I love deeply and passionately, whether it’s as a friend or a lover. I, foolishly, I expect that same kind of devotion back. The I’d-take-a-bullet-for-you kind of devotion.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t exist. Most people won’t take a bullet for you, or even rock the boat when required. I get passionate about friends when something happens to them and I immediately want to run out and make it right. I want to help them, save them, abolish all their pain. So I expect that much back.
The problem with high expectations is that no one can live up to them. I can’t. But that doesn’t stop me from expecting everyone else to.
I think that is one of the biggest problems in my relationships. I tend to connect over-passionately to friends, lovers, companions. I want to know everything, be involved in everything, share everything. I want to stand by you and fight the good fight – or the dirty fight as necessary. And I expect you to take up arms with me when the world has turned dark and cold and the battle has begun.
But the taking up of arms has long since lost its glamour and friends and lovers don’t want to be out in the dark and cold. They’re happy to send you out and say, yay, you’re going out into the dark and cold. Good for you. You’ll learn so much about yourself. Yeah, mainly that you’re stupid enough to go out into the dark and cold alone.
So I find myself, more often than not, screaming in frustration at the lack of support around me. I find myself crushed with disappointment when my level of expectation is not even approached. I find myself hurt as friend after friend and lover after lover (well, maybe not that many of them as there have been so few) find an excuse to say goodbye. Or, better yet, find a way to break my spirit and shatter my soul before they leave then step on the carcass on their way out.
Wow, that’s awful, people say. You should just ignore that and just go on. That’s what you should do. Oh, we’re not going to do anything about the fact that you’ve been shattered other than offer you words of comfort and some distant compassion.
I want you to be outraged with me. I want you to be angry with me. I want you to storm the castle gates and cry “battle” and slay the stupid son-of-a-bitch (or bitch, depending) that bruised my soul and wounded my pride. I want you to share in the feast afterwards (particularly fond of French toast a 3 AM type of feast) and trade battle stories and reflect on the good we have done. I want you to feel my pain, my sorrow, my anger, my grief and not tell me it’s going to be a helpful thing for me in the future.
But, as I have learned and continue to learn, that won’t happen. So I guess I’ll have to learn to lower my expectations and live with a life less than. Or keep the expectations high and just cut those who don’t meet them. That will leave a very narrow field, if any left at all. But which is worse? Cutting the loss or keeping the pain? Hard to know the difference sometimes.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
11/08/05 - Vegas reflections
Okay, so I think I finally got all the alcohol out of my system and am desperately trying to catch up on lost sleep but thought I’d take a few moments and see what Vegas did for me.
THE GOOD:
1. Got to play a lot. That was great. I rarely get a chance to just go out and be silly and do stupid things and just enjoy what’s going on around me. Chairman made sure we did lots of that – just walking around, observing, watching, participating. “Why not?” appeared to be the theme of the weekend, including my newly blonded locks (which are going away very, very, very soon). The other theme appeared to be “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off” – not mine but that song was everywhere.
2. Got to dance my ass off – I guess that goes under “got to play” but to me, it’s a totally separate thing. I used to dance – A LOT. Love to dance. But really haven’t boogie oogie oogied in many years. I think I made up for it in one long night at The Beach.
3. Got to clear up a bunch of stuff in my own head. Without having to constantly think about juggling my schedule and getting my work down and being at rehearsal and… and… and… I was able to step back mentally and look at some of the stuff going on in my life that I haven’t been able to look at. Some things became apparent without trying, some things took a little working but finally put themselves away neatly on the shelves in my head. A few stragglers were left over but I’ll deal with those over the holidays.
4. Got a chance to look ahead to 2006 a bit over late dinners and early morning French toast. Trying to put things in order and figure out how to get accomplished what I want to accomplish. It was great to have someone to bounce these things off of and just brainstorm a bit.
5. Got to be inspired. So many things reached out to my creative soul – Avenue Q (the puppetry was amazing), Bite (even the naked vampires inspired me with their incredible dance skills), these lovely little glass art shops we wandered into, the Russian antiquities exhibit at the Guggenheim, even the dancing waters at the Bellagio. Everything seemed to strike something creative inside of me, which hopefully will translate to some new and exciting things over the next few months.
6. Spending time with one of my best friends. Looked forward to breakfast every day, no matter how sleepy, no matter how early/late. We get to hang out a lot but never really get the chance to talk and dream and share. That was the best thing about the whole weekend, at least for me.
THE BAD:
1. Coming home. After four days of utter and complete release and lack of obligation, coming home sucked. So much work to catch up on, 10 hours of rehearsal Tuesday (whose idea was that? oh, yeah, that would be me), dealing with outstanding dramas that still won’t go away, and many, many other things. Made me want to get right back on the plane and go back.
2. Being alone. As I said, spending four days with a great friend made me realize how much I miss having someone near. Just to have someone to call in morning and say, hey, you up yet? Let’s have breakfast. Or just to talk about nothing with. Or to look forward to seeing in an hour. Or to dance with. Or just hang out, bleary from the night before, not talking much, just sharing time. I get some of that with Koji’s and Bigfoot but nothing as close and intimate as really having someone in your life consistently, constantly, every single day. Vegas made me realize how much I miss that.
3. Perspective, in a weird way, both good and bad. So many times this weekend, I’d find myself saying, “Oh, we didn’t do that when we were here” because the ex and I had been to Vegas many times before. But suddenly I realized how little we experienced Vegas and how much we missed. And how much I missed in general, by allowing myself to give in to his desires to hole up and, I don’t know, protect ourselves from the outside world. It made me very grateful for the friends and the fun and the craziness and all of that of my newer family of friends, the way you all make me open up and laugh and sing and play. And it made me realize how little of that I had in the last few years of our relationship.
So I plow through my week, tired, recovering, warm with memories, and a little blue. But very glad I went and hoping that, in the end, all the crap that shook loose will find its way into the crevices and settle down, giving me a little peace and some resolutions.
THE GOOD:
1. Got to play a lot. That was great. I rarely get a chance to just go out and be silly and do stupid things and just enjoy what’s going on around me. Chairman made sure we did lots of that – just walking around, observing, watching, participating. “Why not?” appeared to be the theme of the weekend, including my newly blonded locks (which are going away very, very, very soon). The other theme appeared to be “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off” – not mine but that song was everywhere.
2. Got to dance my ass off – I guess that goes under “got to play” but to me, it’s a totally separate thing. I used to dance – A LOT. Love to dance. But really haven’t boogie oogie oogied in many years. I think I made up for it in one long night at The Beach.
3. Got to clear up a bunch of stuff in my own head. Without having to constantly think about juggling my schedule and getting my work down and being at rehearsal and… and… and… I was able to step back mentally and look at some of the stuff going on in my life that I haven’t been able to look at. Some things became apparent without trying, some things took a little working but finally put themselves away neatly on the shelves in my head. A few stragglers were left over but I’ll deal with those over the holidays.
4. Got a chance to look ahead to 2006 a bit over late dinners and early morning French toast. Trying to put things in order and figure out how to get accomplished what I want to accomplish. It was great to have someone to bounce these things off of and just brainstorm a bit.
5. Got to be inspired. So many things reached out to my creative soul – Avenue Q (the puppetry was amazing), Bite (even the naked vampires inspired me with their incredible dance skills), these lovely little glass art shops we wandered into, the Russian antiquities exhibit at the Guggenheim, even the dancing waters at the Bellagio. Everything seemed to strike something creative inside of me, which hopefully will translate to some new and exciting things over the next few months.
6. Spending time with one of my best friends. Looked forward to breakfast every day, no matter how sleepy, no matter how early/late. We get to hang out a lot but never really get the chance to talk and dream and share. That was the best thing about the whole weekend, at least for me.
THE BAD:
1. Coming home. After four days of utter and complete release and lack of obligation, coming home sucked. So much work to catch up on, 10 hours of rehearsal Tuesday (whose idea was that? oh, yeah, that would be me), dealing with outstanding dramas that still won’t go away, and many, many other things. Made me want to get right back on the plane and go back.
2. Being alone. As I said, spending four days with a great friend made me realize how much I miss having someone near. Just to have someone to call in morning and say, hey, you up yet? Let’s have breakfast. Or just to talk about nothing with. Or to look forward to seeing in an hour. Or to dance with. Or just hang out, bleary from the night before, not talking much, just sharing time. I get some of that with Koji’s and Bigfoot but nothing as close and intimate as really having someone in your life consistently, constantly, every single day. Vegas made me realize how much I miss that.
3. Perspective, in a weird way, both good and bad. So many times this weekend, I’d find myself saying, “Oh, we didn’t do that when we were here” because the ex and I had been to Vegas many times before. But suddenly I realized how little we experienced Vegas and how much we missed. And how much I missed in general, by allowing myself to give in to his desires to hole up and, I don’t know, protect ourselves from the outside world. It made me very grateful for the friends and the fun and the craziness and all of that of my newer family of friends, the way you all make me open up and laugh and sing and play. And it made me realize how little of that I had in the last few years of our relationship.
So I plow through my week, tired, recovering, warm with memories, and a little blue. But very glad I went and hoping that, in the end, all the crap that shook loose will find its way into the crevices and settle down, giving me a little peace and some resolutions.
10/31/05 - Looking back over the year
Closed another show tonight, already knee deep in another for the holidays, and this leaves me with bunches of thoughts, feelings, emotions (gee, you’re all so surprised).
Closing “Afterplay” was its usual bittersweet sensation. I love doing shows, I hate when they close. But right now, as the year creeps to a close, I’m feeling a bit of burnout coming on. And now that I still have one more show in front of me before I can truly take a break, it’s giving me mixed feelings. I asked to direct back to back shows. Little did I know that would actually, really happen. I know, I know, “careful what you wish for…” and all that.
Since 2001, when I really got focused and decided that I was going to pursue directing with all my energy, I have not stopped. I did two shows with the Creative Center, this kind of crappy theater that used to be on Magnolia. Although I did direct mostly scene nights, which were more difficult than full pieces in some cases. One particular scene I was very proud of from a lousy play called “Beirut”, about AIDS and just awful. But I managed to create a delicate, sweet, sad scene from it and am probably more proud of that than almost anything else.
When I joined the Ark in 2003, I figured I’d do one, maybe two shows a year. Ha. I did a lab of “Girl’s Guide To Chaos,” one of my favorite plays. It didn’t come out as well as I had hoped but it was a start. Then on to “Second Coming” late in 2003, which I was very proud of. A very funny, flawed play about a self-help group of Elvis fanatics. I learned a lot about what I knew and what I didn’t know.
There was a brief period at the beginning of 2004 where I stepped aside for a while due to in-house bickering and ended up producing some short films, including a second AFI DWW project, and directing with the USC Jerome Lawrence One Act Playwriting Festival. That was so much fun and so interesting. The piece, “Operation Safe Haven” was a bit flawed but the production was the audience favorite. The head of the department, the producer of the show and even Shelley Berman thought we were the best thing that night. They invited me back for 2005.
Fall of 2004 and “Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You” back at the Ark and the beginning of my long term association with the wonderful, talented Chairman Barnes. Then straight into the Holiday One Acts 2004 (Disease, Dysfunction, Death, Merry Christmas). Early 2005 and the lab version of “Lloyd’s Prayer” then straight into the USC Festival again, with “Room 156A”. Again, audience favorite. Again, asked to return for 2006, their 25th Anniversary. Then into the “summer” run of “Lloyd’s Prayer,” which included LA Weekly’s Pick of the Week. Then straight into “Afterplay” and now into Holiday One Acts 2005. Oh, yeah, and the staged reading of the winning screenplay at Slamdance, “The Apology” and the possibility of doing that again next year. And the 48 Film Project, “Dark Guitar.” I’m sure I’ve missed something else, that’s how crazy it has been.
Whew. I’m tired. Add to that two years of complete and almost debilitating depression from early 2002 through most of 2003, culminating in a cry for help that went unheeded (but that’s for another blog), the realization that my marriage was doomed, a year of marriage counseling, and the decision to end my 16 year marriage, then moving twice in three months.
I’m looking forward to what 2006 will have to offer but I think between now and then, I need to take a breath. I’m finally kind of settled in my new place, at least for now. And I’m excited about maybe shooting “Cinderella Drives a Pick-Up” in the spring. But to be in shape to do that, I need to do some self-care first.
The first on the list is four fun-filled days in Vegas with my favorite of all men, Chairman, and favorite of all women, Zadra. Chairman has promised four days of drinking, debauchery, gambling and craps as well as being focused on only the present, no thought to the past or future for four days. Just existing in the now. Can not wait. Have already started packing my suitcase.
Upon return, finish up the holiday show rehearsals then just relax, focus on the Cinderella rewrite. Enjoy my amazing, fearless group of friends, sing more karaoke, spend more time with my friends, sing more, eat more, drink more, play more. Really take the time to focus on myself and finishing the work that I have started this year with my therapist and with myself. I’m finding myself slowly but surely, certainly with the assistance of my dearest friends, and am really embracing the process. I can’t wait to see who I turn out to be in the long run. I’m hoping as brave, fearless, open and joyful as those around me now and those that I am growing closer to every day. They make me want to be fearless. They inspire me to be open. They fill my every day with joy. What more could I ask as we bring 2005 to an end? Maybe more chocolate.
Closing “Afterplay” was its usual bittersweet sensation. I love doing shows, I hate when they close. But right now, as the year creeps to a close, I’m feeling a bit of burnout coming on. And now that I still have one more show in front of me before I can truly take a break, it’s giving me mixed feelings. I asked to direct back to back shows. Little did I know that would actually, really happen. I know, I know, “careful what you wish for…” and all that.
Since 2001, when I really got focused and decided that I was going to pursue directing with all my energy, I have not stopped. I did two shows with the Creative Center, this kind of crappy theater that used to be on Magnolia. Although I did direct mostly scene nights, which were more difficult than full pieces in some cases. One particular scene I was very proud of from a lousy play called “Beirut”, about AIDS and just awful. But I managed to create a delicate, sweet, sad scene from it and am probably more proud of that than almost anything else.
When I joined the Ark in 2003, I figured I’d do one, maybe two shows a year. Ha. I did a lab of “Girl’s Guide To Chaos,” one of my favorite plays. It didn’t come out as well as I had hoped but it was a start. Then on to “Second Coming” late in 2003, which I was very proud of. A very funny, flawed play about a self-help group of Elvis fanatics. I learned a lot about what I knew and what I didn’t know.
There was a brief period at the beginning of 2004 where I stepped aside for a while due to in-house bickering and ended up producing some short films, including a second AFI DWW project, and directing with the USC Jerome Lawrence One Act Playwriting Festival. That was so much fun and so interesting. The piece, “Operation Safe Haven” was a bit flawed but the production was the audience favorite. The head of the department, the producer of the show and even Shelley Berman thought we were the best thing that night. They invited me back for 2005.
Fall of 2004 and “Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You” back at the Ark and the beginning of my long term association with the wonderful, talented Chairman Barnes. Then straight into the Holiday One Acts 2004 (Disease, Dysfunction, Death, Merry Christmas). Early 2005 and the lab version of “Lloyd’s Prayer” then straight into the USC Festival again, with “Room 156A”. Again, audience favorite. Again, asked to return for 2006, their 25th Anniversary. Then into the “summer” run of “Lloyd’s Prayer,” which included LA Weekly’s Pick of the Week. Then straight into “Afterplay” and now into Holiday One Acts 2005. Oh, yeah, and the staged reading of the winning screenplay at Slamdance, “The Apology” and the possibility of doing that again next year. And the 48 Film Project, “Dark Guitar.” I’m sure I’ve missed something else, that’s how crazy it has been.
Whew. I’m tired. Add to that two years of complete and almost debilitating depression from early 2002 through most of 2003, culminating in a cry for help that went unheeded (but that’s for another blog), the realization that my marriage was doomed, a year of marriage counseling, and the decision to end my 16 year marriage, then moving twice in three months.
I’m looking forward to what 2006 will have to offer but I think between now and then, I need to take a breath. I’m finally kind of settled in my new place, at least for now. And I’m excited about maybe shooting “Cinderella Drives a Pick-Up” in the spring. But to be in shape to do that, I need to do some self-care first.
The first on the list is four fun-filled days in Vegas with my favorite of all men, Chairman, and favorite of all women, Zadra. Chairman has promised four days of drinking, debauchery, gambling and craps as well as being focused on only the present, no thought to the past or future for four days. Just existing in the now. Can not wait. Have already started packing my suitcase.
Upon return, finish up the holiday show rehearsals then just relax, focus on the Cinderella rewrite. Enjoy my amazing, fearless group of friends, sing more karaoke, spend more time with my friends, sing more, eat more, drink more, play more. Really take the time to focus on myself and finishing the work that I have started this year with my therapist and with myself. I’m finding myself slowly but surely, certainly with the assistance of my dearest friends, and am really embracing the process. I can’t wait to see who I turn out to be in the long run. I’m hoping as brave, fearless, open and joyful as those around me now and those that I am growing closer to every day. They make me want to be fearless. They inspire me to be open. They fill my every day with joy. What more could I ask as we bring 2005 to an end? Maybe more chocolate.
10/19/05 - Learning to be alone
The most difficult part of this whole divorce thing has been being alone. I don’t mean the “oh, my god, I’m alone” revelation that everyone goes through who has ended a long term relationship. I mean just the day to day, filling the hours, finding something to do with myself kind of alone. The lack of constant companionship. The lack of the phone ringing and demands on my time. The lack of a pile of other stuff to do that involves someone else, even if they’re not there – errands, proofing work, sending their emails, etc. Day to day stuff that keeps you aware of the other person even though they’re not physically there, that make you have to call them, email them, whatever, just to check in.
On one hand, I really don’t miss the demands on my time. Those demands made it almost impossible for me to get any of my own needs attended to. I always made his demands for my attention/help/assistance/time my priority so many of my own things suffered. Now, I can focus almost exclusively on my own stuff and, most of the time, that’s great.
But it’s that constant connection, that constant connection to the other person that’s missing. I find myself unsure of what to do with myself when I’m done with my work, whether it’s real paying stuff or stuff for the Ark. It’s those long, quiet moments when there isn’t a rehearsal, there isn’t a job to be typed, there isn’t a karaoke night, there isn’t anything but time.
Time is a luxury I rarely had before so I never had to find something to fill it up with. We always found something to do. Because there was a “we” and if I couldn’t think of something, he sure had something for me to do.
But days like yesterday, when I had all my work done early, too late for yoga but early enough for maybe a movie and some shopping, that I found myself doing nothing at all, unsure of what exactly I – me – wanted to do without having to consult with someone. I couldn’t even figure out what movie I wanted to see because I was hoping to maybe find someone to go with me so I just sort of hung out, waiting.
And that’s dumb. I changed my life because I wanted to be able to do my own thing, I wanted to make my own decisions, I wanted to live without waiting around for an answer/direction/decision from someone else. Mainly because those answers/directions/decisions often contradicted what I wanted. And now that I don’t have to wait for that, I found myself waiting anyway, unsure of what to do.
It’s funny because in “Afterplay,” there’s a line that Sonya has about the “endless tundra of aloneness and loneliness stretching out” before her. It’s a line that hits me every time she says it. But her character chooses to make herself alone and wait for someone who only comes to her when his needs are there, never considering hers. That’s what I left.
So now the new adventure becomes finding out what I want to do with myself. Finding ways to enjoy and embrace those moments that aren’t filled and not be worried that they’re not filled. Those of you who know me know that I have trouble being still and doing nothing. Maybe that’s what has to be explored – embracing nothing. Filling those empty times with something that I’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t find the time or that he didn’t want to do. Finding a way to be alone with myself and enjoy my own company. And finding a way to quiet the voices in my head that take those empty moments as a time to make me obsess on things I may have done wrong, ways I have maybe pushed people away, ways I am not acceptable as a human being.
I know I’m only at the beginning of this phase of my life and hopefully in a few months, I’ll look back at this blog and wonder what the hell I was thinking about. Maybe by then I’ll enjoy spending time in my own head and cleaning out the cupboards up there to make room for the wonderful things going on in my life. I look forward to that day.
Until then, I’ll try to appreciate the silence and the quietude. Appreciate the simplicity that has come to my life with that silence and try to embrace the quiet.
Or find more karaoke nights.
On one hand, I really don’t miss the demands on my time. Those demands made it almost impossible for me to get any of my own needs attended to. I always made his demands for my attention/help/assistance/time my priority so many of my own things suffered. Now, I can focus almost exclusively on my own stuff and, most of the time, that’s great.
But it’s that constant connection, that constant connection to the other person that’s missing. I find myself unsure of what to do with myself when I’m done with my work, whether it’s real paying stuff or stuff for the Ark. It’s those long, quiet moments when there isn’t a rehearsal, there isn’t a job to be typed, there isn’t a karaoke night, there isn’t anything but time.
Time is a luxury I rarely had before so I never had to find something to fill it up with. We always found something to do. Because there was a “we” and if I couldn’t think of something, he sure had something for me to do.
But days like yesterday, when I had all my work done early, too late for yoga but early enough for maybe a movie and some shopping, that I found myself doing nothing at all, unsure of what exactly I – me – wanted to do without having to consult with someone. I couldn’t even figure out what movie I wanted to see because I was hoping to maybe find someone to go with me so I just sort of hung out, waiting.
And that’s dumb. I changed my life because I wanted to be able to do my own thing, I wanted to make my own decisions, I wanted to live without waiting around for an answer/direction/decision from someone else. Mainly because those answers/directions/decisions often contradicted what I wanted. And now that I don’t have to wait for that, I found myself waiting anyway, unsure of what to do.
It’s funny because in “Afterplay,” there’s a line that Sonya has about the “endless tundra of aloneness and loneliness stretching out” before her. It’s a line that hits me every time she says it. But her character chooses to make herself alone and wait for someone who only comes to her when his needs are there, never considering hers. That’s what I left.
So now the new adventure becomes finding out what I want to do with myself. Finding ways to enjoy and embrace those moments that aren’t filled and not be worried that they’re not filled. Those of you who know me know that I have trouble being still and doing nothing. Maybe that’s what has to be explored – embracing nothing. Filling those empty times with something that I’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t find the time or that he didn’t want to do. Finding a way to be alone with myself and enjoy my own company. And finding a way to quiet the voices in my head that take those empty moments as a time to make me obsess on things I may have done wrong, ways I have maybe pushed people away, ways I am not acceptable as a human being.
I know I’m only at the beginning of this phase of my life and hopefully in a few months, I’ll look back at this blog and wonder what the hell I was thinking about. Maybe by then I’ll enjoy spending time in my own head and cleaning out the cupboards up there to make room for the wonderful things going on in my life. I look forward to that day.
Until then, I’ll try to appreciate the silence and the quietude. Appreciate the simplicity that has come to my life with that silence and try to embrace the quiet.
Or find more karaoke nights.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Diary of a Midlife Crisis - the beginning
I have an IPod. I drink $5 frappy icey blended coffee drinks. I wear funky t-shirts with a chick on it and I cut my hair short and dye it red. I want a motorcycle, a belly button ring and a tattoo. I am 43 years old.
When did I become a cliché? I find myself talking about "finding myself" and wanting "me" time. I always thought these women in the Lifetime movies who turn 40 and leave their husbands were fiction and ridiculous. Now, I find I am one of them.
I'm not sure when it happened. I've never felt my age at any time in my life. As a child, especially a teenager, I was always mistaken for years older than I was. Old soul, I've always said. Now, it's just old and tired.
Turning 40 always seems to be the key to the mid-life crisis thing. I waited a little longer. At 40, I was too busy being suicidal to realize that a crisis was going on. No one explained that that's part of it.
Women should get a handbook at 35 that's like the one our mothers gave us for explaining "that time of the month," only it should be called "that time of your life." This one would explain that as you near and pass 40, your hormones freak out and you pretend you're just fine. You'll do and say things without realizing it. Oh, and you'll cry uncontrollably and without warning or provocation pretty much every day. You'll alienate your husband - and probably won't care. You'll just be glad he's avoiding you and snarl at his sidelong glances. You'll be exhausted all the time and you'll hang on to your emotional life by your fingernails.
If you're lucky, somebody will tell you about menopause and premenopause and perimenopause and all the other types of pauses that come on. If you're not lucky, like me, you'll go through two years of crazy before you start recognizing yourself in TV commercials starring washed-up nighttime soap actresses.
I dug the insomnia, though. Boy, I've never gotten more done than when I only slept three hours a night. So much can be accomplished at 4 in the morning when the phone's not ringing and your husband is asleep.
I also never understood those movie characters in their 40's who suddenly find themselves in love with some dark, handsome man who mysteriously appears in their life, just as they become disillusioned by their marriage. That's cliché checkpoint No. 2.
I fell hard. The only thing I missed on the cliché checklist was that he wasn't 20. He was younger than me but by a respectable amount. We at least knew the same bands and he never said, "you were alive then?!" We'd survived the '80s - me the early part, he the latter. And we both grew up on "Star Wars."
He told me that I was brilliant. Wow. I mean, wow. It didn't hurt that he was handsome in a dark, moody way (okay, another cliché point). He not only rocked my world, he spun it on its equator and I'm still trying to realign the north and south poles.
Oh, the other missed cliché point is that he couldn't have been less interested in me romantically. Friends, sure, Colleagues, absolutely. Romance, oh, look at the time. And he was involved. With a woman, thank god. In the movies, they always leave their wives, lovers, girlfriends for the menopausal woman who looks like a cover girl. In real life, I'm about 40 pounds away from cover girl and, even if we both were single, he still wouldn't date me. I'm over the crush now (well, mostly) and we've become friends, of which I am glad. I think maybe that's something the women in the movies should try, that way, you get to keep him in your life and not let him wave to you as he drives off in his sexy car into the sunset.
Stay tuned for the next hormonal blaze of emotion and bitterness!
When did I become a cliché? I find myself talking about "finding myself" and wanting "me" time. I always thought these women in the Lifetime movies who turn 40 and leave their husbands were fiction and ridiculous. Now, I find I am one of them.
I'm not sure when it happened. I've never felt my age at any time in my life. As a child, especially a teenager, I was always mistaken for years older than I was. Old soul, I've always said. Now, it's just old and tired.
Turning 40 always seems to be the key to the mid-life crisis thing. I waited a little longer. At 40, I was too busy being suicidal to realize that a crisis was going on. No one explained that that's part of it.
Women should get a handbook at 35 that's like the one our mothers gave us for explaining "that time of the month," only it should be called "that time of your life." This one would explain that as you near and pass 40, your hormones freak out and you pretend you're just fine. You'll do and say things without realizing it. Oh, and you'll cry uncontrollably and without warning or provocation pretty much every day. You'll alienate your husband - and probably won't care. You'll just be glad he's avoiding you and snarl at his sidelong glances. You'll be exhausted all the time and you'll hang on to your emotional life by your fingernails.
If you're lucky, somebody will tell you about menopause and premenopause and perimenopause and all the other types of pauses that come on. If you're not lucky, like me, you'll go through two years of crazy before you start recognizing yourself in TV commercials starring washed-up nighttime soap actresses.
I dug the insomnia, though. Boy, I've never gotten more done than when I only slept three hours a night. So much can be accomplished at 4 in the morning when the phone's not ringing and your husband is asleep.
I also never understood those movie characters in their 40's who suddenly find themselves in love with some dark, handsome man who mysteriously appears in their life, just as they become disillusioned by their marriage. That's cliché checkpoint No. 2.
I fell hard. The only thing I missed on the cliché checklist was that he wasn't 20. He was younger than me but by a respectable amount. We at least knew the same bands and he never said, "you were alive then?!" We'd survived the '80s - me the early part, he the latter. And we both grew up on "Star Wars."
He told me that I was brilliant. Wow. I mean, wow. It didn't hurt that he was handsome in a dark, moody way (okay, another cliché point). He not only rocked my world, he spun it on its equator and I'm still trying to realign the north and south poles.
Oh, the other missed cliché point is that he couldn't have been less interested in me romantically. Friends, sure, Colleagues, absolutely. Romance, oh, look at the time. And he was involved. With a woman, thank god. In the movies, they always leave their wives, lovers, girlfriends for the menopausal woman who looks like a cover girl. In real life, I'm about 40 pounds away from cover girl and, even if we both were single, he still wouldn't date me. I'm over the crush now (well, mostly) and we've become friends, of which I am glad. I think maybe that's something the women in the movies should try, that way, you get to keep him in your life and not let him wave to you as he drives off in his sexy car into the sunset.
Stay tuned for the next hormonal blaze of emotion and bitterness!
New Cinderella Rules
1. No men without their shit moderately together – lovers, friends or otherwise. If your shit is not at least halfway there, don’t even talk to me. Don’t want to hear, don’t care. Be a grown-up, at least about your shit. Then maybe you can deal with my shit cuz I certainly have enough of my own to tend to, don’t need to tend to yours.
2. No more giving it away – affection, friendship, adoration, all that crap. If you want me to worship at your feet, you’re gonna have to earn that worship. If you want to squeeze into the now top three in my life, you’re gonna have to cure cancer. That list is closed solidly. You want my friendship, bring me gifts – your friendship, your trust, your respect. Otherwise, don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.
3. My game, my rules. You don’t wanna play by my rules, take your toys and go home. I’m tired of “he’s just not into you” and bullshit like that that makes intelligent women like me crazy. From now, grab the bull by the horns. At least then I’ll know where I stand and not waste my time. If you don’t want your horns grabbed, then get out of the rodeo, cowboy.
4. No more trying to make everybody happy and make everything nice. Fuck nice. And I’m the only one who counts when it comes to happy. Okay, maybe if the cowboy lets me grab his horns, then he can be happy, too. As long as he doesn’t piss me off.
5. Yes, I’m moody and I’m sensitive and I push too hard and all the baggage that goes with that. Deal with it. Friends, lovers, whatever your status in my life, if you find me a handful or too pushy or whatever, again, door, toys, hitting your ass on the way out, etc. I am this wonderfully complicated, emotional, sensitive, caring, occasional temperamental package. You can’t change me. Others have tried. They are no longer in my life. Help me, hold my hand, guide me, show me but don’t try to make me something different. Not gonna happen.
6. No more men (or women, for that matter) that won’t take responsibility for their actions. If you can’t handle that your actions have consequences and you’re going to make it my fault when you fuck up, door, toys, hitting your ass, etc. I’m not responsible for you. I’m barely responsible for me. You fuck up, have the balls to admit it and I’ll try to do the same. I am not your mother. I am not your nanny. I am not your parental unit. Fix it, solve it, stop doing it. Look up responsibility in the dictionary and when you can spell it and define it, then come see me.
7. You think the Third Strike law is tough, wait’ll you get ahold of Susan’s law. You screw me once, that’s it. I’m tired of being forgiving and fixing and fighting for something that was so seriously wrong in the first place that it will never be right. Maybe, in a rare occasion, you’ll get parole and one more chance but don’t count on it. Even chocolate and begging cannot overcome some things.
I know, these rules may be harsh but this is what happens when I get hurt, I then get angry. And I kinda enjoy this kind of angry. It makes me feel in control of the situation instead of a victim of it. So read, enjoy, tremble if you see yourself in any of these, and let’s see what happens. Write your own list of rules, especially you other Cinderellas out there, and see what happens.
2. No more giving it away – affection, friendship, adoration, all that crap. If you want me to worship at your feet, you’re gonna have to earn that worship. If you want to squeeze into the now top three in my life, you’re gonna have to cure cancer. That list is closed solidly. You want my friendship, bring me gifts – your friendship, your trust, your respect. Otherwise, don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.
3. My game, my rules. You don’t wanna play by my rules, take your toys and go home. I’m tired of “he’s just not into you” and bullshit like that that makes intelligent women like me crazy. From now, grab the bull by the horns. At least then I’ll know where I stand and not waste my time. If you don’t want your horns grabbed, then get out of the rodeo, cowboy.
4. No more trying to make everybody happy and make everything nice. Fuck nice. And I’m the only one who counts when it comes to happy. Okay, maybe if the cowboy lets me grab his horns, then he can be happy, too. As long as he doesn’t piss me off.
5. Yes, I’m moody and I’m sensitive and I push too hard and all the baggage that goes with that. Deal with it. Friends, lovers, whatever your status in my life, if you find me a handful or too pushy or whatever, again, door, toys, hitting your ass on the way out, etc. I am this wonderfully complicated, emotional, sensitive, caring, occasional temperamental package. You can’t change me. Others have tried. They are no longer in my life. Help me, hold my hand, guide me, show me but don’t try to make me something different. Not gonna happen.
6. No more men (or women, for that matter) that won’t take responsibility for their actions. If you can’t handle that your actions have consequences and you’re going to make it my fault when you fuck up, door, toys, hitting your ass, etc. I’m not responsible for you. I’m barely responsible for me. You fuck up, have the balls to admit it and I’ll try to do the same. I am not your mother. I am not your nanny. I am not your parental unit. Fix it, solve it, stop doing it. Look up responsibility in the dictionary and when you can spell it and define it, then come see me.
7. You think the Third Strike law is tough, wait’ll you get ahold of Susan’s law. You screw me once, that’s it. I’m tired of being forgiving and fixing and fighting for something that was so seriously wrong in the first place that it will never be right. Maybe, in a rare occasion, you’ll get parole and one more chance but don’t count on it. Even chocolate and begging cannot overcome some things.
I know, these rules may be harsh but this is what happens when I get hurt, I then get angry. And I kinda enjoy this kind of angry. It makes me feel in control of the situation instead of a victim of it. So read, enjoy, tremble if you see yourself in any of these, and let’s see what happens. Write your own list of rules, especially you other Cinderellas out there, and see what happens.
Men are assholes OR Men or Assholes
I think there are two types of men – Men (with a capital M) and Assholes (with a capital A).
I’m lucky to have a number of Men in my life to balance out the Assholes, although some weeks, the Assholes, no matter how few in number, seem to win.
This is one of those weeks.
There are two captial M Men in my life who have recently (or maybe not so recently) become capital A Assholes. Details are not necessary. Those of you who need to know the details already know them. Suffice to say, it’s made me go, what was I thinking, inviting these Men… ooops… Assholes into my life. Say what you want, I was the one who opened the door and went, “Hey, here’s my heart, just in case you’d like to take it out and throw it on the ground and stomp all over it. Oh, and by the way, if you take a left at the heart, you’ll find my self-esteem and self-respect. You might want to take that around the block a time or two, just so I don’t get too comfortable having it where I can find it and maybe, oh, I don’t know, put it to some use. You go ahead, beat it to death and then put its shattered carcass back where you found it.”
The problem is twofold. They didn’t start out with a capital A. Both started out as extremely capital M kind of men. I guess they wouldn’t have gotten in the door if they wore the scarlet A stuck to their foreheads, although I don’t think men ever caught that fashion. Maybe it should be required by state law now. If you present yourself as a Man and you’re really an Asshole, you must have a capital A highly visible somewhere on your person, truth in advertising and all that. Then at least we could sue, saying, “You know, he advertised as a capital M kind of man but he was really a capital Asshole.” Forget alimony, Asshole payments could take the place of that archaic system.
It makes me look at the capital M Men around me now and wonder if my Asshole radar isn’t working. Which one of them am I going to be blogging about a year from now, going, “Damn, I thought he had a capital M but I guess I misread the letter on his chest. I should get glasses.”
The other part of the problem is that I can’t seem to not let the Assholes in. I draw them like a magnet. If there is an Asshole within 30 paces, he must be involved in some integral way in my life so that when he cuts his M in half and turns it into a disfigured A, he does the maximum amount of damage to me. And I let him. I see the Exacto blade come out, aiming for the bridge of the M to slice and dice it neatly into an A. And I stand there, going, “Wow, that’s a really sharp knife. I wonder what he’s going to use that for.” Duh. How did I not see that coming?
Because I want all the men in my life to be capital M type of Men. I look past their obvious, red-flagged, screaming out loud A’s and go, “But there’s a capital M in there somewhere, I’m sure of it.” And even if I have to find a dozen of misshapen A’s and force them together to create an M type of man, damn it, I’ll invest a lot of time doing that and then wonder why my teeth are kicked in and my ego has been shattered like glass when the A’s just don’t hold together as an M.
Maybe there’s a Learning Annex course in how to identify and deflect the A’s but I have a feeling they’ll kind find their way in, like the shapeshifters in “Ghost Story.” They keep shifting their shape so you can’t decide if that’s an A or an M on their sleeve. By the time you figure it out, it’s far too late.
So be warned, you capital M guys, if I even begin to see the start of an A forming on your person, I’m throwing you out of the car and leaving you on the side of the road. I don’t care if it is your car. And I’ll be gone faster than you can say, “I really care about you. No, really I do.”
I’m lucky to have a number of Men in my life to balance out the Assholes, although some weeks, the Assholes, no matter how few in number, seem to win.
This is one of those weeks.
There are two captial M Men in my life who have recently (or maybe not so recently) become capital A Assholes. Details are not necessary. Those of you who need to know the details already know them. Suffice to say, it’s made me go, what was I thinking, inviting these Men… ooops… Assholes into my life. Say what you want, I was the one who opened the door and went, “Hey, here’s my heart, just in case you’d like to take it out and throw it on the ground and stomp all over it. Oh, and by the way, if you take a left at the heart, you’ll find my self-esteem and self-respect. You might want to take that around the block a time or two, just so I don’t get too comfortable having it where I can find it and maybe, oh, I don’t know, put it to some use. You go ahead, beat it to death and then put its shattered carcass back where you found it.”
The problem is twofold. They didn’t start out with a capital A. Both started out as extremely capital M kind of men. I guess they wouldn’t have gotten in the door if they wore the scarlet A stuck to their foreheads, although I don’t think men ever caught that fashion. Maybe it should be required by state law now. If you present yourself as a Man and you’re really an Asshole, you must have a capital A highly visible somewhere on your person, truth in advertising and all that. Then at least we could sue, saying, “You know, he advertised as a capital M kind of man but he was really a capital Asshole.” Forget alimony, Asshole payments could take the place of that archaic system.
It makes me look at the capital M Men around me now and wonder if my Asshole radar isn’t working. Which one of them am I going to be blogging about a year from now, going, “Damn, I thought he had a capital M but I guess I misread the letter on his chest. I should get glasses.”
The other part of the problem is that I can’t seem to not let the Assholes in. I draw them like a magnet. If there is an Asshole within 30 paces, he must be involved in some integral way in my life so that when he cuts his M in half and turns it into a disfigured A, he does the maximum amount of damage to me. And I let him. I see the Exacto blade come out, aiming for the bridge of the M to slice and dice it neatly into an A. And I stand there, going, “Wow, that’s a really sharp knife. I wonder what he’s going to use that for.” Duh. How did I not see that coming?
Because I want all the men in my life to be capital M type of Men. I look past their obvious, red-flagged, screaming out loud A’s and go, “But there’s a capital M in there somewhere, I’m sure of it.” And even if I have to find a dozen of misshapen A’s and force them together to create an M type of man, damn it, I’ll invest a lot of time doing that and then wonder why my teeth are kicked in and my ego has been shattered like glass when the A’s just don’t hold together as an M.
Maybe there’s a Learning Annex course in how to identify and deflect the A’s but I have a feeling they’ll kind find their way in, like the shapeshifters in “Ghost Story.” They keep shifting their shape so you can’t decide if that’s an A or an M on their sleeve. By the time you figure it out, it’s far too late.
So be warned, you capital M guys, if I even begin to see the start of an A forming on your person, I’m throwing you out of the car and leaving you on the side of the road. I don’t care if it is your car. And I’ll be gone faster than you can say, “I really care about you. No, really I do.”
10/17/05 - Jesus Humped My Leg
Okay, so this is what I get for doing something outside of my safe zone and without my usual protectors around me.
Thought I’d keep up the singing thing and sing tonight at Bigfoot. So I got up, cheated a bit and sang what I sang at Koji’s on Thursday because I know it and I’m moderately comfortable singing it.
Well, strangely enough, about halfway through the first verse, there was a hand on my ass. Yes, my ass. Then, the body belonging to the hand decided to hump my leg as I sang. I looked down and discovered that it was Jesus humping my leg. Okay, straggly Jesus in an ugly red t-shirt and stupid jeans but Jesus nonetheless.
Now, this messiah is lucky to still have genitals after grabbing my aforementioned body part and then violating my left thigh. Apparently, though, my stare o’ death was enough to get him to leave me alone and dry hump some uncoordinated, badly dressed, 70’s wannabe clique-chick in front of the stage.
I bet his mamma is proud.
See, this is why I’m afraid to date. This is what is drawn to me. I’m not sure what that says about me but it doesn’t bode well for the partner prospects for the future. Now I realize that at my advanced age, I can’t be too picky but I think I’ll pass on Jesus, the dry humper, and see if maybe someone with a little more self-control and a lot less creepy factor is somewhere nearby.
Or I’ll just hide under the covers until the rapture comes and takes this particular messiah away.
Lesson for tonight – never sing karaoke in a strange place without a full security detail.
Thought I’d keep up the singing thing and sing tonight at Bigfoot. So I got up, cheated a bit and sang what I sang at Koji’s on Thursday because I know it and I’m moderately comfortable singing it.
Well, strangely enough, about halfway through the first verse, there was a hand on my ass. Yes, my ass. Then, the body belonging to the hand decided to hump my leg as I sang. I looked down and discovered that it was Jesus humping my leg. Okay, straggly Jesus in an ugly red t-shirt and stupid jeans but Jesus nonetheless.
Now, this messiah is lucky to still have genitals after grabbing my aforementioned body part and then violating my left thigh. Apparently, though, my stare o’ death was enough to get him to leave me alone and dry hump some uncoordinated, badly dressed, 70’s wannabe clique-chick in front of the stage.
I bet his mamma is proud.
See, this is why I’m afraid to date. This is what is drawn to me. I’m not sure what that says about me but it doesn’t bode well for the partner prospects for the future. Now I realize that at my advanced age, I can’t be too picky but I think I’ll pass on Jesus, the dry humper, and see if maybe someone with a little more self-control and a lot less creepy factor is somewhere nearby.
Or I’ll just hide under the covers until the rapture comes and takes this particular messiah away.
Lesson for tonight – never sing karaoke in a strange place without a full security detail.
10/14/05 - 3 beautiful men and 1 zany roommate
So my Thursday night goes like this –-
4PM – coffee with my good friend, Donna, who I haven’t had a chance to catch up with since all this craziness began almost four months ago. Nice time at Karma coffee house.
8PM – Afterplay at the Ark. At least there was an audience. Always a pleasure watching one of my favorite men work.
10PM – Koji’s for karaoke. Oh, yes, by the way, I sang “Shut Up and Kiss Me” to which no one did. I also sang “Redneck Woman” with the aforementioned zany roommate.
2:48 PM – Write blog.
Typical Thursday. My face hurts so much from smiling.
Let’s see – start with the zany roommate who, sweet thing that she is, offered to provide me with illicit drugs as a bonding experience. Then proceeded to dirty dance with our wonderful gay karaoke host to “Baby Got Back.” Then dared to get flirty with at least – well, okay, all – three of my fav guys there. I guess I’ll let her. After all, she’s my roommate.
And the three beautiful men – one of whom sang Harry Connick to me, who can resist that? One of whom hugged me constantly all night whenever I forced him to (didn’t really have to force him too much). And one of whom kept me smiling and giggling all night.
Zany roommate has begun to discover the 3 beautiful men and why they are 3 of the 4 in my life. She may have her cool new guy (if not more) but I’ve got these 3. And I’m keeping them.
4PM – coffee with my good friend, Donna, who I haven’t had a chance to catch up with since all this craziness began almost four months ago. Nice time at Karma coffee house.
8PM – Afterplay at the Ark. At least there was an audience. Always a pleasure watching one of my favorite men work.
10PM – Koji’s for karaoke. Oh, yes, by the way, I sang “Shut Up and Kiss Me” to which no one did. I also sang “Redneck Woman” with the aforementioned zany roommate.
2:48 PM – Write blog.
Typical Thursday. My face hurts so much from smiling.
Let’s see – start with the zany roommate who, sweet thing that she is, offered to provide me with illicit drugs as a bonding experience. Then proceeded to dirty dance with our wonderful gay karaoke host to “Baby Got Back.” Then dared to get flirty with at least – well, okay, all – three of my fav guys there. I guess I’ll let her. After all, she’s my roommate.
And the three beautiful men – one of whom sang Harry Connick to me, who can resist that? One of whom hugged me constantly all night whenever I forced him to (didn’t really have to force him too much). And one of whom kept me smiling and giggling all night.
Zany roommate has begun to discover the 3 beautiful men and why they are 3 of the 4 in my life. She may have her cool new guy (if not more) but I’ve got these 3. And I’m keeping them.
9/15/05 - Frisky
Okay, so in the Lifetime movies of middle aged women, the lonely 40 something woman goes to a bar, hooks up with a guy, goes home, has sex (not always good sex but sex) then regrets it in the morning. I always looked at those women and thought, I would never do that. I don’t understand why they do that.
Well, tonight I understand. Hang on, I didn’t do anything. Luckily, I was out with my good friends, Zadra and Chairman, and just had a great time, but the way I was feeling, I think either of them could have gotten lucky tonight.
At one point early in the evening, even before I caught up with Chairman at a WGA panel before heading off to a bar to hear a band, I had this very strange feeling. I just wanted someone to look at me and go, wow, you look great, take me in their arms and, okay, sex might have crossed my mind. Mostly someone to hold me and say wonderful things to me, whether they meant it or not.
I have never been one to “need” sex like some women I know. Don’t get me wrong, it’s always an enjoyable thing but not something I have hunted down. I have slept with exactly three men in my life, two of which I married. So casual sex doesn’t interest me.
I think it’s that thing I was hoping to avoid – the over-40 divorcee cliché. Yes, slowly but surely, these things are sneaking up on me. It’s feeling that no one will ever find me attractive again. It’s feeling that this stupid Ikea double bed will hold no one but me and my cat, Twyla, for the rest of my life. It’s the feeling that no one will ever want to just put their arms around me and say they’re glad I’m in their life and really mean it. It’s the feeling that I will never have sex again and fall asleep curled up with someone I love.
Or maybe I’m just feeling frisky. It is a full moon coming up and those do strange things to me. Or it’s the total and complete lack of sleep last night and the fact that it’s now 2:30 in the morning on the next night and I’m still not sleepy. Not sure if this is a pre-menopausal thing but I wish it would go away.
So forgive me if in the next few days I’m a little more physical that I usually am. I think I’m just craving human contact right now. And please keep me away from strange men (men who are strangers, I should clarify) because I’m not entirely sure I can be trusted. Maybe when the new moon rolls around. Until then, I’m locking myself in.
Well, tonight I understand. Hang on, I didn’t do anything. Luckily, I was out with my good friends, Zadra and Chairman, and just had a great time, but the way I was feeling, I think either of them could have gotten lucky tonight.
At one point early in the evening, even before I caught up with Chairman at a WGA panel before heading off to a bar to hear a band, I had this very strange feeling. I just wanted someone to look at me and go, wow, you look great, take me in their arms and, okay, sex might have crossed my mind. Mostly someone to hold me and say wonderful things to me, whether they meant it or not.
I have never been one to “need” sex like some women I know. Don’t get me wrong, it’s always an enjoyable thing but not something I have hunted down. I have slept with exactly three men in my life, two of which I married. So casual sex doesn’t interest me.
I think it’s that thing I was hoping to avoid – the over-40 divorcee cliché. Yes, slowly but surely, these things are sneaking up on me. It’s feeling that no one will ever find me attractive again. It’s feeling that this stupid Ikea double bed will hold no one but me and my cat, Twyla, for the rest of my life. It’s the feeling that no one will ever want to just put their arms around me and say they’re glad I’m in their life and really mean it. It’s the feeling that I will never have sex again and fall asleep curled up with someone I love.
Or maybe I’m just feeling frisky. It is a full moon coming up and those do strange things to me. Or it’s the total and complete lack of sleep last night and the fact that it’s now 2:30 in the morning on the next night and I’m still not sleepy. Not sure if this is a pre-menopausal thing but I wish it would go away.
So forgive me if in the next few days I’m a little more physical that I usually am. I think I’m just craving human contact right now. And please keep me away from strange men (men who are strangers, I should clarify) because I’m not entirely sure I can be trusted. Maybe when the new moon rolls around. Until then, I’m locking myself in.
I shudder to think...
I got a very scary peek into what could be my life last night. (late August, 2005)
Went to a club. Not something I used to do a lot but find myself doing more and more these days. Of course, I usually go with my good friend, Chairman, and we’ve been having a blast checking out the incredibly talented bands/singers in LA.
Well, last night, Chairman was running a bit behind and I found myself at the club before him. Not a big deal. I’m a big girl. And it was a nice place, certainly not scary.
But after a few minutes of hanging out, watching the previous band pack their gear, I realized that I was standing all by myself. And several of the loser guys hanging out were also standing around by themselves. And they were glancing my way.
Wow. I haven’t been in that place for a long time. I checked out some clubs when I first moved to Hollywood more than 16 years ago but quickly decided that wasn’t a scene for me. The kind of people I like to hang out with aren’t the ones hovering at the bars in clubs.
And while most of the guys in the place last night weren’t the creepy, half-drunken losers who usually are the ones who hit on me, it made me realize for one brief second what my life could be like, hanging out at bars, trolling supermarkets, answering the unsolicited emails on Myspace. I shudder to think.
Luckily, just then, my cell phone rang and the mellifluous tones of Chairman’s voice came over the ear piece. “Sorry, I’m right outside. I’ll be right there.” Thank god.
Really, thank God for friends like Chairman and Peter and AJ and Zadra and my new roomie, Tiffany, and the Ark and all the other amazing things I have in my life. They keep me sane and off the streets.
So I guess for now, the losers and the wallflowers will have to find someone else to stalk to their car and the guys hovering in the frozen food section at the supermarket will just have to let their cauliflower melt because I won’t be there. I’ll be hanging out with my friends, working on my new project (Afterplay and Dark Guitar screening), or painting the kitchen with Tiff. So much more fun…
Went to a club. Not something I used to do a lot but find myself doing more and more these days. Of course, I usually go with my good friend, Chairman, and we’ve been having a blast checking out the incredibly talented bands/singers in LA.
Well, last night, Chairman was running a bit behind and I found myself at the club before him. Not a big deal. I’m a big girl. And it was a nice place, certainly not scary.
But after a few minutes of hanging out, watching the previous band pack their gear, I realized that I was standing all by myself. And several of the loser guys hanging out were also standing around by themselves. And they were glancing my way.
Wow. I haven’t been in that place for a long time. I checked out some clubs when I first moved to Hollywood more than 16 years ago but quickly decided that wasn’t a scene for me. The kind of people I like to hang out with aren’t the ones hovering at the bars in clubs.
And while most of the guys in the place last night weren’t the creepy, half-drunken losers who usually are the ones who hit on me, it made me realize for one brief second what my life could be like, hanging out at bars, trolling supermarkets, answering the unsolicited emails on Myspace. I shudder to think.
Luckily, just then, my cell phone rang and the mellifluous tones of Chairman’s voice came over the ear piece. “Sorry, I’m right outside. I’ll be right there.” Thank god.
Really, thank God for friends like Chairman and Peter and AJ and Zadra and my new roomie, Tiffany, and the Ark and all the other amazing things I have in my life. They keep me sane and off the streets.
So I guess for now, the losers and the wallflowers will have to find someone else to stalk to their car and the guys hovering in the frozen food section at the supermarket will just have to let their cauliflower melt because I won’t be there. I’ll be hanging out with my friends, working on my new project (Afterplay and Dark Guitar screening), or painting the kitchen with Tiff. So much more fun…
Somewhere in Sweden, furniture designers are laughing their asses off…
I am not an unintelligent woman. I have built sets for every show I have done in the past 15 years. I change my own tires. But I just spent four hours putting together a bed from Ikea. My roommate’s dog found it all very amusing but I didn’t.
First rule of thumb – never try to build something from Ikea with your 70+ parents. I love my parents dearly and they have financially supported both my directing career and my current mid-life crisis. But sometimes I want to know who these people are and what they did with my parents. My mother apparently needs to be told something 48 times before she hears and/or understands it. My father, God love him, thinks Big Lots is the answer to all furnishing questions. Tiffany was very tolerant of the invasion of the parents.
After we decided that the screws they put in the box did not match the diagram and were about four screws short, I chased my parents back to Lakewood and set out in search of the elusive screws.
At Ikea earlier, I had seen a wall with little boxes that said “Missing a part? Take one!” I thought, yippee! This will be easy. Ikea must be Swedish for “where did all these people come from” as I attempted to navigate the store on a Saturday. I know, I should know better. I finally got to the parts drawers to find – shock and surprise – they’re all empty. Fight my way back through the crowd, through the Burbank Media Center parking lot and off to two different hardware stores before finding something approximating the Ikea screw (appropriate term).
Go back to the new place, tackle the bed. As I’m reading the directions, it appears that you have to assemble the whole bed while lying underneath it. All the screws go in from the bottom up. As I lay on the floor, cussing out the Sweds, trying to figure out how to get the drill underneath so I can use it instead of my aching hands, I had a sudden epiphany about myself. I’m too literal. Just because the diagram shows the bed being built from the bottom doesn’t mean you have to build the bed lying on your back. DOH! Stand the stupid thing on its side would work much easier.
As I said, I’m a smart woman. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was dealing with my adorable but frustrating parents. Maybe I’m not as smart as I think I am. But I finally got the stupid thing put together without calling Chairman for help (as I almost did several times). It’s not bad and it actually held my weight for the first night spent in my new place.
Moral of the story? When frustrated by life, put it on its side and throw away the directions!
First rule of thumb – never try to build something from Ikea with your 70+ parents. I love my parents dearly and they have financially supported both my directing career and my current mid-life crisis. But sometimes I want to know who these people are and what they did with my parents. My mother apparently needs to be told something 48 times before she hears and/or understands it. My father, God love him, thinks Big Lots is the answer to all furnishing questions. Tiffany was very tolerant of the invasion of the parents.
After we decided that the screws they put in the box did not match the diagram and were about four screws short, I chased my parents back to Lakewood and set out in search of the elusive screws.
At Ikea earlier, I had seen a wall with little boxes that said “Missing a part? Take one!” I thought, yippee! This will be easy. Ikea must be Swedish for “where did all these people come from” as I attempted to navigate the store on a Saturday. I know, I should know better. I finally got to the parts drawers to find – shock and surprise – they’re all empty. Fight my way back through the crowd, through the Burbank Media Center parking lot and off to two different hardware stores before finding something approximating the Ikea screw (appropriate term).
Go back to the new place, tackle the bed. As I’m reading the directions, it appears that you have to assemble the whole bed while lying underneath it. All the screws go in from the bottom up. As I lay on the floor, cussing out the Sweds, trying to figure out how to get the drill underneath so I can use it instead of my aching hands, I had a sudden epiphany about myself. I’m too literal. Just because the diagram shows the bed being built from the bottom doesn’t mean you have to build the bed lying on your back. DOH! Stand the stupid thing on its side would work much easier.
As I said, I’m a smart woman. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was dealing with my adorable but frustrating parents. Maybe I’m not as smart as I think I am. But I finally got the stupid thing put together without calling Chairman for help (as I almost did several times). It’s not bad and it actually held my weight for the first night spent in my new place.
Moral of the story? When frustrated by life, put it on its side and throw away the directions!
Zadra Therapy Camp
Zadra is one of my best friends who has been supporting me and taking care of me for the past couple of months. She’s the one who’s always there when I need someone to yell/cry/bitch at/to/with. Here’s what I’ve learned from a month on Zadra’s various couches.
1. Zadra’s very smart.
2. Chihuahuas are cute.
3. It’s okay to love, no matter what, no matter who. Even if it’s someone you have no business loving, won’t go anywhere, is not at all returned. It just shows your heart and soul are still alive and that you can feel love and passion, even when it’s not returned, even when it’s not where it should be. Love is love, period.
4. You get to think about yourself sometimes. Not a good thing if that’s all you think about. But when you’re in pain and you don’t know why, taking the time to look inward and then say outwardly, hey, I’m in pain, that’s okay.
5. Sitting silently with your best friend, watching a movie and eating popcorn is therapy.
6. There is always another side. I don’t always want there to be but there is. And you have to occasionally consider that.
7. I deserve to be happy and embrace my talents, wants and needs.
8. Colors are fun.
9. Fear is only as large as you make it. It can be the size of a movie screen on Fairfax or as small as singing karaoke.
10. Cats are smarter than we are sometimes.
11. Make the best of now. It may not be what you want forever, but you can look at today and say, this is good, this is working fine, I think I’ll hang out a while and see where it goes.
12. Shopping cures just about everything.
13. Fun is just that -- fun. Embrace it, enjoy it and do it often.
14. I’ve learned a lot about growth watching Zadra over the past few years leave behind her old self and discover and follow her new self. Being around her so much lately has let me see how much of a new self she has and makes me look forward to the new self I will find somewhere in the near future.
15. I am grateful for this friendship.
1. Zadra’s very smart.
2. Chihuahuas are cute.
3. It’s okay to love, no matter what, no matter who. Even if it’s someone you have no business loving, won’t go anywhere, is not at all returned. It just shows your heart and soul are still alive and that you can feel love and passion, even when it’s not returned, even when it’s not where it should be. Love is love, period.
4. You get to think about yourself sometimes. Not a good thing if that’s all you think about. But when you’re in pain and you don’t know why, taking the time to look inward and then say outwardly, hey, I’m in pain, that’s okay.
5. Sitting silently with your best friend, watching a movie and eating popcorn is therapy.
6. There is always another side. I don’t always want there to be but there is. And you have to occasionally consider that.
7. I deserve to be happy and embrace my talents, wants and needs.
8. Colors are fun.
9. Fear is only as large as you make it. It can be the size of a movie screen on Fairfax or as small as singing karaoke.
10. Cats are smarter than we are sometimes.
11. Make the best of now. It may not be what you want forever, but you can look at today and say, this is good, this is working fine, I think I’ll hang out a while and see where it goes.
12. Shopping cures just about everything.
13. Fun is just that -- fun. Embrace it, enjoy it and do it often.
14. I’ve learned a lot about growth watching Zadra over the past few years leave behind her old self and discover and follow her new self. Being around her so much lately has let me see how much of a new self she has and makes me look forward to the new self I will find somewhere in the near future.
15. I am grateful for this friendship.
Lessons at 43
1. I never learned how to do a really good hair/head toss. You know, that thing girls seem to do all the time lately to seem flirty - toss their long, usually golden blond over their shoulder in that slo-mo Denise Richards way. Never got the hang of that. Course, I grew up in the ‘80’s and there was too much hairspray going around to actually toss your hair. Also, my hair is currently more k.d. lang than Denise Richards, so I’d probably just throw my neck out anyway.
2. Being cute stops being cute at 25. At 26, you’re starting to look kind of dumb more than cute. By 30, you’re looking ridiculous but nobody really will say anything. At 35, people will actually cringe if you try to be cute. At 43, nothing and no one is cute. I, however, never considered myself cute so I guess I skipped all that.
3. There is a reason karaoke bars serve beer and a reason why it’s so much fun to go to them and not drink beer.
4. I like being up until 2 AM. Just for fun. Because I can.
5. Men are boys all their lives.
6. I couldn’t be with someone who uses the adjective “hot” to describe anything other than food or the weather.
7. I like being treated like a girl. Sometimes. I like having the door opened and having someone walk me to my car. I like having drinks bought for me, even if it’s only by friends. I like chivalry and more guys should look that word up. I like being told when I look good because sometimes, believe it or not, I really need to hear it. I like to have guys pick up heavy things and carry them for me. I especially like when they treat me like a girl and won’t let me lift heavy things and carry them. I’m embarrassed to admit this but it’s true.
8. I would give a year’s salary to be able to get into a leather miniskirt again -- and not be embarrassing.
9. Single and alone at 43 bites.
2. Being cute stops being cute at 25. At 26, you’re starting to look kind of dumb more than cute. By 30, you’re looking ridiculous but nobody really will say anything. At 35, people will actually cringe if you try to be cute. At 43, nothing and no one is cute. I, however, never considered myself cute so I guess I skipped all that.
3. There is a reason karaoke bars serve beer and a reason why it’s so much fun to go to them and not drink beer.
4. I like being up until 2 AM. Just for fun. Because I can.
5. Men are boys all their lives.
6. I couldn’t be with someone who uses the adjective “hot” to describe anything other than food or the weather.
7. I like being treated like a girl. Sometimes. I like having the door opened and having someone walk me to my car. I like having drinks bought for me, even if it’s only by friends. I like chivalry and more guys should look that word up. I like being told when I look good because sometimes, believe it or not, I really need to hear it. I like to have guys pick up heavy things and carry them for me. I especially like when they treat me like a girl and won’t let me lift heavy things and carry them. I’m embarrassed to admit this but it’s true.
8. I would give a year’s salary to be able to get into a leather miniskirt again -- and not be embarrassing.
9. Single and alone at 43 bites.
Funny how things fit
15 years of marriage conveniently fits inside of 5 x 9 storage unit. Everything I had when I went into it and everything that I got after it fits perfect. I thought there’d be more. He had more, lots more.
My best friend told me today that she admires my mid-life crisis. She finds it encouraging to her now to make sure that she pursues her dreams so that she doesn’t end up at 43 looking back at her life and wanting to have done more, done something, sooner. She’s 30 and for a brief moment, I really hated her. What could I have done at 30 if someone I knew had had a mid-life crisis and inspired me to really go after my dreams?
Well, I wouldn’t be half the director I am now. The years between 30 and 43 have been filled with life experience, endless hours of working with and watching other directors, both good and bad, and finding myself as a writer as well.
What I couldn’t really tell her is how it feels to be 43 and knee deep in mid-life crisis. I mean, she understands a lot about it because she’s been one of the few who has actually held my hand through most of this. But I don’t think she can understand the deeper feelings, the ones that I’m not sure I understand myself.
For example, the terror of being here at 43. Who the hell am I? I’ve been defined for the last 15 years as his wife, his partner, his, well, you fill in the blank. I’m sure he was defined as my “fill in the blank.” But I stand here by myself and consider myself in the mirror.
My best friend told me today that she admires my mid-life crisis. She finds it encouraging to her now to make sure that she pursues her dreams so that she doesn’t end up at 43 looking back at her life and wanting to have done more, done something, sooner. She’s 30 and for a brief moment, I really hated her. What could I have done at 30 if someone I knew had had a mid-life crisis and inspired me to really go after my dreams?
Well, I wouldn’t be half the director I am now. The years between 30 and 43 have been filled with life experience, endless hours of working with and watching other directors, both good and bad, and finding myself as a writer as well.
What I couldn’t really tell her is how it feels to be 43 and knee deep in mid-life crisis. I mean, she understands a lot about it because she’s been one of the few who has actually held my hand through most of this. But I don’t think she can understand the deeper feelings, the ones that I’m not sure I understand myself.
For example, the terror of being here at 43. Who the hell am I? I’ve been defined for the last 15 years as his wife, his partner, his, well, you fill in the blank. I’m sure he was defined as my “fill in the blank.” But I stand here by myself and consider myself in the mirror.
I want John Cusak.
Okay, first of all, never see a romantic comedy when you’re in the process of getting divorced, especially not a romantic comedy about a woman your age getting divorced.
In case you didn’t figure it out, I just saw “Must Love Dogs.” Diane Lane, John Cusak, Dermot Mulroney. Only in the movies does a woman like Diane Lane exist. She, with the great hair and perfect body (as much as they tried to dress her like you and me). She, who, in the movie, is bemoaning her life as she wanders from room to room in her gorgeous, well-decorated two story house with all the antique furniture. She, who drives a very expensive convertible but teaches pre-school. She, who, if she took her beautiful hair out of the hair clip and did that head-toss thing one more time, I was going to start throwing popcorn at the screen.
Her crisis is this - divorced eight months from a gorgeous firefighter, has to choose between John Cusak and Dermot Mulroney. Sorry, all sympathy just went out the window. I’ll never get that choice. Instead, I get two cyber-guys I’ve never met, one who thinks I’m (God help me) “hot” and the other thinks I’m “yummy.” Their pictures are only slightly frightening. Her bad dates in the movie will probably end up being the best dates I could get.
Movies never show the reality, which is why we go to see them, I guess. They don’t show the crying jags in the middle of the day just because you thought about him. They never show someone like me who is pretty much homeless and living off of friends. They don’t show the transition, they only show the healthy aftermath, after months of therapy and weeping, boring friends with your pity-parties, becoming sick of listening to yourself complain about your life. I guess that’s why they don’t make movies about that time - because it’s ugly and lonely and not pretty at all.
Diane Lane meets John Cusak through an on-line dating service. Yeah, right. Guys like John Cusak need an on-line dating service. Women like Diane Lane need an on-line dating service. They don’t have people lined up around the corner, just waiting for them to be single and ready to date.
She talks about thinking that her ex was her one chance at being happy forever, that maybe that was as good as it gets. That rang true for me. It made me miss my soon-to-be ex for just a moment. I missed all the good things about him - the romance, the flowers, the warm embrace, spooning in bed every single night of our marriage. John Cusak says all of these wonderful, corny, cerebral things to Diane Lane and I thought, gee, I’d love to have someone say those things to me. Then I realized that my ex had said many of the same types of things to me during our life together and they made me smile or giggle or blush unashamedly. But it still didn’t work in the long run. Quote poetry all you want, when it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.
But in the movies, it has to work because it’s fantasy. And I have just as rich a fantasy life as any one in the movies. I imagine a blue-eyed man (I have a weakness for men with blue eyes) sweeping into my life, making me giddy with passion and excitement, then dancing me off into the sunset.
That’s the other thing you don’t see in the movies - the after the sunset. Or maybe that’s where these movies start, after the passion, after the toe-curling sex, after the thrill of his touch is long gone. Romantic comedies start with the end of the fairy tale and try to make you believe that there is another fairy tale out there for you.
And I admit, I sit here, hoping that there is another fairy tale out there for me. I had one for a while. And when it was good, it was the best. I’m not sure a new one could compete with it. But I cautiously look forward to at least trying.
In case you didn’t figure it out, I just saw “Must Love Dogs.” Diane Lane, John Cusak, Dermot Mulroney. Only in the movies does a woman like Diane Lane exist. She, with the great hair and perfect body (as much as they tried to dress her like you and me). She, who, in the movie, is bemoaning her life as she wanders from room to room in her gorgeous, well-decorated two story house with all the antique furniture. She, who drives a very expensive convertible but teaches pre-school. She, who, if she took her beautiful hair out of the hair clip and did that head-toss thing one more time, I was going to start throwing popcorn at the screen.
Her crisis is this - divorced eight months from a gorgeous firefighter, has to choose between John Cusak and Dermot Mulroney. Sorry, all sympathy just went out the window. I’ll never get that choice. Instead, I get two cyber-guys I’ve never met, one who thinks I’m (God help me) “hot” and the other thinks I’m “yummy.” Their pictures are only slightly frightening. Her bad dates in the movie will probably end up being the best dates I could get.
Movies never show the reality, which is why we go to see them, I guess. They don’t show the crying jags in the middle of the day just because you thought about him. They never show someone like me who is pretty much homeless and living off of friends. They don’t show the transition, they only show the healthy aftermath, after months of therapy and weeping, boring friends with your pity-parties, becoming sick of listening to yourself complain about your life. I guess that’s why they don’t make movies about that time - because it’s ugly and lonely and not pretty at all.
Diane Lane meets John Cusak through an on-line dating service. Yeah, right. Guys like John Cusak need an on-line dating service. Women like Diane Lane need an on-line dating service. They don’t have people lined up around the corner, just waiting for them to be single and ready to date.
She talks about thinking that her ex was her one chance at being happy forever, that maybe that was as good as it gets. That rang true for me. It made me miss my soon-to-be ex for just a moment. I missed all the good things about him - the romance, the flowers, the warm embrace, spooning in bed every single night of our marriage. John Cusak says all of these wonderful, corny, cerebral things to Diane Lane and I thought, gee, I’d love to have someone say those things to me. Then I realized that my ex had said many of the same types of things to me during our life together and they made me smile or giggle or blush unashamedly. But it still didn’t work in the long run. Quote poetry all you want, when it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.
But in the movies, it has to work because it’s fantasy. And I have just as rich a fantasy life as any one in the movies. I imagine a blue-eyed man (I have a weakness for men with blue eyes) sweeping into my life, making me giddy with passion and excitement, then dancing me off into the sunset.
That’s the other thing you don’t see in the movies - the after the sunset. Or maybe that’s where these movies start, after the passion, after the toe-curling sex, after the thrill of his touch is long gone. Romantic comedies start with the end of the fairy tale and try to make you believe that there is another fairy tale out there for you.
And I admit, I sit here, hoping that there is another fairy tale out there for me. I had one for a while. And when it was good, it was the best. I’m not sure a new one could compete with it. But I cautiously look forward to at least trying.
Footwear defines the woman
I found my old self under my bed. I dug out an old pair of scuffed up cowboy boots that I hadn't worn in years. The heels and souls were worn out, just like I was. I slipped my feet into them to see if they were worth saving. As their scuffed burgundy toes stuck out from beneath my jeans, I was struck by how much I had missed them. And how much I missed the woman who wore them. I know, another cliché point. But I didn't want to be 25 physically again. I just wanted to be the inner person I was. If only I had looked under the bed sooner, maybe the suicide watch could have been called off.
Sometimes, I think we women do that -- throw things under the bed and forget who we were when we wore them.
I always had daring footwear. At 20, I lived in 3-4 inch stiletto heels. Hey, it was the '80s. My leather miniskirt and 3 inch burgundy stilettos with cool cut-outs on the sides. Those shoes danced on a few bar railings in their time. My pink suede cowboy boots my husband finally made me throw away. Okay, maybe the '80s can't explain everything. Caramel colored cowboy boots with beautiful decorative ankle straps.
Then in my late 30's, I threw the boots -- and that person -- under the bed and put on generic sneakers. Flat, comfortable, hardly daring at all. Like the rest of my life. And quiet. Directing theatre, I felt I had to be quiet so I wore quiet shoes. I have since change my mind.
Now, I want to be heard. I want you to know I'm coming. I want crowds ot part when they hear my stomping feet. Whispers amongst strangers, "Who is that woman in those fabulous boots?"
Sometimes, I think we women do that -- throw things under the bed and forget who we were when we wore them.
I always had daring footwear. At 20, I lived in 3-4 inch stiletto heels. Hey, it was the '80s. My leather miniskirt and 3 inch burgundy stilettos with cool cut-outs on the sides. Those shoes danced on a few bar railings in their time. My pink suede cowboy boots my husband finally made me throw away. Okay, maybe the '80s can't explain everything. Caramel colored cowboy boots with beautiful decorative ankle straps.
Then in my late 30's, I threw the boots -- and that person -- under the bed and put on generic sneakers. Flat, comfortable, hardly daring at all. Like the rest of my life. And quiet. Directing theatre, I felt I had to be quiet so I wore quiet shoes. I have since change my mind.
Now, I want to be heard. I want you to know I'm coming. I want crowds ot part when they hear my stomping feet. Whispers amongst strangers, "Who is that woman in those fabulous boots?"
Monday, October 31, 2005
Standing on one foot at least now
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.
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.
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.
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