For the first time in almost two years, I finally am beginning to feel like I have a foot underneath me. Not quite both feet yet, but one is better than none.
After my brief epiphany last week (see “I’m an idiot” blog), the mind committee seems to have take a sabbatical and are unusually quiet. I think because for the first time that I can remember, I’m not trying to figure out what I have to be in order to be happy. I am beginning to understand that just me is fine.
I don’t know where this idea came from that I have to totally change myself to make people like me. Maybe my first ex-husband. He hated that I danced. He was threatened because I was told I was talented and I could probably go as far as I could in Winnipeg – run my own studio, maybe have a small troupe to perform locally. But he couldn’t deal with that. And I found myself trying to be his mother and his nurturer and his caretaker while he wanted a girlfriend, a lover, a mistress, someone to party with, someone to play with. I was so caught up in being what I thought he wanted that I never got a chance to see what he really needed.
I was on my own for a couple of years after he and I split up but I didn’t look at things too closely. We don’t do that in my family, look at things too closely. We tend to put them away and peek at them every now and then to see if they’re still there. If they are, we close the door and ignore the scratching noises coming from the other side of it.
I should have opened that door while I was on my own because I hadn’t looked at any of it by the time I met my second husband. He seemed so much different, so together, so focused, so ready to be there for me. And he was, for the most part. Until the end. But again, I twisted and turned and bent myself into whatever shape I thought he wanted. I gave up things, without him asking mostly, because I didn’t think the fit into what he wanted, never thinking about how they fit what I wanted. And the scratching at the door grew louder but I continued to ignore it.
I think things started to turn about six years ago, when I gave up a project partly because of circumstance and partly because he didn’t want to pursue it. Too difficult, too challenging, not worth seeing it through. Everything in my being screamed, “Do it, do it, do it, do it. Here’s your chance, here’s your opportunity. So it’s hard. So what?” But I closed the door and ignored it and dropped it because that’s what he wanted. Not his fault. I chose to not listen to myself, how could I expect him to hear me if I couldn’t?
The hardest thing I have ever done was to tell him that I was not happy and that I wanted to leave. A large part of me still loves him, the man he was, the man he could be. That’s the part that hurts. That’s the part that kept me there far longer than I should have stayed. But even then, he still didn’t hear me because I was still trying to be what he wanted me to be, to end this the way he would want it ended. But the way he ended it hurt very badly and made me realize that I couldn’t go out the way I went in. From now on, it has to be on my terms, not his. And my terms are pretty strict.
So my Charlotte Russe revelation, while it may seem trivial from the outside, made me hear the scratching at the door and crack that door open a little bit to see what’s behind it. And what’s behind it is very scary. Allowing others to see the real me, warts and tears and broken pieces and all, that’s the most frightening thing on earth. To not cover up the hurt and the pain and the sorrow and the ugly, scary feelings all the time is so foreign. But I realize that they creep out and escape no matter how hard I try to keep them behind that door. Eventually, they find a way to tunnel their way out and then it’s much more frightening because they’re not on a leash and they go wherever they want to.
But as I go into this third phase of my life, I’m finding more and more that those creatures I’ve kept locked up are not so scary. And the people who matter in my life want to see those creatures, do see those creatures, no matter how hard I try to keep them hidden. These people look into my eyes and see past the cover-up and patiently wait while I try to get a leash on these creatures. And they don’t run away when one or two escape. They help me corral them back up and get a handle on them without shutting them up behind the door.
It makes me ever grateful for those people. I’ve lost a lot of people who I thought were my friends through this, people I’ve known for as long as I’ve known my ex. These are not the people who are there for me now. I don’t know or understand why but it’s the way it is. However, God or the universe or whoever you believe is in charge has provided me with incredible replacements. My best friend, my four guys, one of whom has become incredibly important in my life, my beautiful, zany roommate, my extended family at the Ark, my karaoke support group. I would not have survived these past four months and the months preceding that without you guys. I don’t know that you all can understand what you mean to me and I hope some day you realize how important you all are to me. And I only hope that some day, I can repay the favor.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2005
This is too hard
This leaping back into the dating pool is just too hard. Maybe I should become crazy cat woman and have an excuse as to why there is no man in my life other than I suck at the whole dating thing. Or maybe crazy karaoke lady. I could show up in strange costumes and make everyone uncomfortable with the unwashedness of my outfit.
It’d be so much easier than this.
I was never good at the dating thing. I can’t read signals for shit. I think someone is coming on to me only to find out that they had the flu or were trying to sell me Amway. I think I’ve already discussed my complete lack of flirting skills. And I never learned to play games with guys, other than those that required a scorekeeper and some sort of sporting equipment.
And forget my making the first move or the second move or any move of that sort that may be required. Since I suck at signals, I don’t want to risk reaching out that way and then finding out that what I thought was a wink and encouragement was an asthma attack and food poisoning.
I want it to be simple. I’d love to be able to just say to someone, hey, I think you’re interesting. I enjoy being with you. Let’s see where this will go, no expectations, no pretenses, just see where it goes. Or have him say something similar to me, that he finds me fascinating – okay, maybe that’s a bit much but at least something clearer, more definite, more streamlined.
It’d be so much easier all the way around if we could just do that. Then the games and the flirting and the churning stomach and the wondering and the waiting and the agony could all be avoided.
I remember when I first moved down here what seems like 100 years ago. I met someone at a party and did what I rarely ever did – kinda made out with him in an empty room. Never in my life have I done that and I know why. Scumbag never called. See, there are those stupid signal mix-ups I was talking about. I thought his sticking his tongue down my throat meant something. Apparently, I didn’t read the rule book carefully enough. Tongue-in-throat means thanks for the thrill, don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.
Now that I’m that much older and that much longer out of the game of dating politics, I don’t even know where to begin again. I hate this feeling of being on the outside of something and peeking in and seeing what I want but being unsure how to get it. Everybody else seems to have the keys to the candy store, including the disgusting young couple at Coffee Bean the other night who were sucking very noisy face at the table next to us. It made me want to go over to their table and scream, “hey, don’t do that here. Not all of us have a face to suck. And, by the way, how did you get him to suck your face?” Maybe something a little more delicate but you get the drift.
So I propose a separate set of rules for those of us newly single, over 35 and after more than 10 years in a relationship prior to the introduction of singlehood.
1. We don’t have to flirt. We did enough manipulating or were manipulated enough in our long term relationship that we don’t need to use those muscles again.
2. We shouldn’t have to engage in small talk of any kind. Been there, done that, created a whole new category of small talk. Talk to us about you, your life, your dreams, your ambitions.
3. Baggage check – I will tell you all about my baggage and you tell me about yours. Don’t hide it, show me the designer knock-off label that broke your heart and I’ll show you the garment bag who stole my heart.
4. Leave the signals for the baseball field. Don’t gesture for me to slide if you want me to bunt. I don’t understand what your signals mean so just tell me. Talk to me. Be clear, be concise and be specific. Don’t leave me to my own devices to make my own decisions about what you really wanted because then neither of us will get any face-sucking done.
5. Most of all, be gentle and patient with us. It’s been a long time since we’ve had to use these muscles, let us stretch them out a bit and see what they’ll stand before we enter into the long, ugly race that is dating. Help us stretch and find those weak spots and build them up. You never know, it might even benefit you in the long run.
I’m sure there are many others that I can think of but it’s late and I’m sleepy and alone and overwhelmed and lonely and scared and about a million other emotions I can’t express. I know this will all get easier with time and as I get further away from that last relationship. I may never learn to read the signals but maybe someone will provide me with a cheat sheet that will give me a clue into what their own signals mean and we can begin the natural, easy process of discovering something new and exciting.
It’d be so much easier than this.
I was never good at the dating thing. I can’t read signals for shit. I think someone is coming on to me only to find out that they had the flu or were trying to sell me Amway. I think I’ve already discussed my complete lack of flirting skills. And I never learned to play games with guys, other than those that required a scorekeeper and some sort of sporting equipment.
And forget my making the first move or the second move or any move of that sort that may be required. Since I suck at signals, I don’t want to risk reaching out that way and then finding out that what I thought was a wink and encouragement was an asthma attack and food poisoning.
I want it to be simple. I’d love to be able to just say to someone, hey, I think you’re interesting. I enjoy being with you. Let’s see where this will go, no expectations, no pretenses, just see where it goes. Or have him say something similar to me, that he finds me fascinating – okay, maybe that’s a bit much but at least something clearer, more definite, more streamlined.
It’d be so much easier all the way around if we could just do that. Then the games and the flirting and the churning stomach and the wondering and the waiting and the agony could all be avoided.
I remember when I first moved down here what seems like 100 years ago. I met someone at a party and did what I rarely ever did – kinda made out with him in an empty room. Never in my life have I done that and I know why. Scumbag never called. See, there are those stupid signal mix-ups I was talking about. I thought his sticking his tongue down my throat meant something. Apparently, I didn’t read the rule book carefully enough. Tongue-in-throat means thanks for the thrill, don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.
Now that I’m that much older and that much longer out of the game of dating politics, I don’t even know where to begin again. I hate this feeling of being on the outside of something and peeking in and seeing what I want but being unsure how to get it. Everybody else seems to have the keys to the candy store, including the disgusting young couple at Coffee Bean the other night who were sucking very noisy face at the table next to us. It made me want to go over to their table and scream, “hey, don’t do that here. Not all of us have a face to suck. And, by the way, how did you get him to suck your face?” Maybe something a little more delicate but you get the drift.
So I propose a separate set of rules for those of us newly single, over 35 and after more than 10 years in a relationship prior to the introduction of singlehood.
1. We don’t have to flirt. We did enough manipulating or were manipulated enough in our long term relationship that we don’t need to use those muscles again.
2. We shouldn’t have to engage in small talk of any kind. Been there, done that, created a whole new category of small talk. Talk to us about you, your life, your dreams, your ambitions.
3. Baggage check – I will tell you all about my baggage and you tell me about yours. Don’t hide it, show me the designer knock-off label that broke your heart and I’ll show you the garment bag who stole my heart.
4. Leave the signals for the baseball field. Don’t gesture for me to slide if you want me to bunt. I don’t understand what your signals mean so just tell me. Talk to me. Be clear, be concise and be specific. Don’t leave me to my own devices to make my own decisions about what you really wanted because then neither of us will get any face-sucking done.
5. Most of all, be gentle and patient with us. It’s been a long time since we’ve had to use these muscles, let us stretch them out a bit and see what they’ll stand before we enter into the long, ugly race that is dating. Help us stretch and find those weak spots and build them up. You never know, it might even benefit you in the long run.
I’m sure there are many others that I can think of but it’s late and I’m sleepy and alone and overwhelmed and lonely and scared and about a million other emotions I can’t express. I know this will all get easier with time and as I get further away from that last relationship. I may never learn to read the signals but maybe someone will provide me with a cheat sheet that will give me a clue into what their own signals mean and we can begin the natural, easy process of discovering something new and exciting.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Sweep me off my feet
I’m a sucker for romantic comedy. I hate to admit it but I am. Good romantic comedy. Quirky romantic comedy.
“Truth About Cats and Dogs” is one of my favorites. I am Janeane Garofalo. Not so great a self-image. Don’t think any guy is gonna be interested in me. Crazy about someone who maybe doesn’t know it and is giving off things that make me thing he’s crazy about me but it’s so complicated. It makes me want Ben Chaplin to show up at my bedroom window with milk and cereal for breakfast.
“One Fine Day” is another one of my favs. Michele Pfeifer trying to hold her single mom life together and she collides with a crazy day and George Clooney… (sorry, got stuck on George Clooney). Anyway, they fight and they battle and they fall in love amidst the daily struggles of single parents. I want some guy to stand in my kitchen, just a breath away from me, almost kissing me, holding that moment, then saying, “I’m going to kiss you now.” Mmmmmmmm.
“Chasing Amy” is another one. Waaay quirky, especially the scar scene in the bar. Okay, so I’m bisexual or interested in girls in any way but I understand the complications that ensue when you think you want one thing but the guy isn’t sure. But it’s a crazy, loopy, mad sexy film and I’d love to lay on the floor with a guy, talk about our sexual past, and laugh our asses off.
“Love Actually” but I’ve already told you about that one.
“While You Were Sleeping” is another one. Sliding around on an icy sidewalk with a man that I love but can’t tell him I love him. Celebrating Christmas with his odd ball family. A diamond ring dropped through the slot of my toll booth. Okay, so I don’t have a toll booth but you get the idea.
Romantic comedies make me hopeful and set the bar way too high for any man to actually live up to. I realize Ben Chaplin or Dermot Mulroney or George Clooney are not going to show up at my door and sweep me off my feet. But then again, I am no Sandra Bullock or Michele Pfeifer. Maybe we can find a way to raise our hopes and lower the bar at the same time. All I ask is that you try. Just try and make things special. Not everything has to be special but a sweet, quirky, funny surprise every once in a while would do it, I think. I’m not that hard to please. Well, maybe occasionally I am but I’m trying to get better about that.
Anyway, consider the above as a AAA map to my heart. It gives you the basics. The rest are up to you.
“Truth About Cats and Dogs” is one of my favorites. I am Janeane Garofalo. Not so great a self-image. Don’t think any guy is gonna be interested in me. Crazy about someone who maybe doesn’t know it and is giving off things that make me thing he’s crazy about me but it’s so complicated. It makes me want Ben Chaplin to show up at my bedroom window with milk and cereal for breakfast.
“One Fine Day” is another one of my favs. Michele Pfeifer trying to hold her single mom life together and she collides with a crazy day and George Clooney… (sorry, got stuck on George Clooney). Anyway, they fight and they battle and they fall in love amidst the daily struggles of single parents. I want some guy to stand in my kitchen, just a breath away from me, almost kissing me, holding that moment, then saying, “I’m going to kiss you now.” Mmmmmmmm.
“Chasing Amy” is another one. Waaay quirky, especially the scar scene in the bar. Okay, so I’m bisexual or interested in girls in any way but I understand the complications that ensue when you think you want one thing but the guy isn’t sure. But it’s a crazy, loopy, mad sexy film and I’d love to lay on the floor with a guy, talk about our sexual past, and laugh our asses off.
“Love Actually” but I’ve already told you about that one.
“While You Were Sleeping” is another one. Sliding around on an icy sidewalk with a man that I love but can’t tell him I love him. Celebrating Christmas with his odd ball family. A diamond ring dropped through the slot of my toll booth. Okay, so I don’t have a toll booth but you get the idea.
Romantic comedies make me hopeful and set the bar way too high for any man to actually live up to. I realize Ben Chaplin or Dermot Mulroney or George Clooney are not going to show up at my door and sweep me off my feet. But then again, I am no Sandra Bullock or Michele Pfeifer. Maybe we can find a way to raise our hopes and lower the bar at the same time. All I ask is that you try. Just try and make things special. Not everything has to be special but a sweet, quirky, funny surprise every once in a while would do it, I think. I’m not that hard to please. Well, maybe occasionally I am but I’m trying to get better about that.
Anyway, consider the above as a AAA map to my heart. It gives you the basics. The rest are up to you.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Epiphany
I’m such an idiot. I hereby give you all permission to come up and smack me (not too hard) and agree, Susan, you are an idiot.
I had this epiphany in Charlotte Russe in Glendale Galleria. Let me explain.
I have bitched for the past few months about feeling like I had to be something I wasn’t with my ex. That there was something missing that I couldn’t be. And that I didn’t want to be. I wanted to be myself and that’s it. Flaws and all, just be me. That’s why I left. That’s why I started on this mid-life adventure.
Well, recently I have myself with a romantic possibility or two, if I’m ready to make that step. And I think I am. All I have to do is probably just make it clear that I’m interested in that.
And therein lies the obsession.
I find myself walking through these stores, thinking, if only I could find the perfect top, the perfect jeans, the perfect something that would make me irrestistable for these possibilities. If only I could figure out what would send that message, make them sit up and notice me, notice that I’m ready for that next move. Maybe if I was more girly, showed more cleavage, something.
As I walk into Charlotte Russe with that thought on my mind, what’s the first thing I see? A t-shirt, one of those cute, campy sayings t-shirts. And on this one is the most ironic statement of my life – “he’s just not into you.” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Sometimes the universe communicates in subtle ways.
See, this book came out last year, in case you were living in a cave, and was a huge success because it was written by a man who basically laid out the fact that sometimes, he’s just not into you. Common sense. I mocked this book mercilessly as one of my former friends obsessed over married and unsuitable men and why they weren’t returning her calls and why they weren’t interested in her. He’s just not into you. My gay friend who had the same epiphany while watching the author on Oprah – he’s just not into you.
So in the middle of my obsessing on how to be more appealing, more attractive, more something for some potential that’s really not even there yet, I run into this sign from the universe – he’s just not into you.
I laughed. Of course. Maybe he’s just not into me. And I’m making myself crazy trying to figure out what I have to be in order to be more something after all my complaining about not being able to be myself. I’m already trying to change myself into something for an imaginary relationship or relationships that aren’t even in an infancy yet.
And that’s when “I’m an idiot” struck me in the head. Of course I don’t have to be anything like that. I know, I’m an idiot. I know I should understand the basic concept that if someone isn’t attracted to me without my having to create a new persona to please them, then fuck them. However, I find myself doing the same thing I have probably always done, tried to figure what or who I have to be to make someone else happy. And it’s not just in romantic situations, either. I do this in every situation, try to create some image that will be what I’m supposed to be at that moment instead of just being who I am.
See, this is why I don’t like to be alone too much. I make actual discoveries about myself and if I’m not careful, I may actually figure myself out before I spend millions in therapy.
So for this single night, I will embrace myself, flaws and all, and accept that “he’s just not into you” is sometimes a fine answer, in fact, it’s a hepful answser because then I won’t expend the energy on that situation. I can focus on what I think is important – me. My wants, my needs, my own personal selfishness. And if someone finds that attractive, and someone thinks that my flaws are maybe part of my charm, and someone doesn’t care that I’m not perfect, then maybe that’s the person who should be into me and who I should be into.
Idiot no more, I go bravely into the night… and hopefully carry that into tomorrow.
I had this epiphany in Charlotte Russe in Glendale Galleria. Let me explain.
I have bitched for the past few months about feeling like I had to be something I wasn’t with my ex. That there was something missing that I couldn’t be. And that I didn’t want to be. I wanted to be myself and that’s it. Flaws and all, just be me. That’s why I left. That’s why I started on this mid-life adventure.
Well, recently I have myself with a romantic possibility or two, if I’m ready to make that step. And I think I am. All I have to do is probably just make it clear that I’m interested in that.
And therein lies the obsession.
I find myself walking through these stores, thinking, if only I could find the perfect top, the perfect jeans, the perfect something that would make me irrestistable for these possibilities. If only I could figure out what would send that message, make them sit up and notice me, notice that I’m ready for that next move. Maybe if I was more girly, showed more cleavage, something.
As I walk into Charlotte Russe with that thought on my mind, what’s the first thing I see? A t-shirt, one of those cute, campy sayings t-shirts. And on this one is the most ironic statement of my life – “he’s just not into you.” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Sometimes the universe communicates in subtle ways.
See, this book came out last year, in case you were living in a cave, and was a huge success because it was written by a man who basically laid out the fact that sometimes, he’s just not into you. Common sense. I mocked this book mercilessly as one of my former friends obsessed over married and unsuitable men and why they weren’t returning her calls and why they weren’t interested in her. He’s just not into you. My gay friend who had the same epiphany while watching the author on Oprah – he’s just not into you.
So in the middle of my obsessing on how to be more appealing, more attractive, more something for some potential that’s really not even there yet, I run into this sign from the universe – he’s just not into you.
I laughed. Of course. Maybe he’s just not into me. And I’m making myself crazy trying to figure out what I have to be in order to be more something after all my complaining about not being able to be myself. I’m already trying to change myself into something for an imaginary relationship or relationships that aren’t even in an infancy yet.
And that’s when “I’m an idiot” struck me in the head. Of course I don’t have to be anything like that. I know, I’m an idiot. I know I should understand the basic concept that if someone isn’t attracted to me without my having to create a new persona to please them, then fuck them. However, I find myself doing the same thing I have probably always done, tried to figure what or who I have to be to make someone else happy. And it’s not just in romantic situations, either. I do this in every situation, try to create some image that will be what I’m supposed to be at that moment instead of just being who I am.
See, this is why I don’t like to be alone too much. I make actual discoveries about myself and if I’m not careful, I may actually figure myself out before I spend millions in therapy.
So for this single night, I will embrace myself, flaws and all, and accept that “he’s just not into you” is sometimes a fine answer, in fact, it’s a hepful answser because then I won’t expend the energy on that situation. I can focus on what I think is important – me. My wants, my needs, my own personal selfishness. And if someone finds that attractive, and someone thinks that my flaws are maybe part of my charm, and someone doesn’t care that I’m not perfect, then maybe that’s the person who should be into me and who I should be into.
Idiot no more, I go bravely into the night… and hopefully carry that into tomorrow.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Love Actually
I want some sweet, lovely, charming, adorable man to show up at my door with cue cards and a boom box, expressing his love for me with hope and passion in his eyes.
Okay, I shouldn’t watch romantic comedies alone at midnight while typing urology reports. But I couldn’t help it. “Love Actually” is just the kind of goofy love story I would like my life to be.
Don’t get me wrong. The ex was probably one of the most romantic men I have ever been with. He did set the bar very, very, very high. When we split up, I took down a basket that had been sitting on top of our china cabinet since we moved in nine years previously. Every time he brought me home a rose or roses, I clipped the best buds and threw them in this basket. It was almost overflowing when I took it down. He gave me roses spontaneously, just because it was Wednesday or just because I had a bad day. A multitude of little gifts and goodies appeared constantly, little reminders of affection.
But as the years passed, what he missed giving me was his heart. That got very buried behind piles of crap and never saw the light of day again. He still gave me flowers, he still gave me lovely little gifts, held my hand while we drove to Fresno, wrapped me in his arms when he wanted to be affectionate. But the eyes overflowing with passion and the goofy lovestruck emotion was long gone. I don’t know if that happens in every long term relationship. I know he really wanted our life to be a romantic comedy but somehow, it turned into a dark little independent film.
Yes, I want the goofy love story and I want the silly little joyful gifts and public demonstrations of affection. But what I guess I really want is someone who is open with their heart. Someone who handles mine like fragile treasure to be handled with care. Someone who doesn’t have to work so hard at the exterior things to show how much I mean to them. Someone whose eyes will do all of that and whose touch will convey all of that.
I write hundreds of little fantasies in my head every day about someone showing up at my door when I’m sick (like today) with a hot bowl of deli chicken soup, smiling sheepishly like they do in romantic comedies and saying, “I was just thinking you might need this.” Or any number of other ridiculous, romantic, unreal and totally not going to happen kinds of fantasies. It makes me a little sad to realize that none of these little fantasies are ever going to come true but yet I can’t help my stupid brain from thinking them.
So I’ll sit here on this grungy blue couch, watching Liam Neeson and Keira Knightley and Hugh Grant and Emma Thompson, et al, fall in love, be wooed in unrealistic and hopelessly romantic ways and I’ll hang on to the never-going-to-happen scenarios in my head and hope that someone will maybe find just one single sappy romantic comedy moment with me and maybe that will be enough. At least for a start.
Okay, I shouldn’t watch romantic comedies alone at midnight while typing urology reports. But I couldn’t help it. “Love Actually” is just the kind of goofy love story I would like my life to be.
Don’t get me wrong. The ex was probably one of the most romantic men I have ever been with. He did set the bar very, very, very high. When we split up, I took down a basket that had been sitting on top of our china cabinet since we moved in nine years previously. Every time he brought me home a rose or roses, I clipped the best buds and threw them in this basket. It was almost overflowing when I took it down. He gave me roses spontaneously, just because it was Wednesday or just because I had a bad day. A multitude of little gifts and goodies appeared constantly, little reminders of affection.
But as the years passed, what he missed giving me was his heart. That got very buried behind piles of crap and never saw the light of day again. He still gave me flowers, he still gave me lovely little gifts, held my hand while we drove to Fresno, wrapped me in his arms when he wanted to be affectionate. But the eyes overflowing with passion and the goofy lovestruck emotion was long gone. I don’t know if that happens in every long term relationship. I know he really wanted our life to be a romantic comedy but somehow, it turned into a dark little independent film.
Yes, I want the goofy love story and I want the silly little joyful gifts and public demonstrations of affection. But what I guess I really want is someone who is open with their heart. Someone who handles mine like fragile treasure to be handled with care. Someone who doesn’t have to work so hard at the exterior things to show how much I mean to them. Someone whose eyes will do all of that and whose touch will convey all of that.
I write hundreds of little fantasies in my head every day about someone showing up at my door when I’m sick (like today) with a hot bowl of deli chicken soup, smiling sheepishly like they do in romantic comedies and saying, “I was just thinking you might need this.” Or any number of other ridiculous, romantic, unreal and totally not going to happen kinds of fantasies. It makes me a little sad to realize that none of these little fantasies are ever going to come true but yet I can’t help my stupid brain from thinking them.
So I’ll sit here on this grungy blue couch, watching Liam Neeson and Keira Knightley and Hugh Grant and Emma Thompson, et al, fall in love, be wooed in unrealistic and hopelessly romantic ways and I’ll hang on to the never-going-to-happen scenarios in my head and hope that someone will maybe find just one single sappy romantic comedy moment with me and maybe that will be enough. At least for a start.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Ramblings
Sort of feeling rambly tonight. Bunches of thoughts in my head. This is never good or productive.
Let’s see, my therapist basically said to me today that maybe there’s someone out there that’s wild about me and I just have to find them. Thanks. That’s a big help.
My keyboard is disgusting. It needs a shower.
AJ was taunting me tonight with imaginings of one of the older men in the company naked and doing bizarre sexual acts. Now I have to gouge out my eyes.
Have a ton of work to do but not feeling like doing it.
Wanting, missing someone who probably isn’t even aware that he’s is wanted or missed.
Feel like writing really bad poetry. It’s what I do best when I feel like this. Thank god nobody gets to read it.
Having an artistic disagreement with the ex that’s a very delicate situation. Was told by my very good friend that it will be good for me to work through this with him to get past some of the issues and move on. I hope so. I’m ready for that.
My room is a disaster yet I can’t quite find the time or the energy to get it together. It feels overwhelming.
Decided I must sing at Koji’s on Thursday, which was swayed by veiled threats if I don’t. Scared to death. But, hey, it’s only karaoke, right?
Realized after Koji’s this week that I should not drink anything. Don’t do that very well, no matter how small the amounts. May explain why I never drank a lot in my “wild” days – all two of them.
Looking forward to getting away to Vegas on the 4th and 5th. Much needed escape in store, I hope.
Did some writing tonight. That felt good. Haven’t really written anything but these bloody blogs for a while. Writing something with a story felt nice. Must do more.
Looking forward to the reading of my screenplay tonight. Bit scared. What if it’s not as good as I remember? Grateful, though, even for the opportunity.
Dealing with a lot of fears lately. Not sure what to do with them. I put them away and they keep escaping. Damn them!
Don’t quite understand strange men on Myspace sending me messages such as “so whats a cute thing like u up to?” (actual quote). If you can’t use your words and some kind of punctuation, then don’t send me a message. How desperate must you be to hit on a 43-year-old in cyberspace, is my immediate thought, followed by, how many women got this same message? Eeeewwww!
Miss being held. Miss that a lot.
Loving and appreciating the joy and exuberance in the people around me. Glad to have them in my life.
Oh, my god, I have a message from Jesus on Myspace! I didn’t know He was on Myspace. Wow. He looks like Alex Rocco. Jesus left me a personal ad - “Hello how r u im jesse 28 m 818 athletic fit, 5’ 7 “ 150 work out Play soccer, in car sales, looking to meet cool friends. You seem like my type of girl , would like to know more about you.” Although I’m confused. His headline said Jesus and he calls himself Jesse. Hmmm. Jesus is a schizophrenic? Again, I must say, Eeeeeeewwwww! Can’t hit delete fast enough.
Must go type either crazy people who’ve killed their mother/molested their child/robbed someone to pay for their meth addiction or one of 45 urology reports. Whoo-hoo. Meth or piss. That’s a choice for an evening/morning of typing.
Be well. Love someone today.
Let’s see, my therapist basically said to me today that maybe there’s someone out there that’s wild about me and I just have to find them. Thanks. That’s a big help.
My keyboard is disgusting. It needs a shower.
AJ was taunting me tonight with imaginings of one of the older men in the company naked and doing bizarre sexual acts. Now I have to gouge out my eyes.
Have a ton of work to do but not feeling like doing it.
Wanting, missing someone who probably isn’t even aware that he’s is wanted or missed.
Feel like writing really bad poetry. It’s what I do best when I feel like this. Thank god nobody gets to read it.
Having an artistic disagreement with the ex that’s a very delicate situation. Was told by my very good friend that it will be good for me to work through this with him to get past some of the issues and move on. I hope so. I’m ready for that.
My room is a disaster yet I can’t quite find the time or the energy to get it together. It feels overwhelming.
Decided I must sing at Koji’s on Thursday, which was swayed by veiled threats if I don’t. Scared to death. But, hey, it’s only karaoke, right?
Realized after Koji’s this week that I should not drink anything. Don’t do that very well, no matter how small the amounts. May explain why I never drank a lot in my “wild” days – all two of them.
Looking forward to getting away to Vegas on the 4th and 5th. Much needed escape in store, I hope.
Did some writing tonight. That felt good. Haven’t really written anything but these bloody blogs for a while. Writing something with a story felt nice. Must do more.
Looking forward to the reading of my screenplay tonight. Bit scared. What if it’s not as good as I remember? Grateful, though, even for the opportunity.
Dealing with a lot of fears lately. Not sure what to do with them. I put them away and they keep escaping. Damn them!
Don’t quite understand strange men on Myspace sending me messages such as “so whats a cute thing like u up to?” (actual quote). If you can’t use your words and some kind of punctuation, then don’t send me a message. How desperate must you be to hit on a 43-year-old in cyberspace, is my immediate thought, followed by, how many women got this same message? Eeeewwww!
Miss being held. Miss that a lot.
Loving and appreciating the joy and exuberance in the people around me. Glad to have them in my life.
Oh, my god, I have a message from Jesus on Myspace! I didn’t know He was on Myspace. Wow. He looks like Alex Rocco. Jesus left me a personal ad - “Hello how r u im jesse 28 m 818 athletic fit, 5’ 7 “ 150 work out Play soccer, in car sales, looking to meet cool friends. You seem like my type of girl , would like to know more about you.” Although I’m confused. His headline said Jesus and he calls himself Jesse. Hmmm. Jesus is a schizophrenic? Again, I must say, Eeeeeeewwwww! Can’t hit delete fast enough.
Must go type either crazy people who’ve killed their mother/molested their child/robbed someone to pay for their meth addiction or one of 45 urology reports. Whoo-hoo. Meth or piss. That’s a choice for an evening/morning of typing.
Be well. Love someone today.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
How to be one of my fav guys...
One of my other male friends mentioned not being one of my fav four the other day. I didn’t know anyone really paid that much attention to my blogs or that reference. He seemed a bit disappointed not to be one of the fav four. I was kind of surprised.
So I guess the criteria to be one of my four fav guys should be listed, in case anyone was interested in bumping one of them.
1. You must be incredibly talented. I’m talking about superior talent. I hang out with an awful lot of talented people so something about your talent must strike my creative core. Instinctive talent is my favorite.
2. You must have one of four traits in spades – heart, soul, intelligence or passion. A combination of all four is amazing as well. These must be traits that are self-evident. You can’t just say, look, I have heart, and expect to get into the top four. Sorry. I have to see it in you, in your eyes, in your soul.
3. You must have touched something in me. Okay, now get your minds out of the gutter. I’m talking the warm, fuzzy, can’t wait to see you when we’re getting together kind of thing.
4. You must realize that all of the above is crap.
The reason these four guys are my fav guys is something that cannot be explained. I’m not sure they’ll all always been in the top four. Missteps happen along the way and friendships, no matter how special, can end suddenly and unexpectedly. I have come close to losing one or two on this list already.
All I know is that in some way, these four have been there for me when I’ve needed a shoulder, a hug, a drink, a coffee. When I’m sad, these are the guys that make me smile just by showing up. Sometimes, just seeing their little “online” icon on Myspace when I’m blue makes me smile to know that they’re somehow cyber-ly connected to me. We don’t talk about my problems, we don’t talk about why I’m blue because we don’t need to. They just know when to joke with me, when to sit quietly and share chocolate cake with me, when to give me some love, and when to put their arms around me and tell me it’ll be all right.
Maybe this list could expand to include my top five or six or 12 but for right now, until the list is only one special guy who is everything that these four are, I’ll hang on to my list tightly and thank God for giving me these amazing men. And thank their mothers as well.
So I guess the criteria to be one of my four fav guys should be listed, in case anyone was interested in bumping one of them.
1. You must be incredibly talented. I’m talking about superior talent. I hang out with an awful lot of talented people so something about your talent must strike my creative core. Instinctive talent is my favorite.
2. You must have one of four traits in spades – heart, soul, intelligence or passion. A combination of all four is amazing as well. These must be traits that are self-evident. You can’t just say, look, I have heart, and expect to get into the top four. Sorry. I have to see it in you, in your eyes, in your soul.
3. You must have touched something in me. Okay, now get your minds out of the gutter. I’m talking the warm, fuzzy, can’t wait to see you when we’re getting together kind of thing.
4. You must realize that all of the above is crap.
The reason these four guys are my fav guys is something that cannot be explained. I’m not sure they’ll all always been in the top four. Missteps happen along the way and friendships, no matter how special, can end suddenly and unexpectedly. I have come close to losing one or two on this list already.
All I know is that in some way, these four have been there for me when I’ve needed a shoulder, a hug, a drink, a coffee. When I’m sad, these are the guys that make me smile just by showing up. Sometimes, just seeing their little “online” icon on Myspace when I’m blue makes me smile to know that they’re somehow cyber-ly connected to me. We don’t talk about my problems, we don’t talk about why I’m blue because we don’t need to. They just know when to joke with me, when to sit quietly and share chocolate cake with me, when to give me some love, and when to put their arms around me and tell me it’ll be all right.
Maybe this list could expand to include my top five or six or 12 but for right now, until the list is only one special guy who is everything that these four are, I’ll hang on to my list tightly and thank God for giving me these amazing men. And thank their mothers as well.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Learning to be a girl
I was out for something to eat with my good friend the other night (one of the four favs) and our waitress was this lovely, funny, spunky young girl who was not the Hollywood, so thin you want to tie her down and force a sandwich down her throat type and she was entertaining and clever and a soprano and suddenly I realized she was flirting quite handily with my dear friend. For a second, I was a bit jealous. Sort of a “hey, he’s my friend and you don’t know that we’re a couple so how dare you flirt with him” kinda thing. Then I had another realization – I was jealous of her flirt-ability. She did it effortlessly, knew how flash her eyes so he couldn’t look away, knew just how to lean on the table to emphasize her assets, knew just how to drop her voice to make him lean into her to listen to every word she said. Damn, she was good.
I realized that I have to learn how to be a girl. Tough for someone whose favorite outfit is 501’s, cowboy boots, a Sin City t-shirt and one of my collection of Rare Vintage men’s shirts.
I called my partner in crime, Zadra, to ask for help. We had a function for the theater tonight and I wanted to feel like a girl for a change. Now, I do own a couple of skirts. Unfortunately, I own nothing to go with those skirts. I have a couple of sexy tops but I’m a few pounds from those not looking like something on the back page of Glamour with a bar over my eyes. Zadra met me at Glendale Galleria and assisted me in sorting through the myriad of flimsy little tops and gauzy little things until she found this cute little green cami-type top. We both agreed it was just the girly thing I needed. And I could still wear the cowboy boots and the Vintage shirt.
But being a girl is so much more than that. And I think I somehow missed out on that training when I grew up. My sister was quite the girl growing up, always had some guy stringing along behind her. Her conquests are legion. Mine, not so much. She could turn the sex appeal on and leave men trembling in her wake. Me, not so much. I grew up surrounded by boys in my neighborhood (my sister wasn’t around much then, doing her own thing mostly). I learned how to climb trees and fire cap guns and outrun and out-skate any boy in the neighborhood. I played on the boys’ floor hockey team because the other girls were afraid of me. To this day, I’d almost rather hang out with a group of men and just short the shit than have to dress up and hang out with the girls and talk girl talk.
But every once in a while, I want someone to look at me the way my friend was looking at this waitress that night. He was not oogling her but merely appreciating her evident beauty and enjoying the harmless little flirt she was throwing at him. Mind you, I think he’s been getting a lot of that thrown at him lately but we’ll save that for another blog.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t throw a flirt if my life depended on it. I have never been coy and could never pull off the batting eyelashes and the hair toss. I’ve always preferred the direct approach. If you like me, you want to date me, you want to know more about me, ask me. Don’t make small talk. I suck at that. Just talk to me. Tell me what you think. That’s always been what I prefer. Not this game of body English and sidelong glances.
So, anyway, I put on my new girl-y shirt and my funky embroidered cords (which I love, by the way) and the Vintage shirt and headed off. I felt like a girl – for about 15 minutes. Then the shirt was pulling the wrong way and I became very aware of my own breasts. I couldn’t decide whether to leave the Vintage shirt on or off because I was also aware of the extra weight I’m still carrying and would love to drop. I constantly tugged at the stupid top all night, trying to get it to lay just the way it did when I tried it on and stood perfectly still and it sat perfectly. Didn’t do so much when I sat and shifted and actually moved around. By the time I got home, I couldn’t wait to get it off and I am unsure whether that shirt will ever see the light of day again.
Maybe some of us are just not cut out to be girls. Maybe we’re meant to be the friend, the one the guys will hang out with when they don’t have the flirty girl around. Maybe we’re the ones who are there to fill time until the women of their dreams comes along. We’re the confidante, the comfortable companion but will never be the one who is wooed or seduced, unless we do the wooing or seducing.
It also makes me realize that part of what I’m trying to figure out as I go through this third phase of my life is just exactly who I am. And maybe who I want to be. I was one person for the last 16 years and I’m not crazy about who that person was anymore. Now I have to find out who this person is that stands looking back at me from the mirror. Is she a flirt? Is she a tomboy? Is she smart, funny, clever? Is she brave? Is she quiet? Is she even someone that I want to be?
I’m hoping as I see myself reflected in the eyes of my friends and as I begin to understand a bit more of myself through my therapist and I find out what made me the person I didn’t like for 16 years, that maybe I’ll begin to put together the pieces of me that will finally form the person I want to be – whoever she is.
I realized that I have to learn how to be a girl. Tough for someone whose favorite outfit is 501’s, cowboy boots, a Sin City t-shirt and one of my collection of Rare Vintage men’s shirts.
I called my partner in crime, Zadra, to ask for help. We had a function for the theater tonight and I wanted to feel like a girl for a change. Now, I do own a couple of skirts. Unfortunately, I own nothing to go with those skirts. I have a couple of sexy tops but I’m a few pounds from those not looking like something on the back page of Glamour with a bar over my eyes. Zadra met me at Glendale Galleria and assisted me in sorting through the myriad of flimsy little tops and gauzy little things until she found this cute little green cami-type top. We both agreed it was just the girly thing I needed. And I could still wear the cowboy boots and the Vintage shirt.
But being a girl is so much more than that. And I think I somehow missed out on that training when I grew up. My sister was quite the girl growing up, always had some guy stringing along behind her. Her conquests are legion. Mine, not so much. She could turn the sex appeal on and leave men trembling in her wake. Me, not so much. I grew up surrounded by boys in my neighborhood (my sister wasn’t around much then, doing her own thing mostly). I learned how to climb trees and fire cap guns and outrun and out-skate any boy in the neighborhood. I played on the boys’ floor hockey team because the other girls were afraid of me. To this day, I’d almost rather hang out with a group of men and just short the shit than have to dress up and hang out with the girls and talk girl talk.
But every once in a while, I want someone to look at me the way my friend was looking at this waitress that night. He was not oogling her but merely appreciating her evident beauty and enjoying the harmless little flirt she was throwing at him. Mind you, I think he’s been getting a lot of that thrown at him lately but we’ll save that for another blog.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t throw a flirt if my life depended on it. I have never been coy and could never pull off the batting eyelashes and the hair toss. I’ve always preferred the direct approach. If you like me, you want to date me, you want to know more about me, ask me. Don’t make small talk. I suck at that. Just talk to me. Tell me what you think. That’s always been what I prefer. Not this game of body English and sidelong glances.
So, anyway, I put on my new girl-y shirt and my funky embroidered cords (which I love, by the way) and the Vintage shirt and headed off. I felt like a girl – for about 15 minutes. Then the shirt was pulling the wrong way and I became very aware of my own breasts. I couldn’t decide whether to leave the Vintage shirt on or off because I was also aware of the extra weight I’m still carrying and would love to drop. I constantly tugged at the stupid top all night, trying to get it to lay just the way it did when I tried it on and stood perfectly still and it sat perfectly. Didn’t do so much when I sat and shifted and actually moved around. By the time I got home, I couldn’t wait to get it off and I am unsure whether that shirt will ever see the light of day again.
Maybe some of us are just not cut out to be girls. Maybe we’re meant to be the friend, the one the guys will hang out with when they don’t have the flirty girl around. Maybe we’re the ones who are there to fill time until the women of their dreams comes along. We’re the confidante, the comfortable companion but will never be the one who is wooed or seduced, unless we do the wooing or seducing.
It also makes me realize that part of what I’m trying to figure out as I go through this third phase of my life is just exactly who I am. And maybe who I want to be. I was one person for the last 16 years and I’m not crazy about who that person was anymore. Now I have to find out who this person is that stands looking back at me from the mirror. Is she a flirt? Is she a tomboy? Is she smart, funny, clever? Is she brave? Is she quiet? Is she even someone that I want to be?
I’m hoping as I see myself reflected in the eyes of my friends and as I begin to understand a bit more of myself through my therapist and I find out what made me the person I didn’t like for 16 years, that maybe I’ll begin to put together the pieces of me that will finally form the person I want to be – whoever she is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)