Love...Not Actually

I think about you in the Fall. Always. Perhaps because that was the time when we first met and fell for one another. The crisp air, the crunch of fallen leaves underfoot, the smell of pies being baked… and I can almost hear your laughter. Feel your touch on my hand. I remember the way a breeze would come and ruffle your unruly bleached blonde hair and I would tuck myself into your chest because of the chill. I live in a place now that doesn’t really have Fall; I had to get away from all those thoughts of you. I remember the first time I knew I was in love with you. It was our second date - I don’t really believe in wasting time. Only we were broke and in undergrad, so it was not so much a date as it was hanging out in your friend’s dorm room. When I walked in you were playing guitar, the first few chords of Soul to Squeeze. I only mildly liked the song then; today it can break my heart to hear. We wound up sleeping on the floor there that night, completely wound and entangled in one another’s limbs. Nonchalant to the heartbreak the next 4 years would bring us. I also think of you on stormy summer nights. Especially during the ones where the rain comes down in sheets and the wind tears through everything in its path. Like the one that whipped around the car that night that you asked me to marry you. I told you no, and I still mean it when I say it was for your own good. I think you get that now. I’m still a mess, you’re still pretty perfect. I didn’t want you to have any regrets, and instead you are my biggest one. Every part of me wishes I didn’t want to protect you and had said yes.
I once told you to never tell me that you loved me; that I didn’t believe in saying it. It was simple enough to say, but actions always spoke louder than words. So you only told me twice. Once, while I was in the hospital and you prefaced it with an apology. “I’m sorry. I love you.” Another time, almost 2 years later. Curled into one another on a lazy Saturday morning, my head on your chest and you thought I was still asleep, you whispered it. I whispered it back. Now I wish I had shouted it from mountain tops and that you were here to whisper it to me every day.
I was your first. I wish I had been your last. I wish I had understood that not every man feels a primal urge to bed everything within 50 miles. Just the douchebags. Had I known that you wouldn’t have regretted me being the one and only, I wouldn’t have pressed so hard on you for me to not be. I wish I hadn’t laughed when you told me about finally sleeping with someone else. Mainly I laughed because you slept with my doppelganger. It was kind of a sign that you still loved me. I wish I had cried because apparently that was your sign that I cared. It was years later I would realize that I honestly didn’t care, as long as you came home to me. My ego laid down and died wherever you were concerned. You used to let me kiss you just to see how long I could. I once kissed you for two and half hours straight, and had chapped lips for a week after. The reality is that I could have kissed you until my dying breath and not missed a beat.
I moved 900 miles from you to try and forget you. But they had Fall in New England, too. Turns out they’re known for it and it made me miss you more. You used to call and tell me that no matter how far I ran I could never get away from myself. You weren’t wrong and I moved back a year later and promptly set up house with someone who was so reminiscent of you that my nephew kept calling him by your name. But he wasn’t you, so it didn’t last.
You congratulated me on the house I bought to renovate and restore, knowing it was exactly what I always wanted. But you would never mention the man I bought it with, to spend the rest of my life with. That’s ok, I try to not mention him too much either. I told you we were thinking of having our wedding in the backyard. You only said, ‘that’s very you.’ We obviously never did have that backyard wedding, mainly because he was never you. I don’t think anyone ever can be. I found out later you had bought an empty lot the next street over and right across from my house. Why?
I date ridiculously silly men now. There is never a chance that they will do something that reminds me of you. It also helps if they are totally inept in the kitchen because you really loved to be there. There is also never a chance that they will wake me in the middle of the night to feverishly discuss architecture into the wee hours. I gave that up after you, you should know that. A slide rule makes me want to sob, but I tell everyone it was because I didn’t want to finish my college career making models out of sticks.
For awhile I questioned if ‘The One’ would ever come along. Then I made excuses that there is no such thing. There are several in the world who could be right for you and other comforting nonsensical notions. Now I’ve decided that I should just go with someone to spend the rest of my days with because I obviously already had ‘The One’. I don’t know if I was that to you as well, but I think maybe I was. Every woman you’ve dated after me is eerily like me. Just perhaps, not as crazy. And really? Where is the fun in that.

Dear Purina..

...thanks for the guilt trip.

This lovely and wonderful picture was on one of the bags of cat food I brought home tonight. Notice I said one - as in I bought multiple bags. Because I did. Why? Because I have 4 cats. And 2 dogs. I am already 'hero' to 6 furry kids. But if Purina has their guilty way, there will be more. Jewish mothers everywhere see this ad and think to themselves, "Now that is how you do it! Nice!" ( I have a Jewish mother, I can make that joke...)

Eh. Go ahead with your guilt inducing advertisements. I'm already one bad relationship away from having 30 cats anyway...

UTI: A Tale of TMI

I've decided that a UTI is God's way of saying, 'Lay the fuck down and stay down.' However, courtesy of having to lay down and stay put, I've also decided that I should get married simply so that I have someone to take my dogs out to pee. And feed the cats. And yell at my hillbilly neighbors for being complete jackasses at 2 AM. Oh, how being stuck in bed makes you think...

I haven't had one of these puppies in ages, but back in the first years of my undergrad experience, like 12 years ago, I was Queen of the UTI. Seriously. It was every other week. Completely miserable. And there are stories. Everyone loves the one where I dragged a large black thug twice my size out of the mens' bathroom in the ER because I needed to go that badly. Or thought I did. And I did not know that the wonderful pills that take away the burning sensation but make your pee vibrantly orange were OTC. Never knew. Not until about 7 years ago when I was at the doctor's office and found myself crying & begging him to write me a prescription for - and I quote - 'the pills that my pee fluorescent. PLEEEEEAAAAAASEEEEE.'He snickered as he wrote it, all the while telling me they were available OTC. I hated him/wanted to have his babies right then. But way back when, for the life of me - I could never figure out what was wrong. I'm known for my OCD personal hygiene. Being a grown ass woman, I also knew the correct direction to wipe in. But I had these things incessantly. And my college boyfriend, otherwise known as possibly my favoritest boyfriend ever who I did not appreciate nearly enough at the time, was made to suffer these with me. And normally I would eschew his boundaries on privacy and totally link you to his Facebook page so that you could see what a freakishly handsome and brilliant man he is, but today I think I'll play nice in honor of all the back rubbing that sweet boy once did for me. So - I say made, but really it was more like I left him with no other option. He could take me to the doctor's office and the pharmacy and rub my back, etc. or he could let me lay on the bathroom floor crying and making sounds like a dying walrus. Correction - a dying walrus in heat. And we lived that crazy cycle for ages thinking ... I don't know what. At one point I was convinced it was completely psychosomatic behavior on the part of my vagina. Like my vagina was an entirely separate entity and she was somehow out to make my life miserable and sexless. That is until one day my doctor was really backed up and I had to see his Nurse Practitioner. I don't remember her name, but there is a shrine in her honor. Upon hearing that I suffered UTI's on a seemingly constant and continuous basis she asked me if they happened whenever my boyfriend was in town. And I was like, 'Lady, my boyfriend's always in town. He goes to college down the street.' She then tells me about the early days of her career when she volunteered at the student's medical center of whatever college she worked at and how after the weekends when everyone's boyfriends had been to visit all of the girls would be pretty much lined up around the corner with UTI's. And I ask her, 'This means what to me? Can you please just give me the pills that cause my pee to fluoresce?' What it meant to me was, did I ever get out of bed after sex to pee? I answered something to the effect of,'Eventually, but I'm kind of a guy. I generally roll over and go to sleep.' That it turned out was my problem. I was in awe. And bewilderment. And kind of pissed. I exited to the waiting room and gave my poor boyfriend a scowl that implied this was all the fault of him and his stupid penis. And I tell him what the apparent cause was. Sex became the most decidedly unromantic act after that. Well, after sex was. It was pretty much, "Done. Go pee! Pee now!!!" Screw cuddling, I had a man who was a Fixer and he was never hearing dying walrus in heat sounds again. Sometimes, I still want to send him a card that says, "Thanks for the years of always making me pee RIGHT AFTER sex. I haven't had anyone as thoughtful since."

Naked: A Cautionary tale

Eventually I'll get back to writing regularly again. I really and truly believe that. Right now I'm acclimating to having finished school and actually having spare time. What is there to adjust to with having spare time again, you ask? Well, it involves a lot of sleeping in and floating on a thingy in the pool. Hard work I tell you. It's very tough to get to used to and I have to hold myself back from typical Type A behavior. But, I have a story! And it involves nudity, so how is that ever a bad thing?

Shortly after I moved into my new apartment, on a Friday morning, I went to take my girls out for their walk and there is a note on my door. I assumed it would be about my girls having a barkfest, but no. It was about my breasts. In case you are not aware, I have a lack of modesty that has gone on for oh, my entire life. This is vital to know about me as it prefaces a great many of the family stories about me. I think my parents saw this sort of thing coming when I was 5 and dropped my towel in front of 2 of my brother's very religious 10 year friends. In response to their gaping, I asked, 'What's the matter? It's just a body.' Yep. Sign of things to come.

I mostly assumed that since I live on the third floor and that there is a very large tree outside of my apartment, no one could see me not really bothering to put on clothes. I live by myself; clothing is unnecessary. I am an idiot. Of the flaming variety. So, I find the note and basically it says, 'Hey, thanks for your lack of modesty and all your naked time. You have a very perfect rack.' And I laughed, a lot. Right? Because there is a little bit of awesomeness to that. What woman does not like to be told she has perfect boobs? Especially when they're real! Come on. Then I was briefly mortified because wait! Someone was looking at my boobs and they didn't buy me dinner first! Or at the least an ice cream cone. All that went away when I realized that crap, I have a peeping Tom. And that is kind of creepy. Except not kind of, it's just creepy. I bought very long curtains that same night from IKEA, but didn't immediately get around to putting them up.

A couple of nights later, my neighbor directly across from me was yelling to me from his balcony. Very Romeo & Juliet, but without all that pesky romance. I was in my bedroom playing on my laptop, very late at night, and this dude is yelling at me. But I have no idea where from. I hear someone yelling, "What kind of dog is that?" And I look all around like, "God? Is that you? You're God, surely you know what kind of dog she is." And he yells back, "Yes. You. Come out here." So I go out on my balcony and we proceed to have a yelling conversation, which I am certain pleased all of our neighbors. We talked about my dog. He feels that I am much prettier than the last person to live here. It was a strange conversation and I suspect fueled on his end by the majority of a case of beer. I felt that my question of who could have possibly written the note about the affection for my rack may have been answered and that shit - that tree is not nearly as big as I thought.

The curtains went up the next morning, by the way....

Intrepid Honesty

I have always been very honest and very candid about my rape, sometimes more than people would like. In my openess about the feelings I (still) experience, the effects it's had on my life and how I generally feel it has made me a better & stronger person, I never talk about what happened that night; what was done to me. I've given whole speeches and written pieces about rape and it's effects and how to come back from it. I never give the gorey details. I often feel like it may detract from the outcome that could be had and the silver lining that can be found in that one cloud of indispicable violence. The truth, the very real and very honest truth, is that if I think or talk about what those 2 men did to me, I feel like I will die. Or never stop throwing up. I once had a therapist who believed very much that if I spoke about what they did, I would somehow, magically, regain my 'power'. So, I told her. And it felt like I had the fire of hell in my veins. I wanted to die. She wanted me to tell someone else. I suppose to get the hang of it? To further humiliation? I've never been certain. I did not want to put either of my parents through that; I've never felt like they needed to have those mental images in their minds. Same for my brother. My boyfriend seemed fitting. He stood by me through so much and always held my hand. He was the least judgemental person I knew. I knew this would just be nothing to him. I was slightly wrong. My boyfriend, the hardened cynic, the ex junkie punk rock drummer, was so beside himself that he did nothing but throw up and cry. I have never been able to imagine what went through his mind when he heard what I was put through. I've never wanted to put another person through that. So, I am always mum on the horrors of that night.

Lately, I've wondered if that is the right thing to do.

It is human nature to hear tales of woe and horror and righteously think, 'Well, that would never be me.' I don't blame people who take that stance. You learn not to in my shoes. You adjust not to people wanting to be naive, but to them really wanting to believe that nothing that horrible could ever touch their lives. I know. I used to be one of them. In January, someone I love so dearly and with every ounce of my being was raped. She has spent the duration of our time as siblings knowing what happened to me and witnessed the aftermath of the actions of those men. But I blame myself for what happened to her. Not her, not the jackass who did it. This is not me having a pity party; this is me wondering if I had really laid it out for her, would she ever have gone there that night? Had I told her openly and honestly of a night that culminated in blood and bruises and my eventual lack of faith in the human race, would she have made the choice she made? If she had ever seen anything other than her big sister put a positive spin on a night of terror, would she have been more cautious? Will it help anything in this world if I tell others what happened to me that night? Not just the part where I made it out alive and made something really terrible into something really positive, but the part where I was left for dead? How do I make this hit home for everyone, not just those in my life who know me so well that they can still see the missing pieces in me? That all it takes is one instance of mislaid trust for your world to tumble around your ankles?

How do I get people to see that without handing over one of the most secret parts of me?

Ghosts of Girlfriends Past

I think it's common knowledge men don't really like to talk about past relationships. I'm not entirely certain what they're thinking about this - I don't have a penis, therefore I draw no conclusions. Perhaps they think jealous frenzies will occur or that we are looking for dirt, something to hold against them in a future battle of wills. We are after all, according to Dane Cook, brain ninjas. My reasoning is so much simpler than all that... I want to know where you've been to see what you've learned. The past is the past. More than likely you aren't that person any longer. I know I'm not even the same girl I was last week. My point is though that you do that funny thing you do in bed because of a previous girlfriend. I don't take it up the ass because of Mr. X. Because really? I did that already for years. I may still have some bitterness towards the man, but I learned a lot of lessons and those lessons will directly affect any realtionship I have. I don't mean that I have 'trust issues' because dude was a lying jackass. That seems unwarranted to take out on another human being. Any trust issues I have with that person should stay solely with that person. Will I ever blatantly ignore obvious signs of things that do not need to be swept under a rug? No. Have I learned to ask the seemingly stupid question? Yes.
So when I ask about the ex, I' m not looking for gory details. I'm looking for the story behind the gory details. The why of it all. I know one previous person I went out with broke up with someone after 7 seven years. Why? Because he was bored. Now I'm betting there is more to it than that, I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt. But truly, the moment I heard that I thought to myself, 'Self. Now would be a good time to run. This is not going to end well.' Sidenote: I totally need to listen to my inside voice more because it was totally right. That moment that he told me he ended it because of boredom I kind of wanted to hit him with a wiffle ball bat dosed with reality. I doubt with great seriousness that I am any more realistic than the next woman, but I know that certain things happen in relationships. One of them is boredom. You ride it out. I knew in the brief second time span that it took him to say the word 'boredom', that this was not a man who saw things out, and I know that that is something I want in another person.
Next time a date, a potential significant other, asks about the ex - please don't assume we're insane. Some of us are, yes. I concur. Some of us, however, are simply deciding if we'd like to put forth the effort to be your brain ninja for life.

The Visionary Vagina

Today a woman from a doctor's office came into my work place to do some cross marketing. What kind of doctor you ask? Why a cosmetic gynecologist, of course. This is my life we're talking about and only the most ridiculous things can happen to me. So, yes. Plastic surgery for your vajayjay. Labia lift anyone? We are truly people who fix anything we can in this western culture of ours. So, anyway, in addition to those wacky things she also offers something called a g-shot. This is a shot of collagen into your g-spot to make it more, um, noticeable? More easily found & used. Target acquired, mission accomplished. Which the theory sounds great, but I'd really hate a needle there. Plus, if I ever got that done I think I would just spend my days driving over speed bumps and cheering. I would never accomplish anything other than orgasm ever again. I'm actually okay with that part. And no, as this poor woman is explaining all of the procedures to me I absolutely could not keep a straight face. But the best part was that in addition to the brochures & business cards she gave to me there was a word search game. YAY! I love those. So, if you were the first person to finish it and fax it in, the doctor would buy you lunch. Even better, right? It turns out that all the words on the list are something to do with cosmetic procedures of the vag. Sadly, I am bored so I have made pretty quick work of it, except that I cannot find 'vagina' anywhere.

You guessed it, I have actually spent all day at work looking for pussy.

BBQ Dog

Both of my dogs have smelled something less than desirable as of late, but I have no time to bathe them right now. Also? It should mean something when I say that the cats are easier to bathe than the dogs. Insanity & days of them being pathetic will ensue. But Sarah smelled very badly of corn chips. I don't why she does, I refuse to feed her Fritos. But she has that smell. Frito Paws. Corn Chips Mahone. These are the nicknames I give her. No wonder she needs therapy.
In an effort to quickly make the smell subside I decided to just wipe her down with the doggy wipes I have. They have a watermelon smell. Do you see what is coming? She now smells like an afternoon picnic. A Southern one. Corn chips & watermelon...
She is now dubbed BBQ Dog.

The Mom

I could give you a million reasons why I love my mother, but the most evident of them all was waiting for me in my e-mail this morning.

For whatever reason, my ex had been on mind. This is not always delightful, but most times is cathartic. When we began, we were friends. Amazing friends. He also held my hand through a tremendous amount of healing. I will always have respect for him for that, it could not have been easy sometimes. So, in the beginning there was a great love. We kept that for awhile, luckier than most. What I did not know at the time was that he was so incredibly patient and able to deal with these things because he had a slight heroin addiction. Ah. That explains it. After this came to light and we went through him getting clean, our relationship went very noticeably downhill and he became someone who I cannot even begin to comprehend. Some people just are not nice when sober. Simply put, things were not good and our end was disastrous, messy and involved a lovely hospital stay for me. So, when I say that he has been on my mind I generally mean the really good guy from before, not the crazed drug addled lunatic.

I understand that when my mother hears me say, 'I've been thinking about X. I don't know why', she must want to hurt someone, something, somewhere. It's a mother's instinct. But she handles these things with grace and humor and her response to my comment was this.

"You're thinking of X?? Why? You in the mood for some more emotional/mental/physical abuse and general knocking around? I can hire someone for that....."

You know that you are truly loved when your mother is willing to hire someone to beat you down in a dark alley to give you a reminder.

Better Late Than....

I would like to congratulate myself - I think I have done a bang up job with my continuous flow of blogging. Excellent, I say. I am right where I was aiming for, getting back into writing and all of that rot. What is that? I only have 3 previous posts? Yes. I get that. And unfortunately, it is difficult to express facetiousness through writing. Turns out, I write a lot, little scraps of paper everywhere. EVERYWHERE. But it takes time and effort to actually put it in a blog. It also takes a not so lazy person. Or perhaps, one not in school and working. One that has free time....

So, we have passed the New Year, and mine was uneventful. Full of those promises one always makes to themselves. I'll eat more healthy food, I'll drop 10 pounds, I'll be more positive... Resolutions we call them. And generally, I'm all against them. Except this year. This year I think probably really needs some changes. I eat pretty healthy already, especially if you are willing to concede that pizza is a food group all of it's own. I need to lose 10 pounds like I need a hole in my head. But that more positive thing... I think that could use some work. Which is odd. I have always been very upbeat and a find the silver lining kinda girl - but I realize that maybe the past couple of years have taken their toll. I am perhaps more cynical than I ever expected to be and we all know that humor is my weapon of choice. Lately, it has been more of a wall to hide behind. What is that about? I will say that the last 3 months or so of 2008 really kicked my ass. And to all of those who patiently stood by holding my hand or waiting for me to retract my fangs - I say thank you. I had no idea I was being such a bitch. NONE. WHAT. SO. EVER. Not until school started back and I greeted everyone with tackling bear hugs. I heard one right after another say, 'It's good to have our old Cat back'. And did I ever feel sheepish. So yes, my aim is definitely to be a more positive person. I will still do whatever it takes to get the laughs though.

My other goal is a daunting one. One that makes my knees tremble and my breath come short and fast. I have decided to date. I twitch at the mere idea. Notably, it has been more than 3 years since my last serious relationship. Otherwise known as the last time I voluntarily did laundry for a man and called it love. And I admit, Holy Christ help me, I posted on Match. I make fun of the commercials, so I can't believe I just admitted that. I have done it before though, with no luck at all. Unless you count crazy men coming out of the woodwork for me. And what is it with thug wannabe's, men with tattoos on their necks, and very round men all loving me? I would blame online dating, but these are also the only men who ever have the balls to hit on me when I'm out. So this time, I got really specific in my little posting. I even came across as um, well kind of a bitch. And I just hit that gross men contacting me thing right then and there. I think I was fairly succinct when I said that I put an effort into taking care of myself, I would expect someone who wants to date me to do the same. Even pointing out that if you are overweight or gross by any means, I will not respond to you. Elitist, I know, but I thought it would sort the weeds out. I would be wrong. So, I suppose I may have to brave the wild blue yonder, otherwise known as the public. Crap. But in the spirit of online dating, I did find an old blog I had written on the subject and was surprised to see that it still kinda held true for me.

Recently it was suggested to me that I try the online personals approach to dating. Personally, I feel that I have no luck dating the men I meet live & up front, why would I have more luck online? For one thing, it's not like anyone tells the truth. If a guy says he's 5'10", you can be garanteed he will be 5'3". Being the Amazon that I am, I cannot take those risks with height. (Yes, I am shallow.) I think the best approach to online personals should be the same as my approach to everything: TOTAL HONESTY. This is most commonly known amongst my friends & loved ones as "My foot is so far in my mouth that my toes dangle out of my ass." See, with the total honesty approach you can forego all that nasty wooing that leaves people with a total misconception of who you really are and that wonderful sublime feeling one gets with the flush of new love. Here would be mine:

You must be sane & rational because I am not. At least not all the time. Once a month, I have mood swings like every 5 minutes and sometimes it will happen because you breathe in the wrong direction. I have issues with authority. Mainly, because I seem to think I am the authority and there are those that disagree with this. I burp in public. And when I say burp I mean like a burly 40 year old man drinking too much beer and watching football. I say I like sports, but really? I like shopping more. I think it is perfectly acceptable for me to own 25 pairs of black high heels. I think I may be a little pretentious because I actually enjoy classical music. This is balanced out by my "secret" love of Britney Spears. I have a bad sense of humor, it doesn't seem to be going anywhere and it is the way I cope. This will be particularly embarrassing to you at funerals. I make lewd jokes at tragedies. The glitch is I don't know what to say when a lewd tragedy befalls me. And they have. I am not pretty in the morning and I know this, so don't lie to me to get to have morning sex. I'll do that anyway. My biological clock hits me over the head & demands to be paid attention to. I am not good with children, but I want them anyway. I am also bad at dealing with bodily fluids, and I hear a lot of those happen with kids. You figure out where that may leave you. Really, my only great point is that I won't try to change you. I've been that girl before and it was stupid. This also means, I won't change for you, so don't try.

And with that, I bid adieu...