I won't even mention how he had these long yellow and curved thumb nails for some godforsaken reason that made me want to retch and let's ignore the fact that if I really truly have to lower my standards enough to spend one more second listening to the sound his tongue made every time he licked his lips and glanced at my tits I will commit flamboyant ritual suicide. Let's set all of that aside, because none of that matters.
I will NOT date somebody named Elmo. Apparently, I've found a low I will not sink to, and in doing so, I'm embracing my inner shallow bitch.
From now on, when I see my date I want my panties to fall off, my knees to go weak and my heart to flutter. I will wait for this, even if it means a lifetime spent with my only physical comfort coming from a well-stocked battery supply for my vibrator and whatever animals I eventually end up hoarding.
I deserve nothing less.
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