I've been trying to write a post all night, but I'm feeling lounge-y. I came home tonight, fed the dog, took a long hot shower, and have just been...LOUNGING.
Tomorrow night I'm getting together to make dinner with a group of girls I haven't hung out with since college.
Sunday, girls' brunch has been expanded to include the gay boys...and we're having it at La Strada. I'm not sure if La Strada still serves jello shots at brunch, but I'm guessing it will be a good time. (BC & PT Law Mom, you are of course invited. As usual details have not been nailed down.)
Hopefully in the next few days I'll get a post together about job stuff because it's been on my mind lately.
In the meantime, things are good.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Tough Crowd!
Well that joke went over like a lead balloon. Did I do too good a job or was it just not funny?
Boy’s ‘musician-routine’ text made me laugh when I received it. (Yes, it was also a little disappointing.) I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever read…and here I was sitting at home all mopey and stuff. I mean, the text was like bad acting or something.
So I sent him back and equally ridiculous text in a similar tone and then last night I sat down and wrote about my entire Saturday in the tone of a disaffected, angsty teenager…because that was how Boy’s text came across to me. (Plus I had a little reserve from his whole funk related to the “I’m going to lose my job” thing. It’s been over a month now, he still has his job, and he’s still all like, “Sigh. Poor me, and I just need to deal with this on my own.” Um, get a life.)
Sorry you didn’t like it. I totally had a blast writing it. And the good part? It kind of dispelled a lot of pent up anger (or possibly even real angst). It was fun to just let it out, be a selfish snit for a few hours, and then have the bonus of rereading it and laughing at myself.
Anyhoo, if it makes a difference – I’m feeling a lot better!
Relationships are strange – while you’re in them, you have to delude yourself just a little bit in regards to the other person in order to stick with it. Once you’re out, you have to tell yourself that they were a little worse than they actually were in order to get over it.
Boy’s ‘musician-routine’ text made me laugh when I received it. (Yes, it was also a little disappointing.) I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever read…and here I was sitting at home all mopey and stuff. I mean, the text was like bad acting or something.
So I sent him back and equally ridiculous text in a similar tone and then last night I sat down and wrote about my entire Saturday in the tone of a disaffected, angsty teenager…because that was how Boy’s text came across to me. (Plus I had a little reserve from his whole funk related to the “I’m going to lose my job” thing. It’s been over a month now, he still has his job, and he’s still all like, “Sigh. Poor me, and I just need to deal with this on my own.” Um, get a life.)
Sorry you didn’t like it. I totally had a blast writing it. And the good part? It kind of dispelled a lot of pent up anger (or possibly even real angst). It was fun to just let it out, be a selfish snit for a few hours, and then have the bonus of rereading it and laughing at myself.
Anyhoo, if it makes a difference – I’m feeling a lot better!
Relationships are strange – while you’re in them, you have to delude yourself just a little bit in regards to the other person in order to stick with it. Once you’re out, you have to tell yourself that they were a little worse than they actually were in order to get over it.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Anger and Self-Indulgence...
Ugh, it’s 8 pm, and I’m ready to go to bed. That’s the good thing about depression. You catch up on your sleep. Of course, the downside is, after sleeping for 14 hours you still feel like a warmed-over piece of crap in the mornings. The super-duper downside is that you are so absorbed in your own celebration of pain that you forget to fill the dog’s water bowl. The dog being the only creature that still wants to be around you as you fester in your own self-imposed misery. God, I’m a selfish asshole.
Anyhoo, I refuse to go to bed, and as such, I’m participating in NoBloPoMo or whatever it’s called…for a day. I realize that this defeats the point insofar NaNa-NaNaNa Hey-Hey-Hey dictates that you must post every day for a month, but I’m writing and your reading, so we’re all happy. Someone give me a cookie.
So, the rest of my weekend? Well wouldn’t you know, when you’re totally depressed and want to spend the entire day wallowing in your bathrobe, chain-smoking indoors, and doing tequila shots with your Care Bear the entire world decides to throw a party and invite you. No, they couldn’t wait until next week when you’re back on your feet and ready to broaden your horizons. It’s now or never – and insofar as you don’t feel like you have many friends or have been much of a good one lately, you go.
Sat. – 5 pm
One of my friends from law school had an inaugural book club meeting. I hadn’t planned on going as I’d been invited to another event that started at 6 pm, but after bailing so early on the housewarming party Friday night, I decided to attend. Plus, Wine-Time-Girl was going and had been begging me all week to go with her, figuring out up to the last second how I could squeeze in both events. As this was a last minute decision, I hadn’t read the book.
I pulled into the parking lot at the same time as a girl in a SUV. The drawn lines were narrow and it took me a second or two to negotiate the space. The girl in the SUV was already inside the bar by the time I turned off the ignition. Walking past her car, I noticed that she’d casually parked way over the line. The smug, bitter writer in me created an internal dialogue expressing, “Way to reveal your middle to upper middle class upbringing via a sense of entitlement that makes you think you don’t have to be considerate of the rest of the general population.”
Awesome.
The location of the first book club meeting was a wine bar in River Oaks. I’d been there before and generally hated the place. It’s super-pseudo-snotty (actually, it would be perfect for Dallas) and the wine, while decent, is always over-priced. The cheapest glass runs $10. I sidled up to the counter, and after the waiter ignored me for the proper amount of time given that I was dressed in my regular bohemian attire, I was allowed to order. He emptied one bottle, but it only filled half the glass, so he opened another and just poured that right on top.
Classy place.
Dude, if you’re going to stare down your nose at me for my wardrobe you should at least walk the walk and not be so gauche as to mix the wine. With a nice glass of (mixed) Merlot in my hand, I wandered around the place until I found the group, finally finding a space next to, you guessed it, the girl in the SUV.
Again, awesome.
In this girl’s defense, she did turn out to be pretty nice. Her only flaw was a horrible inability to create conversation segues. Despite arriving at the book club meeting with a healthy amount of condescension and general grumpiness, I enjoyed myself so much that I didn’t want to leave when the time came to go. The book was In the Time of Butterflies, and I was intrigued by the weaving of the true story of the Mirabal sisters’ political fight into a fiction narrative. Plus they all died for a cause they believed in, something I strangely envy at this point in my life. (Death and passion, is there anything better?) Not only that, but I also liked hearing the different women of the 'club' comment on their viewpoints of the characters’ choices. I wandered out to the car thinking, “Yep, I’m a judgmental asshole, and if only I could be more open-minded, I wouldn’t be so unhappy.”
My next stop was a party thrown by an Other-University grad who lived uptown in “The Hills,” a little enclave comprised of a strange mixture of hippies, intellectuals, and yuppies. Helluppies, if you will. Although I went to the school across town, I bonded more with the Other-University crowd. The only way to explain this is by telling a story. One night I sat at the Other-University graduate student bar with my friend Alex and another friend, a violinist. All three of us are prone to lie face down on our hardwood floors and listen to Rachmaninoff’s Second Concerto during bad times. The violinist’s father once told him he wasn’t Catholic enough and needed to make a decision whether or not he intended to come back to the fold. The friend proceeded into an existential crisis because rather than just choose whether or not to toe the Catholic line he veered off into a deeper direction.
“I’ve always pondered the idea that God doesn’t exist,” he told me, “but now that my father’s thrown down the gauntlet I feel as I must come to a firm decision. And if I decide that God doesn’t exist, then so many parts of my past that shaped my existence will now be without meaning.”
Yes, we are at times an angsty crowd, though filled with plenty of loathing, self-mockery, and humor.
Oh, but the story. We were sitting at the bar and Alex asked the violinist about a mutual friend they’d gone to school with. The violinist answered, “Well, she was doing really well in her grad program abroad. So well that she decided to go off her meds. Then she started sleeping with her professor and couldn’t speak in anything but rhyme. She ultimately went back on the meds, but during the intermediary period, her writing was so productive that she managed to parlay it into a gig with [well-known] magazine.”
Suffice to say, Other-University Grads are the type of people I can identify with. Whether medicated by prescriptions doled out by shrinks or using the good old fashioned method of liquor, we are a quirky, socially-awkward bunch that finds comfort in numbers. We rely on each other, not just for support, but for inspiration, and we encourage each other to seek out our passions/compulsions regardless of whether or not society thinks our pursuits have merit.
Plus, in certain moments, we're funny as hell...or at least we think so which is all that matters.
So yeah, I went to the party, the theme being “Recession” where my friend had created such foods as fluffer-nutters (peanut butter and marshmallow spread on white bread) and broccoli-cheese casserole. The hostess was a piano performance major turned investment banker and as she fretted over the set-up I sipped my recessional white zin and told her everything would be fine as long as the ingredients for Mai Thai's remained available.
I played the clown for most of the evening, turning my history with Boy into a comic routine that emitted round after round of laughs.
“When you say he stayed up until 10 am, do you mean he was UP the whole time?” someone asked.
“Oh honey, if there had been something in it for me, I would have been more than encouraging of his nocturnal activities,” I replied.
Running out of material I finally acknowledged, “Sorry folks. Show’s over.” Then I turned to Alex and said, “Now I can go home and slit my wrists.”
My favorite faux pas of the evening was when I stated a little too loudly, “No really, I’m good on the blood of Christ!”
Context, people. It’s all about context. Actually, even with context you might be offended, but I’ll still give you the background. You see, there’s this little church not more than a few miles from me. It’s called L*a*k*e*w*o*o*d and this little preacher dude named Joel O*s*t*e*e*n speaks there. My friends and I, horrible bitter atheists, who envy those who can actually believe in a higher power and find meaning in life through that belief, came up with a fun little plan. We wanted to smuggle flasks into the service and then play a game of drinking bingo, taking shots for words like ‘praise,’ ‘god,’ ‘great,’ you get the idea. Alex pondered aloud whether or not the church offered communion and if we would make idiots of ourselves at the altar. I replied that I wouldn’t go up there, offering, “No really, I’m good on the blood of Christ!” the joke being that communion usually involves wine, and given the smuggled flask, I would have had plenty of alcohol already.
Ah wine, the blood of Christ. Irony is great, isn’t it? Perhaps I should give God another shot.
[Oh sweet! The British comedies are playing on PBS. I love those.]
When our friend’s work group showed up, ie, the investment bankers, ie, the Hahvahd crowd, Alex and I made our polite exit, begging off for yet another party in Rosemont. (No offense to the Hahvahd crowd – I think we all know that I adore Ms. Chicken Magazine and the fabulous Peanut Butter Burrito – had those two showed up, I definitely would have stuck around.) As we left, Alex promised to throw a Depression party in a few months, and I agreed to follow with a Post-Apocalyptic shindig.
“Do you know how to cook rat?” Alex asked as we took our leave.
“That’s the beauty in getting the Post-Apocalyptic gig,” I told him. “Even if I serve the rat incorrectly, I doubt our friends will know any better.”
The party in Rosemont was a little more ‘edgy.’ This event was also true to the neighborhood, filled with architects, struggling musicians, and fashionistas. An upbeat Eurotrash-techno tune played in the background, while the food table offered dishes with more aesthetic flare than flavor. The main items at the bar were Bitters and the French version of Ouzo.
“Forgive me,” said the hostess when Alex introduced us, “my hands are covered in prosciutto and brussel sprouts.”
Don't you just hate it when that happens?
(If my little sister just read that she is now salivating because the kid LOVES brussel sprouts...barf.)
After a protracted conversation with a German biologist who looked at me quizzically every time I made a pun (damn language barrier), I cozied up to two lesbian writers. We proceeded to have a delightful discussion on literature and why life sucks, and today I was so excited when one of them friended me on Facebook. Around midnight I bid my farewells, but not because I worried that my ride would turn into a pumpkin. I could handle vegetable transportation. However, waking up to find myself in my ex-boyfriend’s bed for the second time in a week might cause psychological trauma.
[Wow. Way too much canned laughter on the British comedies. I’ve now turned off the tellie and switched to Yo-Yo Ma - Obrigado Brazil.]
Alex walked me out to my car, but not before we sent a text message to his girlfriend in New York to tell her how much we loved her.
“I so love that girl,” I told him. “If only she lived here, she and I could be best friends. Bitch…”
“I think you’re the only person I know who could get away with that statement,” Alex told me as he put me into my car.
“No really, She and [my different violinist friend] got together for drinks the other night in Manhattan. Augh! Hate them. Why can’t they all move here?”
(Houston really is the best city in this nation, and part of the reason is because very few others seem to realize it, thereby lowering the douchebag population by quite a large amount. Seriously, I think I'm the only one.)
Because Alex duly agrees with me on this topic (that our friends all move here - not that I'm a douchebag), he just gave me a hug and sent me on my merry way.
If you can’t tell, I had a wonderful evening. (I'm being serious here.) After letting the dog out, I put on my pajamas (which consisted of pants, socks, sweater, and a jacket) and jumped into bed. I let Martha climb on board because despite managing to always find a way to sleep exactly in the middle of the bed, she has turned out be quite the cost-efficient space heater.
I lay in bed for a few moments before I jumped up and grabbed my phone.
“Yeah, this sucks,” I texted Boy.
That cold, lonely bed.
A few seconds later I added, “If only it sucked for you, too. I wish I’d been born a man. Then I wouldn’t care.”
Why is that guys let go so easily when gals continue to ponder the relationship long after it’s over? How do they come to terms with the fact that it’s over and just move on, while I lie in bed missing their warm body despite the difficulties that the relationship created? Why do women worry about the feelings of everyone involved while men mourn the loss until a beer is thrown in their face? When would I ever get it right? I drifted off to sleep knowing that the next morning I would curse my masochism and my weakness in contacting him.
…Until I heard the phone sound that I had a text message.
“It’s not like that,” he replied, “If it helps, I’m at home writing and feeling miserable. It’s just that I gotta make this part of my journey alone. I have only good things to say about you, and I’m sure you can’t say the same thing about me. Trust me, it’s for the best.”
I’ve gotta make this journey alone? He was writing alright…and probably drinking. How else could such ugly clichés find their way into our conversation? Trust me, it’s for the best? Dude, I’ve walked this earth for a little while, and it’s rare that I find someone who understands me, who I understand, and who can dance my dance. When I find it, I’ll make that effort. I can look past the career issues, the drinking, the days of silent withdrawal, the problems in the bedroom. I’m willing to fight for you. Why won’t you do that for me?
I started to cry. Where had I gone wrong? How could he let it go so easily? Why did I keep repeating myself in this relationship version of Groundhog Day? I had to know, what was my fatal flaw? Sniveling and snotting, I waited.
“Honestly, all you did was make the mistake of seeking routine in a musician.”
What? OMG, I just wasted three months of my life on a pseudo-angst ridden four year old. What the hell? I mean, just because my blog is entitled “Act like a man,” doesn’t mean that I want to date a woman. Are you freakin’ kidding me? Your stuff isn’t even that good Boy! Of course, I didn’t reply such. A) we have a pot and kettle situation on that end, and B) Boy was true to his craft. Whenever there was an opportunity to write or play, Boy eagerly loaded his instruments into the car. He sat at home at night and practiced, but part of me felt like it was bullshit.
Routine in a musician? I wanted to text him and say that it was only through routine that I had been able to be productive in my writing. During law school, I had to schedule time to write, force myself to do it. And you know what? It made my writing better. Stupid Boy… You have no motivation to work, no motivation to get a degree. Nothing to force you to get out and see the world and in turn improve your craft. Everything's been handed to you, and I actually feel bad for you in that respect.
For the last week or so, I’ve been dying to jump in the car and drive without a destination. I want to roam small towns, sit in diners and pool halls watching people. I want to find new material and learn something about myself in the process. Boy? Boy just wants to go out and get plowed with his friends every night so that he can create a chemically-induced depression that somehow goads him on musically. A month or so after we met, he complained that he couldn’t write when he was getting laid, that all inspiration had left. How much depth is one person lacking when they can only find creativity when they are without the most basic of human interactions? No Boy, what you really need, is a real problem, or true hardship, some perspective, some kind of experience.
It is the catch-22 of our lives, of course…that we can’t create unless we’re miserable. I could find a normal job, could date/marry a nice corporate guy, but then what would I do? What would I be, how would I live? (Actually, this is a complete and total lie. In high school and college I could only write when I was unhappy, but now that I've been writing for awhile, I can sit down and do it on most days regardless of my mood or the time of day. And I'm still confused as to what would make me happy in regards to job/men. I'm just having too much fun with the angsty/Emo/high school tone of this post.) And really Boy, if someone’s going to be the drama queen in this relationship, um, er, ex-relationship, shouldn’t it be me? I mean, aren’t girls the one who are supposed to be stereotypically emotionally unstable?
And darn-it, I’m the island. You’re supposed to be the rock here, the one trying to get me to let down my emotional barriers. I’ve been through death and illness and suffering and solitude and self-imposed poverty. I’m the one who at thirty-three still can’t let go of my parents’ wish that I be a little corporate drone of society. Hell, I just graduated from law school, and I’m drafting legal briefs when I’d want nothing more than just to go work for a nice little non-profit. (Again, this is a lie, but roll with me. The post is almost over.) I’m the one with the depth here. Me, me, ME.
I texted him back full of dramatics…
I’ll keep that in mind for when I write my novel. Narcissists may make for bad lovers, but they are good characters-which might explain my dating dilemma. That and I think I’m searching for another artist like myself.
He texted back:
I’m pretty sure that was intentional…and if it was, it was pretty brilliant.
I smiled. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sent texts where the message went completely over the other person’s head. He’s shallow. He’s immature. He’s self-absorbed. He’s just like me. …And he gets it.
You can see why I have such a time letting him go.
Anyhoo, I refuse to go to bed, and as such, I’m participating in NoBloPoMo or whatever it’s called…for a day. I realize that this defeats the point insofar NaNa-NaNaNa Hey-Hey-Hey dictates that you must post every day for a month, but I’m writing and your reading, so we’re all happy. Someone give me a cookie.
So, the rest of my weekend? Well wouldn’t you know, when you’re totally depressed and want to spend the entire day wallowing in your bathrobe, chain-smoking indoors, and doing tequila shots with your Care Bear the entire world decides to throw a party and invite you. No, they couldn’t wait until next week when you’re back on your feet and ready to broaden your horizons. It’s now or never – and insofar as you don’t feel like you have many friends or have been much of a good one lately, you go.
Sat. – 5 pm
One of my friends from law school had an inaugural book club meeting. I hadn’t planned on going as I’d been invited to another event that started at 6 pm, but after bailing so early on the housewarming party Friday night, I decided to attend. Plus, Wine-Time-Girl was going and had been begging me all week to go with her, figuring out up to the last second how I could squeeze in both events. As this was a last minute decision, I hadn’t read the book.
I pulled into the parking lot at the same time as a girl in a SUV. The drawn lines were narrow and it took me a second or two to negotiate the space. The girl in the SUV was already inside the bar by the time I turned off the ignition. Walking past her car, I noticed that she’d casually parked way over the line. The smug, bitter writer in me created an internal dialogue expressing, “Way to reveal your middle to upper middle class upbringing via a sense of entitlement that makes you think you don’t have to be considerate of the rest of the general population.”
Awesome.
The location of the first book club meeting was a wine bar in River Oaks. I’d been there before and generally hated the place. It’s super-pseudo-snotty (actually, it would be perfect for Dallas) and the wine, while decent, is always over-priced. The cheapest glass runs $10. I sidled up to the counter, and after the waiter ignored me for the proper amount of time given that I was dressed in my regular bohemian attire, I was allowed to order. He emptied one bottle, but it only filled half the glass, so he opened another and just poured that right on top.
Classy place.
Dude, if you’re going to stare down your nose at me for my wardrobe you should at least walk the walk and not be so gauche as to mix the wine. With a nice glass of (mixed) Merlot in my hand, I wandered around the place until I found the group, finally finding a space next to, you guessed it, the girl in the SUV.
Again, awesome.
In this girl’s defense, she did turn out to be pretty nice. Her only flaw was a horrible inability to create conversation segues. Despite arriving at the book club meeting with a healthy amount of condescension and general grumpiness, I enjoyed myself so much that I didn’t want to leave when the time came to go. The book was In the Time of Butterflies, and I was intrigued by the weaving of the true story of the Mirabal sisters’ political fight into a fiction narrative. Plus they all died for a cause they believed in, something I strangely envy at this point in my life. (Death and passion, is there anything better?) Not only that, but I also liked hearing the different women of the 'club' comment on their viewpoints of the characters’ choices. I wandered out to the car thinking, “Yep, I’m a judgmental asshole, and if only I could be more open-minded, I wouldn’t be so unhappy.”
My next stop was a party thrown by an Other-University grad who lived uptown in “The Hills,” a little enclave comprised of a strange mixture of hippies, intellectuals, and yuppies. Helluppies, if you will. Although I went to the school across town, I bonded more with the Other-University crowd. The only way to explain this is by telling a story. One night I sat at the Other-University graduate student bar with my friend Alex and another friend, a violinist. All three of us are prone to lie face down on our hardwood floors and listen to Rachmaninoff’s Second Concerto during bad times. The violinist’s father once told him he wasn’t Catholic enough and needed to make a decision whether or not he intended to come back to the fold. The friend proceeded into an existential crisis because rather than just choose whether or not to toe the Catholic line he veered off into a deeper direction.
“I’ve always pondered the idea that God doesn’t exist,” he told me, “but now that my father’s thrown down the gauntlet I feel as I must come to a firm decision. And if I decide that God doesn’t exist, then so many parts of my past that shaped my existence will now be without meaning.”
Yes, we are at times an angsty crowd, though filled with plenty of loathing, self-mockery, and humor.
Oh, but the story. We were sitting at the bar and Alex asked the violinist about a mutual friend they’d gone to school with. The violinist answered, “Well, she was doing really well in her grad program abroad. So well that she decided to go off her meds. Then she started sleeping with her professor and couldn’t speak in anything but rhyme. She ultimately went back on the meds, but during the intermediary period, her writing was so productive that she managed to parlay it into a gig with [well-known] magazine.”
Suffice to say, Other-University Grads are the type of people I can identify with. Whether medicated by prescriptions doled out by shrinks or using the good old fashioned method of liquor, we are a quirky, socially-awkward bunch that finds comfort in numbers. We rely on each other, not just for support, but for inspiration, and we encourage each other to seek out our passions/compulsions regardless of whether or not society thinks our pursuits have merit.
Plus, in certain moments, we're funny as hell...or at least we think so which is all that matters.
So yeah, I went to the party, the theme being “Recession” where my friend had created such foods as fluffer-nutters (peanut butter and marshmallow spread on white bread) and broccoli-cheese casserole. The hostess was a piano performance major turned investment banker and as she fretted over the set-up I sipped my recessional white zin and told her everything would be fine as long as the ingredients for Mai Thai's remained available.
I played the clown for most of the evening, turning my history with Boy into a comic routine that emitted round after round of laughs.
“When you say he stayed up until 10 am, do you mean he was UP the whole time?” someone asked.
“Oh honey, if there had been something in it for me, I would have been more than encouraging of his nocturnal activities,” I replied.
Running out of material I finally acknowledged, “Sorry folks. Show’s over.” Then I turned to Alex and said, “Now I can go home and slit my wrists.”
My favorite faux pas of the evening was when I stated a little too loudly, “No really, I’m good on the blood of Christ!”
Context, people. It’s all about context. Actually, even with context you might be offended, but I’ll still give you the background. You see, there’s this little church not more than a few miles from me. It’s called L*a*k*e*w*o*o*d and this little preacher dude named Joel O*s*t*e*e*n speaks there. My friends and I, horrible bitter atheists, who envy those who can actually believe in a higher power and find meaning in life through that belief, came up with a fun little plan. We wanted to smuggle flasks into the service and then play a game of drinking bingo, taking shots for words like ‘praise,’ ‘god,’ ‘great,’ you get the idea. Alex pondered aloud whether or not the church offered communion and if we would make idiots of ourselves at the altar. I replied that I wouldn’t go up there, offering, “No really, I’m good on the blood of Christ!” the joke being that communion usually involves wine, and given the smuggled flask, I would have had plenty of alcohol already.
Ah wine, the blood of Christ. Irony is great, isn’t it? Perhaps I should give God another shot.
[Oh sweet! The British comedies are playing on PBS. I love those.]
When our friend’s work group showed up, ie, the investment bankers, ie, the Hahvahd crowd, Alex and I made our polite exit, begging off for yet another party in Rosemont. (No offense to the Hahvahd crowd – I think we all know that I adore Ms. Chicken Magazine and the fabulous Peanut Butter Burrito – had those two showed up, I definitely would have stuck around.) As we left, Alex promised to throw a Depression party in a few months, and I agreed to follow with a Post-Apocalyptic shindig.
“Do you know how to cook rat?” Alex asked as we took our leave.
“That’s the beauty in getting the Post-Apocalyptic gig,” I told him. “Even if I serve the rat incorrectly, I doubt our friends will know any better.”
The party in Rosemont was a little more ‘edgy.’ This event was also true to the neighborhood, filled with architects, struggling musicians, and fashionistas. An upbeat Eurotrash-techno tune played in the background, while the food table offered dishes with more aesthetic flare than flavor. The main items at the bar were Bitters and the French version of Ouzo.
“Forgive me,” said the hostess when Alex introduced us, “my hands are covered in prosciutto and brussel sprouts.”
Don't you just hate it when that happens?
(If my little sister just read that she is now salivating because the kid LOVES brussel sprouts...barf.)
After a protracted conversation with a German biologist who looked at me quizzically every time I made a pun (damn language barrier), I cozied up to two lesbian writers. We proceeded to have a delightful discussion on literature and why life sucks, and today I was so excited when one of them friended me on Facebook. Around midnight I bid my farewells, but not because I worried that my ride would turn into a pumpkin. I could handle vegetable transportation. However, waking up to find myself in my ex-boyfriend’s bed for the second time in a week might cause psychological trauma.
[Wow. Way too much canned laughter on the British comedies. I’ve now turned off the tellie and switched to Yo-Yo Ma - Obrigado Brazil.]
Alex walked me out to my car, but not before we sent a text message to his girlfriend in New York to tell her how much we loved her.
“I so love that girl,” I told him. “If only she lived here, she and I could be best friends. Bitch…”
“I think you’re the only person I know who could get away with that statement,” Alex told me as he put me into my car.
“No really, She and [my different violinist friend] got together for drinks the other night in Manhattan. Augh! Hate them. Why can’t they all move here?”
(Houston really is the best city in this nation, and part of the reason is because very few others seem to realize it, thereby lowering the douchebag population by quite a large amount. Seriously, I think I'm the only one.)
Because Alex duly agrees with me on this topic (that our friends all move here - not that I'm a douchebag), he just gave me a hug and sent me on my merry way.
If you can’t tell, I had a wonderful evening. (I'm being serious here.) After letting the dog out, I put on my pajamas (which consisted of pants, socks, sweater, and a jacket) and jumped into bed. I let Martha climb on board because despite managing to always find a way to sleep exactly in the middle of the bed, she has turned out be quite the cost-efficient space heater.
I lay in bed for a few moments before I jumped up and grabbed my phone.
“Yeah, this sucks,” I texted Boy.
That cold, lonely bed.
A few seconds later I added, “If only it sucked for you, too. I wish I’d been born a man. Then I wouldn’t care.”
Why is that guys let go so easily when gals continue to ponder the relationship long after it’s over? How do they come to terms with the fact that it’s over and just move on, while I lie in bed missing their warm body despite the difficulties that the relationship created? Why do women worry about the feelings of everyone involved while men mourn the loss until a beer is thrown in their face? When would I ever get it right? I drifted off to sleep knowing that the next morning I would curse my masochism and my weakness in contacting him.
…Until I heard the phone sound that I had a text message.
“It’s not like that,” he replied, “If it helps, I’m at home writing and feeling miserable. It’s just that I gotta make this part of my journey alone. I have only good things to say about you, and I’m sure you can’t say the same thing about me. Trust me, it’s for the best.”
I’ve gotta make this journey alone? He was writing alright…and probably drinking. How else could such ugly clichés find their way into our conversation? Trust me, it’s for the best? Dude, I’ve walked this earth for a little while, and it’s rare that I find someone who understands me, who I understand, and who can dance my dance. When I find it, I’ll make that effort. I can look past the career issues, the drinking, the days of silent withdrawal, the problems in the bedroom. I’m willing to fight for you. Why won’t you do that for me?
I started to cry. Where had I gone wrong? How could he let it go so easily? Why did I keep repeating myself in this relationship version of Groundhog Day? I had to know, what was my fatal flaw? Sniveling and snotting, I waited.
“Honestly, all you did was make the mistake of seeking routine in a musician.”
What? OMG, I just wasted three months of my life on a pseudo-angst ridden four year old. What the hell? I mean, just because my blog is entitled “Act like a man,” doesn’t mean that I want to date a woman. Are you freakin’ kidding me? Your stuff isn’t even that good Boy! Of course, I didn’t reply such. A) we have a pot and kettle situation on that end, and B) Boy was true to his craft. Whenever there was an opportunity to write or play, Boy eagerly loaded his instruments into the car. He sat at home at night and practiced, but part of me felt like it was bullshit.
Routine in a musician? I wanted to text him and say that it was only through routine that I had been able to be productive in my writing. During law school, I had to schedule time to write, force myself to do it. And you know what? It made my writing better. Stupid Boy… You have no motivation to work, no motivation to get a degree. Nothing to force you to get out and see the world and in turn improve your craft. Everything's been handed to you, and I actually feel bad for you in that respect.
For the last week or so, I’ve been dying to jump in the car and drive without a destination. I want to roam small towns, sit in diners and pool halls watching people. I want to find new material and learn something about myself in the process. Boy? Boy just wants to go out and get plowed with his friends every night so that he can create a chemically-induced depression that somehow goads him on musically. A month or so after we met, he complained that he couldn’t write when he was getting laid, that all inspiration had left. How much depth is one person lacking when they can only find creativity when they are without the most basic of human interactions? No Boy, what you really need, is a real problem, or true hardship, some perspective, some kind of experience.
It is the catch-22 of our lives, of course…that we can’t create unless we’re miserable. I could find a normal job, could date/marry a nice corporate guy, but then what would I do? What would I be, how would I live? (Actually, this is a complete and total lie. In high school and college I could only write when I was unhappy, but now that I've been writing for awhile, I can sit down and do it on most days regardless of my mood or the time of day. And I'm still confused as to what would make me happy in regards to job/men. I'm just having too much fun with the angsty/Emo/high school tone of this post.) And really Boy, if someone’s going to be the drama queen in this relationship, um, er, ex-relationship, shouldn’t it be me? I mean, aren’t girls the one who are supposed to be stereotypically emotionally unstable?
And darn-it, I’m the island. You’re supposed to be the rock here, the one trying to get me to let down my emotional barriers. I’ve been through death and illness and suffering and solitude and self-imposed poverty. I’m the one who at thirty-three still can’t let go of my parents’ wish that I be a little corporate drone of society. Hell, I just graduated from law school, and I’m drafting legal briefs when I’d want nothing more than just to go work for a nice little non-profit. (Again, this is a lie, but roll with me. The post is almost over.) I’m the one with the depth here. Me, me, ME.
I texted him back full of dramatics…
I’ll keep that in mind for when I write my novel. Narcissists may make for bad lovers, but they are good characters-which might explain my dating dilemma. That and I think I’m searching for another artist like myself.
He texted back:
I’m pretty sure that was intentional…and if it was, it was pretty brilliant.
I smiled. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sent texts where the message went completely over the other person’s head. He’s shallow. He’s immature. He’s self-absorbed. He’s just like me. …And he gets it.
You can see why I have such a time letting him go.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
It can't last...
I had a party to attend tonight. It was the housewarming party for a classmate from law school. Several weeks ago I’d RSVP’d as +1. I never do that. Even when I’m dating someone, I don’t want to be presumptuous (or couple-ish because it freaks me out). But Boy and I did everything together, and when I sent in my response, I didn’t even give it a thought.
Fifteen minutes after the start time of the event, I willed myself to go. There would be people there I hadn’t seen since graduation. I wanted to stay in touch. The only way to get over this would be to get myself up and moving. Sometimes going through the motions is enough to kick-start you back into your normal mode.
I lasted for twenty minutes.
As my friend gave me the tour of the house, I noticed the strangest things: wedding pictures, party attendees standing in pairs, things that normally wouldn't even catch my radar, much less bother me.
I’m not doing so hot these days. After spending last week in emotional denial, I’ve finally cracked, and for some reason, everything in the world seems uglier. The job situation seems much more dire. No longer am I slowly but surely moving towards that perfect job. Now it just looks like something that won’t work out. My part-time job that’s paying my bills doesn't seem worthy of attending, and I’d probably stop going if only it wouldn’t be worse to spend the day at home alone with my thoughts. Suddenly I’m not a recent law school graduate who just passed the bar. I’m a thirty-three year old who hasn’t been in this type of financial and professional situation since I was twenty-two. I feel like an abject failure, like everything in my life is wrong, and wrong by my doing. At the very least, I’ve always been strong and self-sufficient. Now I’m not even that.
Boy and I had the official break-up conversation last Sunday. It was probably one of the most amicable separations I’ve ever experienced. There was no crying or fighting. Rather we sat on his couch and talked about what was wrong, why it wasn’t working, and why it wasn’t reparable. All the while I firmly gripped his hand and made blithe, witty remarks, occasionally stopping to run my fingers through his hair or bury my head in his shoulder. When I got up to leave he asked me if I wanted to go to dinner the next night, and I turned to look at him in confusion.
“Should we do that?” I asked.
He replied that his only caveat was a meeting tomorrow, the topic of which was unknown, and it could very possibly turn out to be bad news, in which case he might not follow through on the plans. I agreed, but couldn’t decide if a dinner date was in fact the best way to start a break-up. The next morning I was almost relieved to pull up the news on the internet and read that his company had filed for bankruptcy.
The realization that it was over quickly sank in and over the next few days, I worked myself into a state of constant agitation. The week before when we’d just been fighting, I’d lounged at home with my books, plowing through page after page giddy with excitement over my free time. I’d cleaned everything in the house, relieved that after two months of non-stop social engagements with the Boy, I finally had the time to get things done. I hadn’t even gone out the night I found out I passed the bar. I just wanted to sit at home, pat the dog, and be serene.
Now things were different. I’d come home, crack open my book, and fall on the bed. A few minutes later, a car would drive down my back alley and Martha would run to the window…thinking it was Him. One night she sat perched on her hind legs at the sill keeping watch, convinced that Boy would arrive at any minute. For one car, she mistakenly thought he’d arrived and barreled down the stairs barking, jumping, and turning in circles. She sat at the door whining until I finally let her out, and with her nose she inspected the walk, the driveway, the patio.
“He’s not here,” I told her, “and he’s not coming back.”
A day or so later, after meeting Wine-Time-Girl for margaritas, I couldn’t bear to go home. I couldn’t do it, sit for hours as the dog monitored the window pathologically. At the same time, I didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to talk to anyone about the Boy or how I was feeling. I didn’t even want to THINK about it anymore. I just wanted it all to go away. And because I had a book in my bag, I left the restaurant, drove two blocks, and pulled into a bar. I ordered a Sterling Cabernet…and a water. Needed to pace myself after those margaritas, and besides, I didn’t want to drink so much as avoid the inevitable.
I pulled out the books in my bag, Little Children by Tom Perrotta and Rabbit Redux by Updike. I read the first line of each, deciding on Updike given that I didn’t think I was up for dialogue related to diaper changing. After an hour and a half, I’d barely touched the wine and decided to step outside for a cigarette.
Upon entering the patio, I ran into a gal I haven’t seen since college, and sat down with her and her husband. We caught up. We chatted about our current lives. We drank A LOT of wine. A few hours later I headed home, completely proud of myself. I think there’s something in me that feels the need to go to a bar alone after a break-up, as if to say, I’m not just okay, I’m freakin’ fantastic. It’s only been a few days and look at me. I’m ALONE at a BAR and I can sit here and do this and be smart/safe and enjoy it. Most women can’t do that EVER, much less after a break-up.
The next day I woke up feeling extremely rested, lighter. Unlike the other days, I didn’t stop and realize my situation only to feel tears roll down my cheeks moments later. I’d slept alone, but I’d slept well…and after a big night of boozing. Hot damn! Maybe I’d licked this thing. I looked out the window. It was still dark outside, but dawn was just beginning to crack. The tree that whipped in the hurricane and caused me so much fear now stood stalwart.
The tree from the hurricane…I wasn’t at my house during the hurricane.
Oh. My. God. I wasn’t at my house. I was at his house.
Oh crap.
I jumped out of bed, my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and found my clothes. As I threw on my slacks, pieces of the evening returned to me. I’d worked the day before at the lawyer’s office, and at some point I’d walked past a mirror and been startled by my reflection. Though I felt haggard and tired on the inside, my exterior gave no indication. The heels I wore lengthened my calves and my legs looked long and lean in the black pants. A black sweater coat hit all the angles of my body perfectly. My hair was pulled back, but a few curls found their way to freedom. The new hair, it looked so natural, so much like me. My body and face was thinner than it had been at twenty-two, and though there were a few new lines, in a way I looked younger. Sure, I’d lost that look of naivete and unknowingness, but something in my eyes betrayed a sense of life not seen since my childhood photos. It was as if a little imp was hiding inside me, waiting patiently for this period to pass.
I had wanted him to see me like this, grown up and professional, yet brimming with hope, as if my mere physical manifestation would somehow make him find me attractive again. How could I have been so delusional? I thought back to a few days before we’d had the fight. We’d had plans to go see a friend of his from Other-University play a harp recital. Though I’d been to recitals for friends of my own years ago, I couldn’t remember the proper attire, and just to be safe, I’d spent an hour curling my hair, doing my make-up, and dressing in a sexy black cocktail dress.
When Boy arrived in jeans I exclaimed, “Oh crud! I should have asked! Do you think I should change?”
“You can if you want,” he shrugged.
I walked back inside dejected. He hadn’t even looked at me.
DAMNIT. FUCK. WHAT WAS I THINKING?
I ran downstairs in search of my purse and shoes, and as I negotiated the cracked step, I heard the sound of the dog.
OHMYGOD, I STOPPED ON THE WAY HOME AND GOT THE DOG?
Fumbling around in the living room, I found my shoes and my purse, but not my phone. The light on the stereo told me it was 6:30 am. Boy lay asleep on the couch while Martha wandered nervously around the room. Her porta-crate sat in the corner. I’d brought it with me, but hadn’t unpacked it. Boy must have set it up and placed her blankie inside.
Now it all came back. I’d come over unannounced and when he opened the door, I walked inside without a care. Boy seemed neither surprised nor offended by my arrival. We got to the couch, and Martha crawled into his lap, just like always. We proceeded to watch last week’s episode of House, something we regularly dvr’ed since trivia night precluded our watching it on Tuesdays. I got up and searched for beer, but when I found none, Boy reminded me that my wine cube was still in the spot where I kept it. After House we watched Eli Stone, another favorite. I hung on for John Stewart, but like usual, faded out during the Colbert Report and went upstairs to bed.
God, I’d wanted it so badly, for everything to be like normal again, and for some reason, probably pity, he’d given it to me. That was why I felt so good when I awoke.
I sat on the chair next to the couch, wanting to find my phone, but not wanting to wake Boy. As I watched him sleep, little memories filled my mind. It’s funny, the moments you cherish the most after something is over. I have two memories that stand out in my mind. The first was a day or so after the hurricane. We were at my house with my newly returned electricity. As the restaurants were still closed, we made sandwiches for dinner, and I remember so distinctly how he tore up the pieces of lunch meat so that it covered every inch of the bread. Why that moment?
The other occurred one morning after Boy stayed over at my place. He’d begun his little bonding ritual with Martha and the two were out on their walk. When they were gone longer than expected, I peered out my blinds to see if they were within sight, and spied the two of them walking down the back alley, both with a happy little spring in their step, a Boy and his dog. I smiled all over.
I wondered what Boy’s moments were and if he had any. Perhaps the time we visited the bar at Other-University and then took ten different roads to find an unblocked exit as I sang Wagon Wheel at the top of my lungs? Maybe it was the night we invited a friend of ours over to watch a football game and the two of them drank until the early morning. I woke up around 4 am to find him crouched by the bed, staring at me intently, shit-face-plowed out of his mind.
“I was waiting for you to wake up,” he said, “because I wanted to tell you something.”
“What?” I asked.
“You’re awesome,” he answered.
I think at the time I told him to get the heck away from me and let me go back to sleep.
God, why did it have to go bad? I’ve dated a lot of guys, but there was something about Boy that I thought was different. Was it really him, or had I just so badly wanted to be with someone at this point in my life?
Martha, sensing a need to choose sides wandered over to the couch and rubbed up against Boy. I thought he was asleep, but an arm came down to pet her.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” I said.
“It’s okay,” he mumbled, “It’s not like I was doing anything.”
“I can’t believe I went to a bar by myself,” I groaned, “and got shit-faced in the process.”
“No worries,” he said, “I did it the night before and had to take a taxi.”
“Well, at least you had the brains not to drive,” I told him.
“No,” he said, “I got kicked out of the bar and they literally put me in a cab.”
Finally, I found my phone. As I headed out the door he called after me.
“Hey Ana?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for bringing Doggie by. I was glad to get to see her.”
“No problem.”
When I opened the door to my house it was freezing. In an attempt to save money, I haven’t turned on the heat. I led the dog up the stairs, turned on the shower to full blast, climbed inside, and then, just like all the previous days, sat down in the bathtub and cried.
Fifteen minutes after the start time of the event, I willed myself to go. There would be people there I hadn’t seen since graduation. I wanted to stay in touch. The only way to get over this would be to get myself up and moving. Sometimes going through the motions is enough to kick-start you back into your normal mode.
I lasted for twenty minutes.
As my friend gave me the tour of the house, I noticed the strangest things: wedding pictures, party attendees standing in pairs, things that normally wouldn't even catch my radar, much less bother me.
I’m not doing so hot these days. After spending last week in emotional denial, I’ve finally cracked, and for some reason, everything in the world seems uglier. The job situation seems much more dire. No longer am I slowly but surely moving towards that perfect job. Now it just looks like something that won’t work out. My part-time job that’s paying my bills doesn't seem worthy of attending, and I’d probably stop going if only it wouldn’t be worse to spend the day at home alone with my thoughts. Suddenly I’m not a recent law school graduate who just passed the bar. I’m a thirty-three year old who hasn’t been in this type of financial and professional situation since I was twenty-two. I feel like an abject failure, like everything in my life is wrong, and wrong by my doing. At the very least, I’ve always been strong and self-sufficient. Now I’m not even that.
Boy and I had the official break-up conversation last Sunday. It was probably one of the most amicable separations I’ve ever experienced. There was no crying or fighting. Rather we sat on his couch and talked about what was wrong, why it wasn’t working, and why it wasn’t reparable. All the while I firmly gripped his hand and made blithe, witty remarks, occasionally stopping to run my fingers through his hair or bury my head in his shoulder. When I got up to leave he asked me if I wanted to go to dinner the next night, and I turned to look at him in confusion.
“Should we do that?” I asked.
He replied that his only caveat was a meeting tomorrow, the topic of which was unknown, and it could very possibly turn out to be bad news, in which case he might not follow through on the plans. I agreed, but couldn’t decide if a dinner date was in fact the best way to start a break-up. The next morning I was almost relieved to pull up the news on the internet and read that his company had filed for bankruptcy.
The realization that it was over quickly sank in and over the next few days, I worked myself into a state of constant agitation. The week before when we’d just been fighting, I’d lounged at home with my books, plowing through page after page giddy with excitement over my free time. I’d cleaned everything in the house, relieved that after two months of non-stop social engagements with the Boy, I finally had the time to get things done. I hadn’t even gone out the night I found out I passed the bar. I just wanted to sit at home, pat the dog, and be serene.
Now things were different. I’d come home, crack open my book, and fall on the bed. A few minutes later, a car would drive down my back alley and Martha would run to the window…thinking it was Him. One night she sat perched on her hind legs at the sill keeping watch, convinced that Boy would arrive at any minute. For one car, she mistakenly thought he’d arrived and barreled down the stairs barking, jumping, and turning in circles. She sat at the door whining until I finally let her out, and with her nose she inspected the walk, the driveway, the patio.
“He’s not here,” I told her, “and he’s not coming back.”
A day or so later, after meeting Wine-Time-Girl for margaritas, I couldn’t bear to go home. I couldn’t do it, sit for hours as the dog monitored the window pathologically. At the same time, I didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to talk to anyone about the Boy or how I was feeling. I didn’t even want to THINK about it anymore. I just wanted it all to go away. And because I had a book in my bag, I left the restaurant, drove two blocks, and pulled into a bar. I ordered a Sterling Cabernet…and a water. Needed to pace myself after those margaritas, and besides, I didn’t want to drink so much as avoid the inevitable.
I pulled out the books in my bag, Little Children by Tom Perrotta and Rabbit Redux by Updike. I read the first line of each, deciding on Updike given that I didn’t think I was up for dialogue related to diaper changing. After an hour and a half, I’d barely touched the wine and decided to step outside for a cigarette.
Upon entering the patio, I ran into a gal I haven’t seen since college, and sat down with her and her husband. We caught up. We chatted about our current lives. We drank A LOT of wine. A few hours later I headed home, completely proud of myself. I think there’s something in me that feels the need to go to a bar alone after a break-up, as if to say, I’m not just okay, I’m freakin’ fantastic. It’s only been a few days and look at me. I’m ALONE at a BAR and I can sit here and do this and be smart/safe and enjoy it. Most women can’t do that EVER, much less after a break-up.
The next day I woke up feeling extremely rested, lighter. Unlike the other days, I didn’t stop and realize my situation only to feel tears roll down my cheeks moments later. I’d slept alone, but I’d slept well…and after a big night of boozing. Hot damn! Maybe I’d licked this thing. I looked out the window. It was still dark outside, but dawn was just beginning to crack. The tree that whipped in the hurricane and caused me so much fear now stood stalwart.
The tree from the hurricane…I wasn’t at my house during the hurricane.
Oh. My. God. I wasn’t at my house. I was at his house.
Oh crap.
I jumped out of bed, my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and found my clothes. As I threw on my slacks, pieces of the evening returned to me. I’d worked the day before at the lawyer’s office, and at some point I’d walked past a mirror and been startled by my reflection. Though I felt haggard and tired on the inside, my exterior gave no indication. The heels I wore lengthened my calves and my legs looked long and lean in the black pants. A black sweater coat hit all the angles of my body perfectly. My hair was pulled back, but a few curls found their way to freedom. The new hair, it looked so natural, so much like me. My body and face was thinner than it had been at twenty-two, and though there were a few new lines, in a way I looked younger. Sure, I’d lost that look of naivete and unknowingness, but something in my eyes betrayed a sense of life not seen since my childhood photos. It was as if a little imp was hiding inside me, waiting patiently for this period to pass.
I had wanted him to see me like this, grown up and professional, yet brimming with hope, as if my mere physical manifestation would somehow make him find me attractive again. How could I have been so delusional? I thought back to a few days before we’d had the fight. We’d had plans to go see a friend of his from Other-University play a harp recital. Though I’d been to recitals for friends of my own years ago, I couldn’t remember the proper attire, and just to be safe, I’d spent an hour curling my hair, doing my make-up, and dressing in a sexy black cocktail dress.
When Boy arrived in jeans I exclaimed, “Oh crud! I should have asked! Do you think I should change?”
“You can if you want,” he shrugged.
I walked back inside dejected. He hadn’t even looked at me.
DAMNIT. FUCK. WHAT WAS I THINKING?
I ran downstairs in search of my purse and shoes, and as I negotiated the cracked step, I heard the sound of the dog.
OHMYGOD, I STOPPED ON THE WAY HOME AND GOT THE DOG?
Fumbling around in the living room, I found my shoes and my purse, but not my phone. The light on the stereo told me it was 6:30 am. Boy lay asleep on the couch while Martha wandered nervously around the room. Her porta-crate sat in the corner. I’d brought it with me, but hadn’t unpacked it. Boy must have set it up and placed her blankie inside.
Now it all came back. I’d come over unannounced and when he opened the door, I walked inside without a care. Boy seemed neither surprised nor offended by my arrival. We got to the couch, and Martha crawled into his lap, just like always. We proceeded to watch last week’s episode of House, something we regularly dvr’ed since trivia night precluded our watching it on Tuesdays. I got up and searched for beer, but when I found none, Boy reminded me that my wine cube was still in the spot where I kept it. After House we watched Eli Stone, another favorite. I hung on for John Stewart, but like usual, faded out during the Colbert Report and went upstairs to bed.
God, I’d wanted it so badly, for everything to be like normal again, and for some reason, probably pity, he’d given it to me. That was why I felt so good when I awoke.
I sat on the chair next to the couch, wanting to find my phone, but not wanting to wake Boy. As I watched him sleep, little memories filled my mind. It’s funny, the moments you cherish the most after something is over. I have two memories that stand out in my mind. The first was a day or so after the hurricane. We were at my house with my newly returned electricity. As the restaurants were still closed, we made sandwiches for dinner, and I remember so distinctly how he tore up the pieces of lunch meat so that it covered every inch of the bread. Why that moment?
The other occurred one morning after Boy stayed over at my place. He’d begun his little bonding ritual with Martha and the two were out on their walk. When they were gone longer than expected, I peered out my blinds to see if they were within sight, and spied the two of them walking down the back alley, both with a happy little spring in their step, a Boy and his dog. I smiled all over.
I wondered what Boy’s moments were and if he had any. Perhaps the time we visited the bar at Other-University and then took ten different roads to find an unblocked exit as I sang Wagon Wheel at the top of my lungs? Maybe it was the night we invited a friend of ours over to watch a football game and the two of them drank until the early morning. I woke up around 4 am to find him crouched by the bed, staring at me intently, shit-face-plowed out of his mind.
“I was waiting for you to wake up,” he said, “because I wanted to tell you something.”
“What?” I asked.
“You’re awesome,” he answered.
I think at the time I told him to get the heck away from me and let me go back to sleep.
God, why did it have to go bad? I’ve dated a lot of guys, but there was something about Boy that I thought was different. Was it really him, or had I just so badly wanted to be with someone at this point in my life?
Martha, sensing a need to choose sides wandered over to the couch and rubbed up against Boy. I thought he was asleep, but an arm came down to pet her.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” I said.
“It’s okay,” he mumbled, “It’s not like I was doing anything.”
“I can’t believe I went to a bar by myself,” I groaned, “and got shit-faced in the process.”
“No worries,” he said, “I did it the night before and had to take a taxi.”
“Well, at least you had the brains not to drive,” I told him.
“No,” he said, “I got kicked out of the bar and they literally put me in a cab.”
Finally, I found my phone. As I headed out the door he called after me.
“Hey Ana?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for bringing Doggie by. I was glad to get to see her.”
“No problem.”
When I opened the door to my house it was freezing. In an attempt to save money, I haven’t turned on the heat. I led the dog up the stairs, turned on the shower to full blast, climbed inside, and then, just like all the previous days, sat down in the bathtub and cried.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
This past week...
I didn't write this week because I was a bundle of nerves. The election had my stomach in knots, bar results loomed on the horizon, and last weekend, Boy and I got into a fight.
And in the end...
Obama won the election. YES WE CAN!
I passed the bar. OH THANK YOU, [insert higher power of choice here...or in the alternative, my name since I was the one who busted my rear].
Boy and I broke up.
I'm still numb. As I type this, Wine-Time-Girl is on her way over with wine and Sex & the City dvds (the Jack Berger season) in an attempt to evoke an impending emotional reaction and eventual catharsis. (Personally, I've just been reading Rabbit, Run (and listening to a lot of Janis Joplin) all week in an attempt to get over it.)
Unlike Carrie, I probably won't get arrested for smoking pot this evening, as the only person I know who could supply it has disappeared off the face of the earth without even having the decency to leave me a post-it note.
Actually, that's not true. On the day I received my bar results, after sending countless text messages, I got this reply in the wee hours of the morning:
And in the end...
Obama won the election. YES WE CAN!
I passed the bar. OH THANK YOU, [insert higher power of choice here...or in the alternative, my name since I was the one who busted my rear].
Boy and I broke up.
I'm still numb. As I type this, Wine-Time-Girl is on her way over with wine and Sex & the City dvds (the Jack Berger season) in an attempt to evoke an impending emotional reaction and eventual catharsis. (Personally, I've just been reading Rabbit, Run (and listening to a lot of Janis Joplin) all week in an attempt to get over it.)
Unlike Carrie, I probably won't get arrested for smoking pot this evening, as the only person I know who could supply it has disappeared off the face of the earth without even having the decency to leave me a post-it note.
Actually, that's not true. On the day I received my bar results, after sending countless text messages, I got this reply in the wee hours of the morning:
Sorry. I'm having a very bad week and i'm trying not to go on a full out bender, but obviously am. I'm not trying to be a dick, but honestly i'm going to be an ass the next few days. It's got nothing to do with you, but it's an unfortunate reality.A new chapter (season) in Ana's life begins.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Finding yourself in your thirties...aka cultural differences within your own family...
Have I mentioned before that I have a blond-haired, blue-eyed, almost completely of German descent mother? No? Well, here she is.
(That's not a wig, people.)
Have I also mentioned that I was born with jet black hair, a streak of which ran down my entire back?
…Sorry, no pictures of that. I guess they didn’t want to save that moment forever.
So yeah, my mom had thin, blond hair…and me? I had the mane of terror. During my childhood it went from black to blond to red to light brown to its now current dark brown, but it was always quite the hassle. Every morning I woke up to face the wrath of my mother, my hair, and the hairbrush. It was so unruly, so thick! She had no idea what to do with it, and until the age of eleven, I went to school every day with two braids cascading down my shoulders. Once, when I was three, my mother couldn’t take it anymore and cut it all off. I cried, and my dad yelled. Mother never made me wear short hair again.
Good thing, too, because during my twenties, I got a pixie cut and would wake up each morning to witness my hair attempting to touch the ceiling. I hated the barber. They could never cut it right. Every time a shear came near my head, I walked out of the door looking as if I’d cut it myself. There was no styling my hair. It had a mind of its own. Every year my mother gave it a perm, but not a perm-perm, a body wave, to give it life and stuff.
And then one day, I walked into a salon, sat down in the chair, and the girl said to me, “So, you straighten your hair everyday?”
Straighten? No, I told her. I did not have naturally curly hair.
But yes, she insisted.
Can I tell you, I was thirty when this happened? THIRTY YEARS OLD and it never dawned on me that I might have naturally curly hair.
Looking back…
At it now…
I should…
Have seen the signs…
I should have noticed….
And what with my Asian grandma and all…
But my mother didn’t have curly hair, and how could she know? We just thought it tangled easily.
After this happened, I called my mother.
“Did you know I had curly hair?” I asked.
Disbelief, denial.
But the little idea in me had been formed, and suddenly, I was experimenting. What if I go to bed with it wet? What if I don’t blow it dry? What if I don’t brush it out? The results told me…my hair might be curly.
During law school I cut my own hair quite happily, but a few weeks ago, I’d had enough. After some YELP searching I made an appointment with an unknown girl at an unknown salon.
I plopped down in the chair, and she asked me what I wanted.
“Well,” I told her, “I don’t have naturally curly hair, but it is kinda wavy, and maybe you might indulge me, and possibly, could you just cut it like it was naturally curly?”
So for the first time in my life, someone used a diffuser on my scalp. And for the first time in my life, I had the strange joy of receiving a $10 discount on my hair because it wasn’t blown dry.
And the results?
So, it might not be a fro, but that is NOT straight hair.
Good thing I finally figured it out….at the age of 33. And I bet you ten bucks, when I go home for Christmas, my mother will ask me if I got a perm.
(That's not a wig, people.)
Have I also mentioned that I was born with jet black hair, a streak of which ran down my entire back?
…Sorry, no pictures of that. I guess they didn’t want to save that moment forever.
So yeah, my mom had thin, blond hair…and me? I had the mane of terror. During my childhood it went from black to blond to red to light brown to its now current dark brown, but it was always quite the hassle. Every morning I woke up to face the wrath of my mother, my hair, and the hairbrush. It was so unruly, so thick! She had no idea what to do with it, and until the age of eleven, I went to school every day with two braids cascading down my shoulders. Once, when I was three, my mother couldn’t take it anymore and cut it all off. I cried, and my dad yelled. Mother never made me wear short hair again.
Good thing, too, because during my twenties, I got a pixie cut and would wake up each morning to witness my hair attempting to touch the ceiling. I hated the barber. They could never cut it right. Every time a shear came near my head, I walked out of the door looking as if I’d cut it myself. There was no styling my hair. It had a mind of its own. Every year my mother gave it a perm, but not a perm-perm, a body wave, to give it life and stuff.
And then one day, I walked into a salon, sat down in the chair, and the girl said to me, “So, you straighten your hair everyday?”
Straighten? No, I told her. I did not have naturally curly hair.
But yes, she insisted.
Can I tell you, I was thirty when this happened? THIRTY YEARS OLD and it never dawned on me that I might have naturally curly hair.
Looking back…
At it now…
I should…
Have seen the signs…
I should have noticed….
And what with my Asian grandma and all…
But my mother didn’t have curly hair, and how could she know? We just thought it tangled easily.
After this happened, I called my mother.
“Did you know I had curly hair?” I asked.
Disbelief, denial.
But the little idea in me had been formed, and suddenly, I was experimenting. What if I go to bed with it wet? What if I don’t blow it dry? What if I don’t brush it out? The results told me…my hair might be curly.
During law school I cut my own hair quite happily, but a few weeks ago, I’d had enough. After some YELP searching I made an appointment with an unknown girl at an unknown salon.
I plopped down in the chair, and she asked me what I wanted.
“Well,” I told her, “I don’t have naturally curly hair, but it is kinda wavy, and maybe you might indulge me, and possibly, could you just cut it like it was naturally curly?”
So for the first time in my life, someone used a diffuser on my scalp. And for the first time in my life, I had the strange joy of receiving a $10 discount on my hair because it wasn’t blown dry.
And the results?
So, it might not be a fro, but that is NOT straight hair.
Good thing I finally figured it out….at the age of 33. And I bet you ten bucks, when I go home for Christmas, my mother will ask me if I got a perm.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Hurricane "Relief"...
Dear Sprint,
I got your bill today. Inside was a nice little note to let me know that you'd waived any late, overage, roaming and call forwarding charges from 9/12/08 to 10/11/08 as a result of the fact that I'd been living in a disaster area.
Insofar as my phone didn't work for several days after the hurricane, I'm not sure how I could have racked up overage charges. And since it was difficult for anyone to get through, I couldn't exactly get a lot of access to my voicemail in order to forward my calls. And even if I could, where would I forward them to? No one else's phone was working either.
You know what's strange though? For some reason, most of us were able to get text messages through at certain moments, and THAT'S WHAT ALL OF US USED.
As a matter of fact, I went way over on my text messages for the last bill - 133 to be exact. You charged me $30 for that.
So yeah, Sprint, thanks for the hurricane relief. I bet you guys are taking a big hit financially for that one.
Love,
Ana
PS - Making your bills due on a Sunday is kinda douchey - since it really just means they're due on Friday.
I got your bill today. Inside was a nice little note to let me know that you'd waived any late, overage, roaming and call forwarding charges from 9/12/08 to 10/11/08 as a result of the fact that I'd been living in a disaster area.
Insofar as my phone didn't work for several days after the hurricane, I'm not sure how I could have racked up overage charges. And since it was difficult for anyone to get through, I couldn't exactly get a lot of access to my voicemail in order to forward my calls. And even if I could, where would I forward them to? No one else's phone was working either.
You know what's strange though? For some reason, most of us were able to get text messages through at certain moments, and THAT'S WHAT ALL OF US USED.
As a matter of fact, I went way over on my text messages for the last bill - 133 to be exact. You charged me $30 for that.
So yeah, Sprint, thanks for the hurricane relief. I bet you guys are taking a big hit financially for that one.
Love,
Ana
PS - Making your bills due on a Sunday is kinda douchey - since it really just means they're due on Friday.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Martha says "HAPPY HALLOWEEN!"
Gosh, the first time I typed the title I mis-wrote it as Happy Halloweed. That would have been funny. Sorry for being late in getting this up. I know, I'm a bad a owner.
Here's my little ladybug.
And here's a costume that was anonymously sent to Martha in the mail. Secret admirer or dog hater, do you think?
Here's my little ladybug.
And here's a costume that was anonymously sent to Martha in the mail. Secret admirer or dog hater, do you think?
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Me and Alice in Wonderland...
A week or so before I met Boy, Wine-Time-Girl and I were wandering around Sephora. It’s kind of a weekend pastime for us. After Sunday Brunch, we head over to Sephora, and WTG buys everything in sight while I dab different products on my wrist and make personal bets with myself as to which brand will be the first to create a drastic rash. However, on this day, I’d sampled a perfume called Pink Sugar.
Have you tried this stuff? It’s disgustingly sweet and smells like cotton candy. I spent five minutes gagging only to decide ultimately that it wasn’t so bad.
“You’re buying something?” WTG asked as I tossed the small bottle to the cashier.
“Dude, I bet boys dig this stuff, and I need all the help I can get,” I replied.
I was not wearing Pink Sugar the night I met Boy. The bottle stayed in the medicine cabinet for months. Every so often I’d take it out, sniff it, decide it was too sweet, and put it back. Besides, I had a dude now, no need to wear that crap. That is until I somehow got in the mode of wanting to wear perfume, and I didn’t have anything EXCEPT for the Pink Sugar. For the last few days I’ve put it on in the morning, and after the initial bout with nausea, go on with my day.
The other night Boy and I were cuddled up on the couch, and out of the blue, he started to sniff me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You smell like fruit shisha,” he said.
Note to the smoking gals: if you smoke and wear Pink Sugar, you will remind Boys not of sweet cotton candy, but rather hookah lounges.
And in a moment of total cuteness…
Yes, I’m still dating Boy.
Yes, I still like him.
Yes, I’m still shocked.
No, it’s not fantasy like, but strangely realistic.
No, he has not been canned yet, but the axe could fall at any moment.
A couple of weeks ago, WTG and I were talking about things, and she thought I was being too practical in my approach to the relationship. According to her, I never got too freaked out, I refused to sleep over except on weekends, I only called when he called me… WTG thought I needed to give it a little more and um, put myself a little more out there.
What? Why sleep over on weekdays? You just have to get up that much earlier the next day AND what was I going to do with the dog? I couldn’t leave her at home and she doesn’t like sleeping anywhere but her crate (which I call her ‘house’ and which is like, 30 pounds and not so portable). But I listened to WTG’s reasoning and how you have to tend to a relationship to make it a relationship and how even sleeping together is time spent together and yadda-yadda-yadda. So I made a phone call to Boy.
An hour or so later I was over there with Dog in hand and this:
Oh wait, I said total cuteness, and that was not it. The cute thing is, remember how Boy’s a songwriter/guitar player/musician guy? Well, we’ve been working on songs to sing together. I even bought a cheapo violin a few weeks ago so that I could fiddle while he played. (So far, I’m pretty good at the bowing – Don’t ask about the other stuff. I’m impressed I (sorta) got the bowing down this quickly.) All of this is to say that one night while I was sleeping Boy was at home writing and playing until the early hours of the morning…and sending multiple text messages.
In one of my messages he said, “I’ve found the perfect duet for us!”
When I got around to asking him about it, he pulled it up for me on YouTube.
“I’ve sang this with other girls before, but NEVER with someone I was dating,” he said excitedly.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Our Song…which probably explains a lot about me and Boy.
Yes, I think it's freakin' adorable.
Have you tried this stuff? It’s disgustingly sweet and smells like cotton candy. I spent five minutes gagging only to decide ultimately that it wasn’t so bad.
“You’re buying something?” WTG asked as I tossed the small bottle to the cashier.
“Dude, I bet boys dig this stuff, and I need all the help I can get,” I replied.
I was not wearing Pink Sugar the night I met Boy. The bottle stayed in the medicine cabinet for months. Every so often I’d take it out, sniff it, decide it was too sweet, and put it back. Besides, I had a dude now, no need to wear that crap. That is until I somehow got in the mode of wanting to wear perfume, and I didn’t have anything EXCEPT for the Pink Sugar. For the last few days I’ve put it on in the morning, and after the initial bout with nausea, go on with my day.
The other night Boy and I were cuddled up on the couch, and out of the blue, he started to sniff me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You smell like fruit shisha,” he said.
Note to the smoking gals: if you smoke and wear Pink Sugar, you will remind Boys not of sweet cotton candy, but rather hookah lounges.
And in a moment of total cuteness…
Yes, I’m still dating Boy.
Yes, I still like him.
Yes, I’m still shocked.
No, it’s not fantasy like, but strangely realistic.
No, he has not been canned yet, but the axe could fall at any moment.
A couple of weeks ago, WTG and I were talking about things, and she thought I was being too practical in my approach to the relationship. According to her, I never got too freaked out, I refused to sleep over except on weekends, I only called when he called me… WTG thought I needed to give it a little more and um, put myself a little more out there.
What? Why sleep over on weekdays? You just have to get up that much earlier the next day AND what was I going to do with the dog? I couldn’t leave her at home and she doesn’t like sleeping anywhere but her crate (which I call her ‘house’ and which is like, 30 pounds and not so portable). But I listened to WTG’s reasoning and how you have to tend to a relationship to make it a relationship and how even sleeping together is time spent together and yadda-yadda-yadda. So I made a phone call to Boy.
An hour or so later I was over there with Dog in hand and this:
Oh wait, I said total cuteness, and that was not it. The cute thing is, remember how Boy’s a songwriter/guitar player/musician guy? Well, we’ve been working on songs to sing together. I even bought a cheapo violin a few weeks ago so that I could fiddle while he played. (So far, I’m pretty good at the bowing – Don’t ask about the other stuff. I’m impressed I (sorta) got the bowing down this quickly.) All of this is to say that one night while I was sleeping Boy was at home writing and playing until the early hours of the morning…and sending multiple text messages.
In one of my messages he said, “I’ve found the perfect duet for us!”
When I got around to asking him about it, he pulled it up for me on YouTube.
“I’ve sang this with other girls before, but NEVER with someone I was dating,” he said excitedly.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Our Song…which probably explains a lot about me and Boy.
Yes, I think it's freakin' adorable.
Friday, October 24, 2008
You have to...
I voted today. I voted despite the fact that my vote is essentially worthless in the State of Texas. I've lived in Texas since '93, and I've consistently voted in every election except 2006. (Personal protest.)
What I'm trying to say is, if I'm willing to fight for a parking space and stand in line for twenty minutes for a vote that is meaningless year after year, then by golly, the rest of you should get out there and vote, too.
The opportunity to vote really is a cool thing.
...and if you don't do it, you're totally UN-AMERICAN.
Just kidding (on the un-American comment, not the voting part).
What I'm trying to say is, if I'm willing to fight for a parking space and stand in line for twenty minutes for a vote that is meaningless year after year, then by golly, the rest of you should get out there and vote, too.
The opportunity to vote really is a cool thing.
...and if you don't do it, you're totally UN-AMERICAN.
Just kidding (on the un-American comment, not the voting part).
Monday, October 20, 2008
Can You Read Me Now?
A week or so ago, someone commented that they’d been having difficulty accessing the site. I pulled it up and…no problems, so I figured it wasn’t an issue.
Today a not-so-anonymous commenter anonymously posted that the problem was that the site would not load in Internet Explorer.
Oh, why didn’t you say so? I have not used IE in years.
Upon attempting to load the page in IE I discovered, yep, it didn’t work.
After some googling it appears that something in my template was causing the problem. Certain websites said it might be the sitemeter script (which I removed because I don’t use sitemeter any longer) while others suggested removing anything recently added to the template. I went through and scratched everything added in the last sixty days or so, and now when I load the page in IE, it appears to be working.
If you continue to have issues, let me know.
(thinklikeawoman@gmail.com)
Otherwise, might I suggest a wonderful little browser called Firefox?
Today a not-so-anonymous commenter anonymously posted that the problem was that the site would not load in Internet Explorer.
Oh, why didn’t you say so? I have not used IE in years.
Upon attempting to load the page in IE I discovered, yep, it didn’t work.
After some googling it appears that something in my template was causing the problem. Certain websites said it might be the sitemeter script (which I removed because I don’t use sitemeter any longer) while others suggested removing anything recently added to the template. I went through and scratched everything added in the last sixty days or so, and now when I load the page in IE, it appears to be working.
If you continue to have issues, let me know.
(thinklikeawoman@gmail.com)
Otherwise, might I suggest a wonderful little browser called Firefox?
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Am I a Jackie or a Marilyn?
I am proud to say I'm neither (and really, if you're me, you have trouble drawing much of a distinction between Jackie and Marilyn)... Hat tip to E. McPan
You Are a Bette!
You are a Bette -- "I must be strong"
Bettes are direct, self-reliant, self-confident, and protective.
How to Get Along with Me
- Stand up for yourself... and me.
- Be confident, strong, and direct.
- Don't gossip about me or betray my trust.
- Be vulnerable and share your feelings. See and acknowledge my tender, vulnerable side.
- Give me space to be alone.
- Acknowledge the contributions I make, but don't flatter me.
- I often speak in an assertive way. Don't automatically assume it's a personal attack.
- When I scream, curse, and stomp around, try to remember that's just the way I am.
What I Like About Being a Bette
- being independent and self-reliant
- being able to take charge and meet challenges head on
- being courageous, straightforward, and honest
- getting all the enjoyment I can out of life
- supporting, empowering, and protecting those close to me
- upholding just causes
What's Hard About Being a Bette
- overwhelming people with my bluntness; scaring them away when I don't intend to
- being restless and impatient with others' incompetence
- sticking my neck out for people and receiving no appreciation for it
- never forgetting injuries or injustices
- putting too much pressure on myself
- getting high blood pressure when people don't obey the rules or when things don't go right
Bettes as Children Often
- are independent; have an inner strength and a fighting spirit
- are sometimes loners
- seize control so they won't be controlled
- figure out others' weaknesses
- attack verbally or physically when provoked
- take charge in the family because they perceive themselves as the strongest, or grow up in difficult or abusive surroundings
Bettes as Parents
- are often loyal, caring, involved, and devoted
- are sometimes overprotective
- can be demanding, controlling, and rigid
Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz
Saturday, October 18, 2008
And this too shall pass...
Law school teaches us to focus on the details: filing deadlines, differing facts, the interpretation of one word… I still remember receiving the review of my first legal memo. In the analysis arena, I got all of the possible points; in the grammar/punctuation portion, none. A grasp of the big picture was something I use to pride myself on, but yesterday, I realized that law school had worked its way with me, moved me over to the other side.
Lately I’ve been getting bogged down in details, and I’ve been miserable, but yesterday I took a step back, and here’s what I saw:
I am done with law school.
I’m working my way towards what may be a fabulous job.
In the meantime, I’ve got an interim job that allows for flexibility as I take on more work at the permanent job.
I’ve got a boy who seemingly likes me.
I have a best friend who I get to work with everyday in my interim job.
I’ve got two imperfect parents who are alive and love me.
I’ve got the cutest dog in the world who is the absolute muttalicious perfect size for a small house.
My siblings are cooler than your siblings.
My car runs. (Knock on wood.)
My (rent) house is adorable.
I’ve got a really good chance of passing the bar.
I’m thin.
I’m healthy (in the sense that I’ve got no immediate, life-threatening illnesses).
I’m constantly figuring out ways to meet new people.
I’ve got a good head on my shoulders.
I’m not pregnant.
I believe in myself.
My college football team is kicking ass this season.
With that in mind, I decided this weekend to just let everything go. Yes, money is tight, but that time will pass. Plus, this week I renegotiated rent with my landlord.
This morning I slept in as late as I wanted after staying up the night before to make progress in my book-club book (Eat, Pray, Love: Boy, do I have commentary on this one…barf). Around noon I took the dog for a walk because during the past week, I’d cheated her out of our nightly strolls. Not only was she getting frenetic, but my hips were beginning to expand.
Returning to the house, I decided to get my act together. After showering, I began one of my major cleaning sprees. Baseboards were washed. Dishes cleaned, dried, and put away. Counters were cleared and bleached; stovetops and sinks scrubbed to a shine. One load of laundry completed, a few items ironed, empty boxes placed in the dumpster, bills paid, linoleum and tiles mopped – multiple times.
Things with Boy are strange. I haven’t seen him in four days. On Thursday he texted to apologize for falling off the face of the earth and said he’d let me know if anything was going on Friday night. Friday we texted, but he ultimately stayed home and didn't ask me over. He told me that he’d definitely see me this afternoon before his soccer game, but I oddly knew that it wouldn't come to fruition. When he didn’t appear today, I didn’t text or call, and neither did he let me know that things weren’t happening.
Wine-Time-Girl is amazed at my level of calm, calling every few hours for a status update. I just reply that whatever will be, will be. At the same time, I’d kind of like him to stop by to pick up his things. I’ve got two guitars, one mandolin, an amp, and a cooler sitting in my extra room right now. I’d hoped today that the items would be cleared out so that I could vacuum. (Part of my calm stems from the belief that Boy is just so wrapped up in his own drama right now that I am an afterthought. I'm not thrilled about this, but at the same time, it sure beats having to pick up the pieces for him every night.)
Wine-Time and I are headed to a friend’s birthday party later this evening. In the meantime, I’m watching the Texas game, and Martha is proudly sporting her Longhorn sweater (as she naps).
In case I get antsy, I’ve made a list of things to do to keep me occupied: the bathroom still needs major scrubbing. My feet require a pumice rub. The towels need to be laundered, the teacups dusted.
It’s an odd time, an in-between period. But if I just keep my sanity, things will be fine.
Plus, girls’ brunch is tomorrow, and really, who can be worried when 50-cent mimosas are on the horizon?
Lately I’ve been getting bogged down in details, and I’ve been miserable, but yesterday I took a step back, and here’s what I saw:
I am done with law school.
I’m working my way towards what may be a fabulous job.
In the meantime, I’ve got an interim job that allows for flexibility as I take on more work at the permanent job.
I’ve got a boy who seemingly likes me.
I have a best friend who I get to work with everyday in my interim job.
I’ve got two imperfect parents who are alive and love me.
I’ve got the cutest dog in the world who is the absolute muttalicious perfect size for a small house.
My siblings are cooler than your siblings.
My car runs. (Knock on wood.)
My (rent) house is adorable.
I’ve got a really good chance of passing the bar.
I’m thin.
I’m healthy (in the sense that I’ve got no immediate, life-threatening illnesses).
I’m constantly figuring out ways to meet new people.
I’ve got a good head on my shoulders.
I’m not pregnant.
I believe in myself.
My college football team is kicking ass this season.
With that in mind, I decided this weekend to just let everything go. Yes, money is tight, but that time will pass. Plus, this week I renegotiated rent with my landlord.
This morning I slept in as late as I wanted after staying up the night before to make progress in my book-club book (Eat, Pray, Love: Boy, do I have commentary on this one…barf). Around noon I took the dog for a walk because during the past week, I’d cheated her out of our nightly strolls. Not only was she getting frenetic, but my hips were beginning to expand.
Returning to the house, I decided to get my act together. After showering, I began one of my major cleaning sprees. Baseboards were washed. Dishes cleaned, dried, and put away. Counters were cleared and bleached; stovetops and sinks scrubbed to a shine. One load of laundry completed, a few items ironed, empty boxes placed in the dumpster, bills paid, linoleum and tiles mopped – multiple times.
Things with Boy are strange. I haven’t seen him in four days. On Thursday he texted to apologize for falling off the face of the earth and said he’d let me know if anything was going on Friday night. Friday we texted, but he ultimately stayed home and didn't ask me over. He told me that he’d definitely see me this afternoon before his soccer game, but I oddly knew that it wouldn't come to fruition. When he didn’t appear today, I didn’t text or call, and neither did he let me know that things weren’t happening.
Wine-Time-Girl is amazed at my level of calm, calling every few hours for a status update. I just reply that whatever will be, will be. At the same time, I’d kind of like him to stop by to pick up his things. I’ve got two guitars, one mandolin, an amp, and a cooler sitting in my extra room right now. I’d hoped today that the items would be cleared out so that I could vacuum. (Part of my calm stems from the belief that Boy is just so wrapped up in his own drama right now that I am an afterthought. I'm not thrilled about this, but at the same time, it sure beats having to pick up the pieces for him every night.)
Wine-Time and I are headed to a friend’s birthday party later this evening. In the meantime, I’m watching the Texas game, and Martha is proudly sporting her Longhorn sweater (as she naps).
In case I get antsy, I’ve made a list of things to do to keep me occupied: the bathroom still needs major scrubbing. My feet require a pumice rub. The towels need to be laundered, the teacups dusted.
It’s an odd time, an in-between period. But if I just keep my sanity, things will be fine.
Plus, girls’ brunch is tomorrow, and really, who can be worried when 50-cent mimosas are on the horizon?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Gasp!
Ohmigosh, I almost forgot! I got a letter in the mail today from my law school, and I opened it suspiciously because I assumed they wanted money, or I owed a fine, or I forgot to fill out a form and technically didn't graduate.
No, no, no! It was my official class rank, and I'm proud to say, that I was in the top half of my class. (It was close.) Sure, I can whine about not being higher, esp when only like fifteen people were ahead of me after the first semester, BUT dude, after the last semester, I didn't think I was going to even make this level...and for the rest of my life I can say I was in the top half of my class...not like it matters or makes a difference...but I'm happy.
No, no, no! It was my official class rank, and I'm proud to say, that I was in the top half of my class. (It was close.) Sure, I can whine about not being higher, esp when only like fifteen people were ahead of me after the first semester, BUT dude, after the last semester, I didn't think I was going to even make this level...and for the rest of my life I can say I was in the top half of my class...not like it matters or makes a difference...but I'm happy.
What a crazy day!
Hrm..this post is on hold until I can reincarnate it. Decided I wasn't sure how much I wanted to say about new and old job...
Actually, do you ever just get really angry and let it all out kicking and screaming? It’s a relief, but at the same time, you say things you didn’t mean? Yeah, well that’s how it was. This morning I woke up and decided that if I really was that upset about my job, then I needed to quit…but upon reflection, I realized that I don’t want to quit nor do I want to end my time on a sour note after working there for a year and enjoying most of it. So, sorry for the rant. I took the original post down. It’s just been a stressful few months. [Sigh.]
Actually, do you ever just get really angry and let it all out kicking and screaming? It’s a relief, but at the same time, you say things you didn’t mean? Yeah, well that’s how it was. This morning I woke up and decided that if I really was that upset about my job, then I needed to quit…but upon reflection, I realized that I don’t want to quit nor do I want to end my time on a sour note after working there for a year and enjoying most of it. So, sorry for the rant. I took the original post down. It’s just been a stressful few months. [Sigh.]
Growing Pains...
Augh! I have so much to say, but can’t seem to find the time to do it these days. For example, yesterday, I had jury duty. Ha! The one time in my life that I’m barely getting by on a measly hourly wage, and I have to forgo eight hours of earning for traffic court. You can just imagine it, right? And the best part? I was peremptorily struck (stricken?) without even mentioning that I was a lawyer. Oh, it’s a story my friends, peremptorily struck for a speeding ticket case. Does this give you any idea of just how colorful I must be in real life?
But, but, but, that story will have to wait, because tonight once again, I’m here to talk about Boy. Yes, I know, y’all hate this discussion. Believe me, I know. My hits are dropping faster than the Dow. You really should be more loyal though; you know why? I hate dating. I am super, independent, self-sufficient girl, and the fact that I like someone who likes me back is quite the sociological venture. Plus, am I just supposed to be the single angst-ridden girl all my life? The girl you read to feel better about your own life?
Would you feel better if I said there were problems?
Oh, vultures you are! I must have received fifty hits for that line.
Suffice to say, anyone who’s been in a relationship knows that it’s not all shits and giggles and pony rides. Sometimes you have to work, and sometimes it sucks.
A week or so ago, Boy and I were joking about the tenacity of our relationship. For starters, our meeting was a drunken one night stand. Really, how many relationships survive a cheap evening of physical pleasure that end with a girl dumping guy at his car, waving blithely, and saying, “See you around?” I mean how many guys stop and think, “You know, before she got completely hammered from drinking two bottles of wine all by herself in addition to the four ‘panty burner’ shots that the party hostess kept offering, that girl provided some interesting conversation. I should really track down her number and call her.” (?)
And once you’ve jumped through that hoop, what kind of idiot accepts an invitation for a three day camping expedition as a first date? What city girl suffers through a weekend without toilets or showers with a man she’s only met once and under the prior circumstances?
And then, just when you think everything’s going to be normal, low and behold, a massive hurricane hits your town, leaving you without electricity, plumbing (again), stop lights, roofing, etc, and you’re forced to play house for two weeks.
But still you survive.
And when you and your partner are joking about all the stuff you’ve been through in the very short life of your relationship, you turn to them and say, “What could possibly be next? Geez, I hope no one dies!”
No one has died…yet.
Boy however is about to lose his job. He knows it. I know it. Practically anyone who is watching his company knows it. (They’re about to tank big-time.)
And, well, this job, it gives Boy a sorta sense of direction, a purpose if you will.
He has no idea what to do, and to make matters worse, have I mentioned that Boy never graduated from college?
No? Did I miss that minor detail?
Yes, my friends Boy has no degree. Boy who attended college for six years (when you get suspended three times it takes a while), did not take that final leap. What’s the roadblock, you wonder? Well, despite a 1540 on the SAT and the aforementioned six years of schooling, Boy is just a bit shy of the degree. As it turns out, one of the most prestigious universities in the countries has a P.E. requirement, and Boy, being Boy, thinks that is, in a word, bullshit. Yes, all that’s standing between him and a college degree is a bowling class…or a golf class…or…you get the idea.
For all of you who are sitting here reading this thinking, “What an idiot,” you clearly do not understand Boy. As much as the Type-A-lawyer portion of my personality cringes at his decision, I kind of love him for it. And might I remind you, this Boy has not only heard of Camus, but read him…in the original French. And not just that, but he’s not the biggest fan of the Stranger. No, like me, Boy thinks The Plague is one of Camus’ greatest works because it is such a beautiful testament to a belief in humanity. You furrow your brow, but you’d be amazed at how many think The Plague is a depressing story. It is NOT!
Anyhoo, sometime yesterday Boy realized that his job was going to end, and he was lost, just lost.
To maintain a sense of normalcy, we went to trivia night at Boy’s favorite bar, and just like normal, we lost by one point (because no one ever listens to me when I know the answer - aka, unless I say, I KNOW THIS IS RIGHT AND I'LL BET YOU MONEY!!!!). But something was different. He was lost in thought, distant, disturbed. I had no idea what to do. This was Boy after all, Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky-everything’s-fine, the same guy who when I one night texted, “I don’t think this will work; maybe we should break up,” responded with “We’re fine. You need to relax; it’s late. Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”
Boy, Boy, Boy! Nothing I did could pull him out of it. No laughs. No hugs. And because we’ve known each other for SO long (again, like two months) I didn’t know how I should react. Did he want me to take him into his arms and smother him with kisses? I’m guessing no, but that’s what I wanted to do.
“I think I just need to get out of town for awhile,” he said.
Um, to think about things? Like your life path? Are you going to reconsider me, too? That’s what I’m thinking, of course. Please. Don’t. Leave.
I went home and let him be.
Today was the first day since we started dating that I have not heard the sound of his voice.
I don’t know what to do. I want to be there for him, but I don’t think he wants me around right now. So I just have to wait it out and have faith.
I’ve never felt so helpless.
But, but, but, that story will have to wait, because tonight once again, I’m here to talk about Boy. Yes, I know, y’all hate this discussion. Believe me, I know. My hits are dropping faster than the Dow. You really should be more loyal though; you know why? I hate dating. I am super, independent, self-sufficient girl, and the fact that I like someone who likes me back is quite the sociological venture. Plus, am I just supposed to be the single angst-ridden girl all my life? The girl you read to feel better about your own life?
Would you feel better if I said there were problems?
Oh, vultures you are! I must have received fifty hits for that line.
Suffice to say, anyone who’s been in a relationship knows that it’s not all shits and giggles and pony rides. Sometimes you have to work, and sometimes it sucks.
A week or so ago, Boy and I were joking about the tenacity of our relationship. For starters, our meeting was a drunken one night stand. Really, how many relationships survive a cheap evening of physical pleasure that end with a girl dumping guy at his car, waving blithely, and saying, “See you around?” I mean how many guys stop and think, “You know, before she got completely hammered from drinking two bottles of wine all by herself in addition to the four ‘panty burner’ shots that the party hostess kept offering, that girl provided some interesting conversation. I should really track down her number and call her.” (?)
And once you’ve jumped through that hoop, what kind of idiot accepts an invitation for a three day camping expedition as a first date? What city girl suffers through a weekend without toilets or showers with a man she’s only met once and under the prior circumstances?
And then, just when you think everything’s going to be normal, low and behold, a massive hurricane hits your town, leaving you without electricity, plumbing (again), stop lights, roofing, etc, and you’re forced to play house for two weeks.
But still you survive.
And when you and your partner are joking about all the stuff you’ve been through in the very short life of your relationship, you turn to them and say, “What could possibly be next? Geez, I hope no one dies!”
No one has died…yet.
Boy however is about to lose his job. He knows it. I know it. Practically anyone who is watching his company knows it. (They’re about to tank big-time.)
And, well, this job, it gives Boy a sorta sense of direction, a purpose if you will.
He has no idea what to do, and to make matters worse, have I mentioned that Boy never graduated from college?
No? Did I miss that minor detail?
Yes, my friends Boy has no degree. Boy who attended college for six years (when you get suspended three times it takes a while), did not take that final leap. What’s the roadblock, you wonder? Well, despite a 1540 on the SAT and the aforementioned six years of schooling, Boy is just a bit shy of the degree. As it turns out, one of the most prestigious universities in the countries has a P.E. requirement, and Boy, being Boy, thinks that is, in a word, bullshit. Yes, all that’s standing between him and a college degree is a bowling class…or a golf class…or…you get the idea.
For all of you who are sitting here reading this thinking, “What an idiot,” you clearly do not understand Boy. As much as the Type-A-lawyer portion of my personality cringes at his decision, I kind of love him for it. And might I remind you, this Boy has not only heard of Camus, but read him…in the original French. And not just that, but he’s not the biggest fan of the Stranger. No, like me, Boy thinks The Plague is one of Camus’ greatest works because it is such a beautiful testament to a belief in humanity. You furrow your brow, but you’d be amazed at how many think The Plague is a depressing story. It is NOT!
Anyhoo, sometime yesterday Boy realized that his job was going to end, and he was lost, just lost.
To maintain a sense of normalcy, we went to trivia night at Boy’s favorite bar, and just like normal, we lost by one point (because no one ever listens to me when I know the answer - aka, unless I say, I KNOW THIS IS RIGHT AND I'LL BET YOU MONEY!!!!). But something was different. He was lost in thought, distant, disturbed. I had no idea what to do. This was Boy after all, Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky-everything’s-fine, the same guy who when I one night texted, “I don’t think this will work; maybe we should break up,” responded with “We’re fine. You need to relax; it’s late. Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”
Boy, Boy, Boy! Nothing I did could pull him out of it. No laughs. No hugs. And because we’ve known each other for SO long (again, like two months) I didn’t know how I should react. Did he want me to take him into his arms and smother him with kisses? I’m guessing no, but that’s what I wanted to do.
“I think I just need to get out of town for awhile,” he said.
Um, to think about things? Like your life path? Are you going to reconsider me, too? That’s what I’m thinking, of course. Please. Don’t. Leave.
I went home and let him be.
Today was the first day since we started dating that I have not heard the sound of his voice.
I don’t know what to do. I want to be there for him, but I don’t think he wants me around right now. So I just have to wait it out and have faith.
I’ve never felt so helpless.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
Nothing in Particular...
I’m feeling chatty. Problem is, I don’t have any thing particular on my mind this evening.
Hrm, well, I am super crazy happy because Boy flaked on dinner plans for this evening. I know. You’re wondering why I would be happy about that, right? Well, it’s because I am finally starting to ‘get’ Boy and the way he operates. Let me explain.
Last night he worked an overnight shift and texted me at 5:30 am to ask about dinner. I agreed, and then told myself, “You know, Self, there’s a pretty good chance that Boy will be exhausted later and sleep through the dinner hour.”
So I called at 5:45 pm. No answer. (Boy can sleep through anything. If I physically beat him, he just turns over.)
At 6:15, I texted: Dinner plans? Confirm or Deny?
Nothing.
At 6:45 I added: Got hungry. Ate without you.
Then I went and did some shopping at Target (Wine Cube, yay!) and…for the first time since the hurricane, I went grocery shopping!
In the middle of all of this, Boy texted something to the effect of: Holy Cow! I totally fell asleep!
Tsk, tsk, you’re thinking, right? I mean, Boy essentially ditched me, right? Here’s the deal. After knowing Boy for eons and eons (as in 6-7 weeks) I have figured out that he is just this way. He doesn’t do it to be hurtful. He doesn’t do it because he doesn’t care or consider my schedule or whatever. In fact, bizarrely, I think it happens most of the time because he overextends himself. He wants to spend time with me, so he makes plans when it is unrealistic. I’ve learned (for the most part) not to freak out and go haywire or scream or cry. Instead, I tentatively have a back-up plan. And tonight, I was so, so very happy to finally get some grocery shopping done because I’ve been living out of a take-out box for the last two weeks.
The other side of this coin is, I can’t change Boy. I can choose to accept him the way he is, or I can walk away. And if I do choose to stay, I can’t whine (too much). However, I can wine…and I do.
I guess you’re wondering now WHY IN GOD’S/ALLAH’S/JEHOVAH’S NAME I of all people was up at 5:30 am, right?
Dude, I can’t tell you, but it’s becoming a pattern. I wake up between 5:30 and 6 am almost every morning now. Some mornings I will force myself back to sleep, but then I doze until past 9, and on the mornings I do get up, oh, can I be super lazy and luxurious about it. This morning I read a book in bed until 6 or so, then got up and did some chores, casually got dressed, did my make-up(!), took the dog out and was at work around 8:15. It was kind of awesome. No rush, no hurry. And it was so quiet in the tiny hours of the day, like it was my personal, special time or something.
Sure, I can say whatever I want, but the fact is, I’m getting old. So old, that I’m apparently adopting the sleep patterns of the average geriatric.
Okay, okay, fine. You made me tell you. In truth I’m having these vicious nightmares that typically end between 5:30-5:45 am and send me bolting upright in bed. There are always two in a row. The first one usually involves some kind of problem in a relationship. For example, in last night’s no one in my family would talk to me, and they wouldn’t tell me why. I was sobbing, begging them to tell me what was wrong, but they just looked at me sternly and told they couldn’t believe I’d done what I’d done.
The second one is always violent and involves me being chased, bound, kidnapped, trapped in a closet, involved in combat, etc. Fun, huh? I’m convinced it’s all stress related to an unknown future. I’m not sure what the first one means, but I’m pretty sure the second one has something to do with feeling a lack of control about what’s to come in relation to professional, personal, etc. That, and despite my joyful exuberance at getting my life back once the power returned to Boy’s house, I am dismayed to realize that I do not like sleeping without him. This is especially odd given that I do not like to share my bed with even the dog. Very unnerving.
Speaking of Boy, again, I was talking to Wine-Time-Girl today about how he is the first guy I can remember really liking while still being ridiculously aware of all his flaws. Usually when I like a guy this much it’s because I’m peering at him through rose-colored glasses from a vantage point far beneath his pedestal.
With Boy I walk into work each morning and say to Wine-Time-Girl, “He has this wrong and this wrong, and this wrong, but I still like him. Perhaps there is just something wrong with me?”
WTG, who is deeply ensconced in a 2+ year relationship finds this ridiculously entertaining. Still, I find it strange because I usually ditch guys who aren’t perfect, and who is? Yet every time he does something that drives me crazy, I find myself pausing and thinking, “Is this an issue worth raising? Do you want to leave over this?” Normally I would just get drunk and fly off the handle without any regard, then proudly pat myself on the back for sending the guy off on his merry way without having to be the dumper. I hate being the dumper. I would much rather be the person who gets the guy to leave on his own by acting crazy and dramatic and unstable. You’re totally in charge, they have no idea, and it’s fun to act like a crazy chick. I don’t do this with Boy, or when I do get upset and rambly, it’s pretty justified. And he listens or consoles me in the just the way that works to calm me down. It’s so strange.
And it’s not just me. Martha adores him, and dutifully follows him everywhere. They take little walks together so that they can have their private time, and when Boy and I are jetting off somewhere he often asks if we can bring the dog. When I make plans to come to his house he’s all, “Don’t forget to bring Martha!” Now, I love Martha, but that’s mostly because she is MY dog. For others, she is just a crazy, energetic mess. But Boy loves her too, and says she is my ‘best accessory.’ (Oh, PS – I so can’t wait to show you her Halloween costume. WTG is threatening to report me to the SPCA and Boy has shook his head in consternation, but Miss Martha WILL be a ladybug come Halloween.)
And did I tell you that I told Boy I had a blog on which I wrote about personal things including him, except that it was private, and he couldn't read it, but I wanted to let him know, and he was perfectly fine with what he called my mini-ego stroke (which it kind of is in addition to cheap therapy and creative outlet)?
Okay, that is enough of a gush over Boy. This is probably a good idea as tomorrow something will inevitably happen that will send me reeling, and I’ll be all like, “And I just wrote that post about him, too!”
Oh, did I mention that I met his parents last night? Me! I have only ever met one set of parents, and that was my first boyfriend. Since then, I have firmly refused. Firmly! Not with Boy. What is wrong with me?
And just in case you’re wondering how a guy who is not gay could possibly handle, deal with, enjoy a personality such as that of Ana’s, I might have a little idea. You see, both of Boy’s parents went to Other-University. Dad was a basketball/football player with a Math degree. Mom got hers in Mechanical Engineering. When Boy was still very little, Dad was making more than Mom when Mom got a job offer in Europe. Determined to continue her way through the glass ceiling after fighting in the Boy’s Club that was the engineering department, she wanted to take the job. Dad then quit his job so that she could go and he became a stay-at-home Dad. That’s the environment that Boy grew up in. Those are some bad-ass training wheels, my friends. And yes, I liked his mom.
Hrm, well, I am super crazy happy because Boy flaked on dinner plans for this evening. I know. You’re wondering why I would be happy about that, right? Well, it’s because I am finally starting to ‘get’ Boy and the way he operates. Let me explain.
Last night he worked an overnight shift and texted me at 5:30 am to ask about dinner. I agreed, and then told myself, “You know, Self, there’s a pretty good chance that Boy will be exhausted later and sleep through the dinner hour.”
So I called at 5:45 pm. No answer. (Boy can sleep through anything. If I physically beat him, he just turns over.)
At 6:15, I texted: Dinner plans? Confirm or Deny?
Nothing.
At 6:45 I added: Got hungry. Ate without you.
Then I went and did some shopping at Target (Wine Cube, yay!) and…for the first time since the hurricane, I went grocery shopping!
In the middle of all of this, Boy texted something to the effect of: Holy Cow! I totally fell asleep!
Tsk, tsk, you’re thinking, right? I mean, Boy essentially ditched me, right? Here’s the deal. After knowing Boy for eons and eons (as in 6-7 weeks) I have figured out that he is just this way. He doesn’t do it to be hurtful. He doesn’t do it because he doesn’t care or consider my schedule or whatever. In fact, bizarrely, I think it happens most of the time because he overextends himself. He wants to spend time with me, so he makes plans when it is unrealistic. I’ve learned (for the most part) not to freak out and go haywire or scream or cry. Instead, I tentatively have a back-up plan. And tonight, I was so, so very happy to finally get some grocery shopping done because I’ve been living out of a take-out box for the last two weeks.
The other side of this coin is, I can’t change Boy. I can choose to accept him the way he is, or I can walk away. And if I do choose to stay, I can’t whine (too much). However, I can wine…and I do.
I guess you’re wondering now WHY IN GOD’S/ALLAH’S/JEHOVAH’S NAME I of all people was up at 5:30 am, right?
Dude, I can’t tell you, but it’s becoming a pattern. I wake up between 5:30 and 6 am almost every morning now. Some mornings I will force myself back to sleep, but then I doze until past 9, and on the mornings I do get up, oh, can I be super lazy and luxurious about it. This morning I read a book in bed until 6 or so, then got up and did some chores, casually got dressed, did my make-up(!), took the dog out and was at work around 8:15. It was kind of awesome. No rush, no hurry. And it was so quiet in the tiny hours of the day, like it was my personal, special time or something.
Sure, I can say whatever I want, but the fact is, I’m getting old. So old, that I’m apparently adopting the sleep patterns of the average geriatric.
Okay, okay, fine. You made me tell you. In truth I’m having these vicious nightmares that typically end between 5:30-5:45 am and send me bolting upright in bed. There are always two in a row. The first one usually involves some kind of problem in a relationship. For example, in last night’s no one in my family would talk to me, and they wouldn’t tell me why. I was sobbing, begging them to tell me what was wrong, but they just looked at me sternly and told they couldn’t believe I’d done what I’d done.
The second one is always violent and involves me being chased, bound, kidnapped, trapped in a closet, involved in combat, etc. Fun, huh? I’m convinced it’s all stress related to an unknown future. I’m not sure what the first one means, but I’m pretty sure the second one has something to do with feeling a lack of control about what’s to come in relation to professional, personal, etc. That, and despite my joyful exuberance at getting my life back once the power returned to Boy’s house, I am dismayed to realize that I do not like sleeping without him. This is especially odd given that I do not like to share my bed with even the dog. Very unnerving.
Speaking of Boy, again, I was talking to Wine-Time-Girl today about how he is the first guy I can remember really liking while still being ridiculously aware of all his flaws. Usually when I like a guy this much it’s because I’m peering at him through rose-colored glasses from a vantage point far beneath his pedestal.
With Boy I walk into work each morning and say to Wine-Time-Girl, “He has this wrong and this wrong, and this wrong, but I still like him. Perhaps there is just something wrong with me?”
WTG, who is deeply ensconced in a 2+ year relationship finds this ridiculously entertaining. Still, I find it strange because I usually ditch guys who aren’t perfect, and who is? Yet every time he does something that drives me crazy, I find myself pausing and thinking, “Is this an issue worth raising? Do you want to leave over this?” Normally I would just get drunk and fly off the handle without any regard, then proudly pat myself on the back for sending the guy off on his merry way without having to be the dumper. I hate being the dumper. I would much rather be the person who gets the guy to leave on his own by acting crazy and dramatic and unstable. You’re totally in charge, they have no idea, and it’s fun to act like a crazy chick. I don’t do this with Boy, or when I do get upset and rambly, it’s pretty justified. And he listens or consoles me in the just the way that works to calm me down. It’s so strange.
And it’s not just me. Martha adores him, and dutifully follows him everywhere. They take little walks together so that they can have their private time, and when Boy and I are jetting off somewhere he often asks if we can bring the dog. When I make plans to come to his house he’s all, “Don’t forget to bring Martha!” Now, I love Martha, but that’s mostly because she is MY dog. For others, she is just a crazy, energetic mess. But Boy loves her too, and says she is my ‘best accessory.’ (Oh, PS – I so can’t wait to show you her Halloween costume. WTG is threatening to report me to the SPCA and Boy has shook his head in consternation, but Miss Martha WILL be a ladybug come Halloween.)
And did I tell you that I told Boy I had a blog on which I wrote about personal things including him, except that it was private, and he couldn't read it, but I wanted to let him know, and he was perfectly fine with what he called my mini-ego stroke (which it kind of is in addition to cheap therapy and creative outlet)?
Okay, that is enough of a gush over Boy. This is probably a good idea as tomorrow something will inevitably happen that will send me reeling, and I’ll be all like, “And I just wrote that post about him, too!”
Oh, did I mention that I met his parents last night? Me! I have only ever met one set of parents, and that was my first boyfriend. Since then, I have firmly refused. Firmly! Not with Boy. What is wrong with me?
And just in case you’re wondering how a guy who is not gay could possibly handle, deal with, enjoy a personality such as that of Ana’s, I might have a little idea. You see, both of Boy’s parents went to Other-University. Dad was a basketball/football player with a Math degree. Mom got hers in Mechanical Engineering. When Boy was still very little, Dad was making more than Mom when Mom got a job offer in Europe. Determined to continue her way through the glass ceiling after fighting in the Boy’s Club that was the engineering department, she wanted to take the job. Dad then quit his job so that she could go and he became a stay-at-home Dad. That’s the environment that Boy grew up in. Those are some bad-ass training wheels, my friends. And yes, I liked his mom.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Perception is everything...
There are many things I like about structure and routine. I am definitely more productive when I have them. I feel better when I’m productive. Structure and routine are good.
Except... there are some structural/routine things that I just don’t/can’t/won’t buy into and one of them is the Monday-Friday, 8-5, 40-hour work week. Perhaps I should live in Europe because I think 40 hours a week is a teensy bit much. To me, my ideal and most ‘productive’ schedule would be more like 10-4. As for the stringent 8-5 thing, I’m kind of amazed at the number people who do it.
I literally cannot consistently work 8-5. How do people get there right at 8 or no more than 10 minutes late? Some nights I get to bed later, or sleep poorly or (gasp!) wake up early. And leave right at 5? Some days I churn through work and want to stay late while others days I stare at a computer screen trying valiantly to remember my last name or where I parked my car. But it’s 8-5 every day for most people, and they look at you sideways when you’re twenty minutes late or you leave fifteen minutes early. Such a slacker!
The other thing that gets my goat about this – as mentioned, I am productive person. A few days ago, I got pulled off an assignment so that I could finish someone else’s. This person had been working on the assignment for six days, done an estimated twenty hours of work, and was about half way done. Eight hours (and ten smoke breaks) later, I turned the other half in. Today, I learned that I had one error and all my substantive/editorial changes had been accepted (Because even though I’m technically just supposed to be checking citations and marking typos, I just can’t help myself, but suggest substantive changes as I review. It’s my favorite part of the job.) The gist of this is that I got paid half as much as the other guy to do the same amount of work. So yeah, they keep me around at my job despite the fact that I casually arrive during the midmorning with my big sunglasses, large cup of coffee in hand, and Dorothy Parker-like mumbling laced with sarcasm.
I don’t know what’s up with the rest of you law kids, but under-achievement is totally underrated. You too could be making fifteen bucks an hour and nursing a hangover every day.
Incidentally, I am OUT of wine this evening. I thought I’d be grabbing drinks with Boy, but he is out drinking and playing music with his friends. Bad Boy, Bad boy. In his defense, he is taking me out tomorrow night and to a soccer game on Sunday. Also, he offered me veto power on Guy’s Night which I declined because a) it was a good friend’s birthday, and b) I refuse to play “Mean Mommy.” Oh wait, I just remembered that I have beer in my fridge…uno momento.
Okay, I am BACK…and I have poured a can of Pearl Light into my wine glass. Say what you will about Pearl being a rock-gut cheapo beer. It is a total memory drink for me. My grandfather used to drink one every night with the six o’clock news (just before his requisite ten glasses of scotch), and when I sip from my glass, I can’t help but feel transported back to San Antonio circa 1982. Mmmm, I can literally hear my grandmother yelling at him in that wonderfully shrill nag-like tone. God, I miss them.
OH! Random thought. Boxed wine. I know, it sounds awful, but a few weeks ago, Boy and I were headed on a road trip. There’s always beer, but he hasn’t quite yet learned to supply me with the red, and I was at Target, preparing for a weekend of couch camping and carefully loading bottles into my canvas sack when low and behold…Wine Cube. Wine Cube is a box wine that runs for under $20 and holds the equivalent of about FOUR bottles of wine. As I was about to embark on some travel, I decided to give the oh-so-portable Wine Cube a whirl. My assessment? Perfect. Not so bad to where you can’t drink it. Not so good to where you’ll drink a ton of it in one sitting. That thing lasted for ten days. (It doesn’t go bad immediately nor does it require refrigeration, so you don’t feel compelled to suck it down in one sitting.) I highly recommend.
We know return to our scheduled posting…Stay with me, kids.
I was talking about the 8-5 work day. Suffice to say, most days I get out of bed and into work at a reasonable hour, reasonable being a loosely defined term. However, I don’t especially like getting up in the morning, and when there’s an added incentive to stay in bed, it is exceptionally difficult. The Cracker Jack prize at which I hint just might be waking up to find a cute red-haired boy lying next to me. Cute red-headed boys are warm and snuggly. I mean really, why get up?
Of the two of us, I am known as the ‘practical’ and ‘responsible’ one. I know, it makes the mind reel, doesn’t it? Anyhoo, I guess because of this Boy just assumed that I’d be the one to hop out of bed in the morning and get the day rolling. Ha. More than once he’s woken up, shaken my shoulder, and said, “IS THAT CLOCK RIGHT?” then jumped out of bed and sped down the stairs while I casually yawn. After six weeks, he’s caught on though and the other morning I was greeted with:
Ana, it’s 7:30.
Mumblemumblemumble
Ana, it’s 8.
I roll over, kiss his shoulder, and fall immediately back to sleep.
Ana, it’s 8:45.
Okay, I guess I’ll get up now.
As Boy didn’t have to be at work until noon, he offered to walk the dog while I got dressed. (Single guys, I cannot tell you how many points you will get with the ladies for doing something like this.) By the time he returned, I was ready to go, and we sat on the steps for a few moments before filing into our respective cars.
“You’re going to be SOO late,” he said.
I looked at my watch. “Actually, only ten minutes or so,” I replied.
“What do you mean?”
I proceeded to explain my schedule to him. I’m hourly, and I can set whatever hours I want, but work insists that I schedule regular, consistent hours. For awhile, I said 8:30-5:30, but I was often late, and despite working at a laid-back place, everyone there is a lawyer, so I often got the evil eye. Ergo, I changed my schedule...to 9:30-5, but I don’t actually work those hours. I come in some time between 8 and 9:30, and then just work until I get my eight hours in. (I rarely take a lunch.) At the same time, if I’m not feeling it, I’ll just leave at 5. And the best part is, when I get there before 9:30, everyone thinks I’m all committed to my job and putting in the ‘extra effort.’ Same goes for when I ‘stay late.’
“Are you kidding me?” Boy asked.
“Nope,” I said. “It’s quite genius, actually.”
Except... there are some structural/routine things that I just don’t/can’t/won’t buy into and one of them is the Monday-Friday, 8-5, 40-hour work week. Perhaps I should live in Europe because I think 40 hours a week is a teensy bit much. To me, my ideal and most ‘productive’ schedule would be more like 10-4. As for the stringent 8-5 thing, I’m kind of amazed at the number people who do it.
I literally cannot consistently work 8-5. How do people get there right at 8 or no more than 10 minutes late? Some nights I get to bed later, or sleep poorly or (gasp!) wake up early. And leave right at 5? Some days I churn through work and want to stay late while others days I stare at a computer screen trying valiantly to remember my last name or where I parked my car. But it’s 8-5 every day for most people, and they look at you sideways when you’re twenty minutes late or you leave fifteen minutes early. Such a slacker!
The other thing that gets my goat about this – as mentioned, I am productive person. A few days ago, I got pulled off an assignment so that I could finish someone else’s. This person had been working on the assignment for six days, done an estimated twenty hours of work, and was about half way done. Eight hours (and ten smoke breaks) later, I turned the other half in. Today, I learned that I had one error and all my substantive/editorial changes had been accepted (Because even though I’m technically just supposed to be checking citations and marking typos, I just can’t help myself, but suggest substantive changes as I review. It’s my favorite part of the job.) The gist of this is that I got paid half as much as the other guy to do the same amount of work. So yeah, they keep me around at my job despite the fact that I casually arrive during the midmorning with my big sunglasses, large cup of coffee in hand, and Dorothy Parker-like mumbling laced with sarcasm.
I don’t know what’s up with the rest of you law kids, but under-achievement is totally underrated. You too could be making fifteen bucks an hour and nursing a hangover every day.
Incidentally, I am OUT of wine this evening. I thought I’d be grabbing drinks with Boy, but he is out drinking and playing music with his friends. Bad Boy, Bad boy. In his defense, he is taking me out tomorrow night and to a soccer game on Sunday. Also, he offered me veto power on Guy’s Night which I declined because a) it was a good friend’s birthday, and b) I refuse to play “Mean Mommy.” Oh wait, I just remembered that I have beer in my fridge…uno momento.
Okay, I am BACK…and I have poured a can of Pearl Light into my wine glass. Say what you will about Pearl being a rock-gut cheapo beer. It is a total memory drink for me. My grandfather used to drink one every night with the six o’clock news (just before his requisite ten glasses of scotch), and when I sip from my glass, I can’t help but feel transported back to San Antonio circa 1982. Mmmm, I can literally hear my grandmother yelling at him in that wonderfully shrill nag-like tone. God, I miss them.
OH! Random thought. Boxed wine. I know, it sounds awful, but a few weeks ago, Boy and I were headed on a road trip. There’s always beer, but he hasn’t quite yet learned to supply me with the red, and I was at Target, preparing for a weekend of couch camping and carefully loading bottles into my canvas sack when low and behold…Wine Cube. Wine Cube is a box wine that runs for under $20 and holds the equivalent of about FOUR bottles of wine. As I was about to embark on some travel, I decided to give the oh-so-portable Wine Cube a whirl. My assessment? Perfect. Not so bad to where you can’t drink it. Not so good to where you’ll drink a ton of it in one sitting. That thing lasted for ten days. (It doesn’t go bad immediately nor does it require refrigeration, so you don’t feel compelled to suck it down in one sitting.) I highly recommend.
We know return to our scheduled posting…Stay with me, kids.
I was talking about the 8-5 work day. Suffice to say, most days I get out of bed and into work at a reasonable hour, reasonable being a loosely defined term. However, I don’t especially like getting up in the morning, and when there’s an added incentive to stay in bed, it is exceptionally difficult. The Cracker Jack prize at which I hint just might be waking up to find a cute red-haired boy lying next to me. Cute red-headed boys are warm and snuggly. I mean really, why get up?
Of the two of us, I am known as the ‘practical’ and ‘responsible’ one. I know, it makes the mind reel, doesn’t it? Anyhoo, I guess because of this Boy just assumed that I’d be the one to hop out of bed in the morning and get the day rolling. Ha. More than once he’s woken up, shaken my shoulder, and said, “IS THAT CLOCK RIGHT?” then jumped out of bed and sped down the stairs while I casually yawn. After six weeks, he’s caught on though and the other morning I was greeted with:
Ana, it’s 7:30.
Mumblemumblemumble
Ana, it’s 8.
I roll over, kiss his shoulder, and fall immediately back to sleep.
Ana, it’s 8:45.
Okay, I guess I’ll get up now.
As Boy didn’t have to be at work until noon, he offered to walk the dog while I got dressed. (Single guys, I cannot tell you how many points you will get with the ladies for doing something like this.) By the time he returned, I was ready to go, and we sat on the steps for a few moments before filing into our respective cars.
“You’re going to be SOO late,” he said.
I looked at my watch. “Actually, only ten minutes or so,” I replied.
“What do you mean?”
I proceeded to explain my schedule to him. I’m hourly, and I can set whatever hours I want, but work insists that I schedule regular, consistent hours. For awhile, I said 8:30-5:30, but I was often late, and despite working at a laid-back place, everyone there is a lawyer, so I often got the evil eye. Ergo, I changed my schedule...to 9:30-5, but I don’t actually work those hours. I come in some time between 8 and 9:30, and then just work until I get my eight hours in. (I rarely take a lunch.) At the same time, if I’m not feeling it, I’ll just leave at 5. And the best part is, when I get there before 9:30, everyone thinks I’m all committed to my job and putting in the ‘extra effort.’ Same goes for when I ‘stay late.’
“Are you kidding me?” Boy asked.
“Nope,” I said. “It’s quite genius, actually.”
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
What are you, my mother?
Does anyone else hate it when you’re trying to find a statute on Westlaw, and you’re not sure what the magic abbreviation is, so you give it your best guess and Westlaw brings up a screen that says:
The proper citation format for blah-di-dah is…
And then it makes you type it in all over again…which is dumb because clearly, the program recognized what statute you were trying to retrieve.
I’m not sure what it says about the legal industry when even the computer search engines are hyper-detail-oriented to the point of being anal.
The proper citation format for blah-di-dah is…
And then it makes you type it in all over again…which is dumb because clearly, the program recognized what statute you were trying to retrieve.
I’m not sure what it says about the legal industry when even the computer search engines are hyper-detail-oriented to the point of being anal.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
You know you want one...
There’s a large bottle of Pellegrino sitting on my desk at work. Wine-Time-Girl walked by, picked it up, and said, “I’m jealous.”
“You want me to bring you a bottle?” I asked.
“No, it’s alright,” she said.
“No really,” I told her, “I have a ton. Fairy-God-Brother gives them to me by the case.”
“He does? Why?”
“He just knows I like it, so he gets it in bulk at Costco and then shows up at my house with some every so often,” I replied.
“Not fair! I want a gay boyfriend!”
“Don’t we all.”
“You want me to bring you a bottle?” I asked.
“No, it’s alright,” she said.
“No really,” I told her, “I have a ton. Fairy-God-Brother gives them to me by the case.”
“He does? Why?”
“He just knows I like it, so he gets it in bulk at Costco and then shows up at my house with some every so often,” I replied.
“Not fair! I want a gay boyfriend!”
“Don’t we all.”
What I'm like in the Morning...
I am never up before 8 am, but for the last several mornings I've briefly woken up between 5-6 am. Today, I decided to go ahead and get up, and now I remember all of the things I hate about getting up early. (Early for me, I mean.) Why does it wait so late to get light outside? I jumped out of bed and was like, "Whoo-hoo. I can walk the dog!" Except it's dark, and I'm not going to jog around this area in the dark.
I have a killer headache which means I must have drank too much wine last night. If I'd slept until 8:30, I bet I'd just feel tired. I think I drank more wine than usual though as I tried to break up with Boy over text message, or at least attempted to enflame him. Yeah, I don't know why I did this. I guess this will be something fo
I have a killer headache which means I must have drank too much wine last night. If I'd slept until 8:30, I bet I'd just feel tired. I think I drank more wine than usual though as I tried to break up with Boy over text message, or at least attempted to enflame him. Yeah, I don't know why I did this. I guess this will be something fo