No Weddings and A Funeral

Basically you're saying marriage is just a way of getting out of an embarrassing pause in conversation? - Four Weddings and a Funeral

I was supposed to get married today.

That's what has been on my mind this entire morning. I was getting my morning coffee and kept thinking to myself, 'What would I be doing right now if I was still getting married?' In all honesty, I'd probably be having a panic attack. I can absolutely see my father trying to talk sense into to me through a bathroom door and explaining how he spent a LOT of money on beer, could I come out please and thank you? But from the moment I called off the wedding and the relationship, I've done nothing but breathe a sigh of relief. And contemplate that I may have serious commitment issues, but that's another blog all together. I've also spent a lot of that time wondering what on Earth was I thinking and how can I avoid repeating that mistake. Also? What actually constitutes love and a healthy romantic relationship? There are so many levels of this tale and it's impact on my life, that I think it fries my brain to really ponder it for any length of time.

We had a whirlwind romance. In fact, whirlwind may be downplaying it. I am actually really embarrassed by that fact. I threw ration out the window when I met him and I cannot figure out why. I didn't agree to marry the love of my life - a man I spent over 4 years with and who knew me like the back of his hand- but I accepted a proposal that came after (gulp,cringe) a month of dating? That is nothing but insanity. His name is Chris, but I don't actually call him that. It seems a disservice to LOL, whose name is also Chris. My friends and I now refer to him as Evil Chris or Douche Nozzle. This wasn't someone I was wildly physically attracted to – he was ok looking and shorter than me. My height rule may be a shallow one, but I'm never breaking it again. Was he charming? Oh but yes. Perhaps too charming and that should have sent off warning bells. But is charm and charisma enough to have momentarily turned my brain to mush? Possibly. He purported to be a Buddhist and was someone who seemed to have genuinely overcome much adversity in life. There is nothing that I admire more than a person who kicks back when the chips are down. He was incredibly kind and gentle and reminded me very much of my brother. Considering that my brother is my rock of Gibraltar, a guy like him seemed a good idea. He also took being romantic to a whole new low. I'm fairly certain the environment suffered serious damage from the amount of flowers I received and my friends repeatedly begged that he stop being so mushy on my Facebook page. I'm not actually a girl who swoons over sweet sentiment and romantic gestures. I used to not allow 'I love you' to even be said. I'm not certain why I'm wired that way, but I really need to see a person back their talk up. Talk is cheap and easy. Action isn't so much. And perhaps that is where the first inclination to pull back the curtain and find out who the wizard really was came from. Of course, by the time my brain turned back on and I thought to do such a thing, I was already engaged.

I can't say specifically when a warning bell first sounded in my head. If I'm as honest with the rest of the world as I have been with my mother, I'll tell you that it was in the first week of dating. I thought that he was just too much. Too into me and it scared me. Or something scared me. But then I thought that I must obviously have a fear of nice guys and that was what all the chattering in my head was. So, I didn't call anything off and I turned off my inner cynic and just went with it. My inner cynic is obviously there for a reason and I don't think I will ever doubt that voice again. Within a month I was engaged and within two we moved in together. I knew I had lost my mind the first week we were living together. However, I don't think I would have learned any of things about him that I did had we not moved in together. That's the thing about pathologically lying con artists. You have to get really, really close so that you can find a string to pull and watch everything unravel. One the bits that galls me the most however, is that he knew my father was a grifter and a con artist. Not only did he continue to do the same thing as my father, it really pisses me off that I didn't catch on sooner. Once we moved in together though, he couldn't manage to keep up with his lies. I was straightening out paperwork in our office when I came across items that directly conflicted what he had told me of his military career and college education. Things unraveled quickly from there. I would begin to challenge his stories and ask too many questions. Questions he never answered well. Money… oh, there were issues. I've been sucked dry of the savings I had. I couldn't bear to confront him. I smiled politely and proceeded with wedding planning. I felt so foolish about the relationship and the wedding that I just kept putting up a brave front. I didn't tell anyone what I was finding out about him. My mother noticed that I seemed miserable and that I didn't have any of my previous enthusiasm about the wedding planning. I'm a broad who loves to plan and I intend to leave this world a really pretty and well matched place when I leave it. I was suddenly planning my wedding as though I had resigned myself to a fate in front of a firing squad. Then what I thought was the worst thing that could happen to me, did. I found out I was pregnant. For various reasons, we (my family and those very close to me) have never even been certain that I would be able to conceive or have kids. I was terrified. Here was the one thing I had secretly always wanted and it was happening in the middle of an emotional shit storm. That was not the happy day I had always envisioned. You know the scene in 'Knocked Up' where Katherine Heigl's character pees on about 2,000 pregnancy tests? That was me. I just kept crying and peeing on sticks. I was completely unable to process what would have been completely happy news in any other circumstance. When I told my mother, I broke down crying. She was so incredibly happy and for a moment thought I was crying out of happiness. Oh but no. I still could not tell her my misgivings about my relationship, impending nuptials and the fledgling life inside of me. It did not take long though. After a lot of thought, I came to the conclusion that I simply could not continue to put up with a facet of my life being built totally upon lies. And that I would not -could not- bring a child into this world and raise it anywhere near what I had had to grow up with. It wasn't fair to anyone, but that child deserved it less than anything. I began to let my mother and close friends in on what I had been discovering about Chris, but I still had no idea of what to do. I had tossed aside all wedding plans under the guise that I did not want to have wedding while simultaneously looking as though I could play the role of Moby Dick to perfection. I put him off about having a simple civil ceremony. I spent far less time at home and essentially refused to even let him touch me. My mother has this innate and strange sixth sense about me. It's not even a sense. It's like she is IN my head. IN IT. She doesn't just finish my sentences; she gauges from one look everything that is going on in my brain and then can give you a synopsis. Good mothering or an eerie amount of co-dependency? We've never been able to decide. So at this point in the shitstorm I called a relationship, my mother knows that everything is wrong and says the magical sentence that ended everything –

"Just because you're pregnant, doesn't mean you have to marry him."

I cried from relief and 5 minutes after she said those words, I sent Douche Nozzle a text message telling him to move out of our apartment.

Barely 2 weeks later, I had a miscarriage. I have few words that I can muster for that. Terrible. Soul crushing. Those are the words that come to mind. If I think about it for more than 2 minutes at a time, I do the heaving sobbing girl thing and I'm not good at that. I know that things happen for a reason and that it was not meant to be. On the surface I've been very logical and perhaps too detached when it ever mentioned. I couldn't fathom having any semblance of a connection to that asshat, but I've always wanted to be a Mom. Obviously, after this I let this natural disaster of a man whip through my life, I feel very little inclination to ever have a romantic relationship again. When I say very little, I mean none. Partially it's fear, but a lot of me wonders if all of this happened because some sick co-dependent need kicked into gear or something. With all of that I have come to the conclusion that motherhood may not be in my cards.

After all of this, I just try to evaluate the layers that make up this tale of woe. I do generally feel a little battered. Like someone put my heart in a blender on high and forgot to be nice enough to add some tequila to it. One of my closest, dearest and best friends still works with Douche Nozzle. I hear regularly how is pining for me, seems despondent enough and ruing the loss of our 'love'. It makes me angry to a degree that I try to having nothing to do with. Here is the thing about love – it involves a very healthy amount of respect. When a person engages in any version of deception against you, that's not love. The things we do that serve as symbolism of love- i.e. love notes, flowers, gifts -are not love. They're trinkets. They're the physical manifestations of affection that you hope if you give enough of, this person won't trash your heart. They may induce the warm fuzzies, but they're not love. I consider that I have had two relationships that were actual really real hard core down in my bones love. They both were based on abiding friendships with healthy amounts of trust and respect. Once any level of trust and respect were broken, it was downhill from there. Each one simultaneously broke me and made me stronger than I could have imagined. I don't consider what I had with Douche Nozzle to be love, more like temporary insanity. An insanity I'm going to be working through for a bit, but that I try to see more as a catalyst than anything. As for ever again even contemplating marriage… you know the scene at the end of Four Weddings and a Funeral where Charles asks Carrie if she thinks that she might be amenable to not marrying him and if it is something she might consider doing for the rest of their lives? I think I might be that type of girl. What's in a piece of paper anyway? Considering the American divorce rate, apparently not much of anything. But I digress – again – and that's very obviously food for a later thought.

On the Town

One of my dearest and oldest girlfriends and I went out tonight. Originally, we had plans to go see a band that I've fallen entirely in love with, The Coal Men. If you've never listened to them, I suggest you Google them this very second and remedy that. As usual when Mrs. P and I are together, we were running late. So we partook of some unimpressive Thai food, and then headed to the coffee shop that Roanoke is famed for. And then we just meandered. And talked and giggled and snuggled. And made people wonder. Eventually, we wound up in a favorite bar, Metro, where I had a stunning revelation...

Thank GOD I'm not 23 anymore.

While waiting to order drinks, we watched two -for lack of a better word - ladies bitch about the men they had just dumped and simultaneously hit on the cute bartender. I listened to them lament their woes and ask for more vodka. And I took a moment to look around. Just really look. And then I giggled silently to myself. I don't want to be sexist, especially against my own sex, but it was just ridiculous. These women preening and strutting and being bitchy. Scantily clad and looking like an army of overzealous cosmetics counter girl had feverishly attacked them. And I know that when people put on such a show it stems from insecurity and not really liking what you have to offer. Not having any real confidence in the goods being offered for sale. I know that's what it was because once upon a time I was 23 and I did the exact same thing. Mrs. P and I exchanged one of our looks, the one that says, 'No, you're not crazy. I see it too and I'm right there with you.' We settled in with our drinks and another round of laughter, neither of us paying much heed to anyone else. Each of us knowing that we both had something no one else there seemed to possess. Confidence in ourselves; a feeling of self worth that nothing but time can give you. Neither of us may be in our 20's any longer, but I don't actually think either of would really go back if we could. I'm not as skinny as I used to be and I have these persistent little lines around my eyes because when I smile I SMILE. I also know that whenever it feels like the world is going to end, it's actually not and I just need to sit and wait out the storm. I would not trade in that knowledge to be 23 and skinny again.
We eventually get up to leave. When I ask the cute bartender for our bill I tell him that we have to leave because I can't possibly dance slutty enough to be here and I need to go home now. And that's exactly what I did. I went home, took off my make up, put on pj's and flossed my teeth. That never would have happened when I was 23.

Thank God I'm not 23. If nothing else, I have really great teeth for all the flossing I do now...

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?