The Child

I am a cauldron of rage, despair, strength for all the wrong reasons, and weak where I should be strong. The bones beneath my skin heavy, I can feel their brittleness, yet the skin on my arms feel as taught as strings on an instrument, so tight I fear I will rip apart when touched. How do I convey this shell, that, tears surge at the back of my throat when I want to speak, the pressure in my lungs, a body that is so fraught with tension it pains to be inside of it, that I want to peel myself out of this skin, tear the hair off my head and scream. Yet I can’t scream, the swell of the gale hammers against my throat but there is no sound. I am angry, I am sad, I am angry, I am hateful, I am beyond, I am loathsome of me.

The claustrophobia, the intense stimulus, the captivity, the insolence brought together is a maelstrom, a catalyst to my undoing. I know better, I know my buttons, I know my stressors, I know and yet I fail. I pretend, or perhaps I think I can overcome, but I know. I know. So do I walk, move away from what I know is wrong, wrong for me, or continue on knowing I am a fool, and that I am the only one to blame when the hell surfaces.

To the core of me I despise me, despise me for not being able to make the climb, for the wretched self I become, for my intolerability. I should be able to accept yet I can’t, it eats at me, makes me smaller than small, and then the ugly finds the holes to seep in. For when I hate me, I turn the key and open the door, the door to my nerves, my head, the muscles of my corpse.

I don’t want to be ugly. How can a child make me this way, I don’t have the words to even express the disgust welling in me, how abhorrent I am to be someone that cannot overcome. I can when I keep the boundaries sharp and clear but when it fades to grey, the cacophony beats its drums, there is no reprieve, a prick to a balloon, a shot to the head, and the world begins to fade to black, and what was once human becomes a creature that beats at the temples, so hard I want to scrape the skin from my face to make it go, to shut up, the space becomes a hazy vision of stimulus, where words and sounds do become sticks and stones, where I want to pull my nerves from end to end to make it stop, clap my hands over my ears and eyes and holler soundlessly till the beating ends. But it never ends, it worsens, I become smaller and smaller, the world shrinking to surround me, and I hide because any touch, any sound, any stimulus is needles. I want to take the needles and hurl them back, stop hurting me, stop touching me, can’t you see, you’re making me crazy.

And yet, all it is, is a child, a child I cannot overcome nor walk away, because the fault is to be borne by me, my inability to absorb what I cannot control. I cannot control this wildness, and my responsibility is to walk away. I am the third wheel and the issues are mine, and I need to leave be, remove from the equation, to help me, help them, help ugly.

The longer the conundrum stretches, the worse I feel, and worse is food for the ugly gods that feed within me, for every setback I face, they grow stronger, I feel weaker, they devour, I angst, I shrivel into a shell, arms cradled around me, wanting them all to go away, yet I must go on, weight within, to repeat what I know is wrong, again, yet I know…

Heavy

theres a heavy heavy sadness that sits right now, like being in the rain where occasionally the sun manages to find its way in, but the clouds seem to always be there and the fog never lifts, you get the occasional rays that warm up the soul and make you continue on, but then the rain socks back in and you pull on the coats and find the shelters, momentary relief till you need to go back out and let reality wash back onto you.

its murky, i feel murky, not necessarily bad but neither good. some good days tempered out by days i wonder why i run this race, is there an end or is this a circular course but no one's actually shared it with me, no matter how fast or how smart i drive that car, there is no checkered flag to herald the end of the race. so why keep racing, why not just stop, sit in the rain and just drown. because, because i say to myself when the sun does shine these days, it shines bright, bright enough to give hope.

am i strong enough and is there enough sun to bouy me through this next lap, because its going to be long and the hits are going to be hard. it makes my heart hurt, pound, constrict, thinking forward, why the fear? the fear of being wrong? the fear of not having what i have always had, the safety of the net. this would be my biggest step away from the nest, to cut the cord, to give up the one person that has always stood by me through thick and thin. and truth is, i dont know if i can do that, to rain down so much hurt when i have lived in that hurt for years, knowing pain and abandonment, knowing what its like to hit the bottom and crawl up, and knowing that what helped me crawl up was that very cord.

so where do i stand in this rain, in the deluge, with my umbrella, a new umbrella, an umbrella i ought to let go because when the winds come, it wont hold and i may break yet another one. because thats what i do, i bring them into my storm, and for a while they weather, storms can be fun, adrenaline, excitement, till the gales start and the world shakes and i need to let them go before they get so hurt they never recover, and so i can hide from the impending disaster.

my new umbrella is sweet, different, reinforced but do i really need one? i watch it lie here, fondly, and think, let it go, give it to someone else, don't watch it break. but what if? what if i give up the one umbrella that does weather the elements, if there is such a thing, and i suppose that is the question, is there such a thing? or is it just me, my coat and my own fortitude and see the umbrellas as passing tools?

Alcatraz Revisisted

Such a tremendous effort to live a life that was mine for years. How can it be that what was once normal, everyday, feels alien, unwelcoming, and painful? I am sinking, back into the quagmire, back down, I don’t want to be here again, I don’t want this, all the deadness rising back up, the constriction, all the walls pushing me in, I am suffocating.
I love my babies, just not here; I don’t want to be here. I want them with me, warm, safe, open, where my world is free, away from all these constraints that lock me down, no where to go, no where to turn, nothing that I want, no solace, no safety, just blocked passages squeezing me at every turn.
I cant love them properly here, my soul is screaming to be let out, why am I here again, I am barely functioning, nothing to give, each step, every thought an effort, every smile forced, every word aches. I hate this life.
I want to be drunk, I want to be sedated, I want to be insane, I want to be in bed where the world stops, I want to be anything but be in hell. I am in hell, my personal hell, who turns around and returns to jail willingly, thinking they will be fine, that the demons wont rise again, that the memories wont pervade, that the suffocation wont rise in the throat, that the fear wont close their chest, who thinks that it would be any different?
Its dark, is gray, there is nothing but a deathly stillness in the air, where did the life go, where did the energy leave me to, I turn in circles, I pace in lengths, I cant escape, nothing feels comfortable, nothing feels safe, where is my haven, I want safety, take the ugly away, its coming back, its coming back, make it leave, I didn’t want to be here, Pandora’s laughing.
Every minute is 30 minutes, the days endless, I strain my eyes at the clock willing night to come, and I pray when I awake that time has passed, that morning could be noon, that noon is evening, that its time to make the day end and the next come and come, but the corridor is so long, the end a dark tunnel I am not sure I can make it to, that the fears will push me back, the obligations stunt my steps, the clock will stop and I will fall before the door opens and the light comes back in.
I don’t want any of this, not one single material thing, I touch them and marvel that any of it meant anything to me, I don’t care, symbols of unhappiness, items bought and held to soothe a troubled soul, my Tylenol for the pain, my useless salves that worked till the next had to be bought.
If there were a God, if I believed there was a God, I would ask her to save me, please save me. Bring me my children and burn this world, eradicate it so it may never cross my path again, never drown me or hurt me as it does so. I didn't choose this, I never chose this, this was a necessity in a time of need, but I never chose this, never wanted this, never loved this, never welcomed this.

Oh my, 2 boys, 2 sides... whoops make it 3

Ok, it seems the only way to look at whats ensuing is to put this down on paper. what began as just idle amusement is now beginning to make me wonder if I should stop and think, of course, i probably should have done that before I picked the roses.

ive always been mildly intrigued with moody and very broody north sound bradley, he's always held a curiosity for me with his closed off manner, all burly with hidden eyes. i have known of him forever and vice versa, on an island of 4000 people how not to? We've never spoken much and when we have it's been a few sentences usually involving a boat, so what changed? my new found liberation? a desire to walk on the taboo side of dating on this island or just my need for entertainment.

regardless, this works for me well at work, when i set my mind to something, something will happen, and hence with bradley i turned on my powers of evil ever so slightly, let the phermones out and within a couple of days, magnetism was on and a day prior to his leaving for miami, we kiss at the bar briefly and the stage is set in motion for his return.

one would say i was all set, game locked, i put out my lure, i got a catch and now i just had to finish reeling it in, when walking down the dock a day later, i pass by valley boy, always with that look in his blue eyes, ive always thought him a player on this island, the girls around him, and in my mind, the resident island bad boy, devil may care as it gets . we give each other a look, a hello and i keep on my way. how fate works i dont know but as it goes, allan who works for valley boy, misplaces his fone and i meet him out later in the day and he asks me to call valley boy to leave a msg for him, sure, i do, voice mail.

later that evening i get a text from devil may care himself, would i be interested in a drink. well what do i think of this? really vida, what do you think of this? im perplexed as to where this has come from, we've never so much as exchanged past a few monosyllables over the last 11 years let alone a drink. why the hell not, im in a bit of a devil may care myself. back and forth a couple of days we text, im busy, he's busy we meet for a drink with friends at sunset, im almost a bit apprehensive, he has his son in tow.

well i could just slap myself with the backside of my foot, i actually like this guy, like WTF. i was cautious, more so than with bradley as valley boy's reputation as a player has reached my ears several times, though i caveat this is norm for most of the island. we go from drinks at the dock to later drinks at the bar, platonic, nice, even lovely. next day we come together on my island home for the boys to play, we have dinner as one big rowdy bunch and again, he's tempered, polite, and i could be fit to be gagged.

we are on day 3 now, back over for dinner again and the emotions flood about his marriage, the dissolution, the ansgt, and as he speaks, i realize he needs a friend, he's still hurting and this is not the place for me to go, friends it is. i can see that i look like a calm haven in a storm, though we all know I am the furthest thing from this, but to the un-tutored eye, i look downright together. nothing has happened between us, not even a brush of physicality, we could be eunuchs and im glad, last thing i want is him to come in contact with me, re-bound pyscho girl, id hurt him even more.

however, i am in a bit of a pickle, i have no idea what valley boy's intentions are, i do know where i stand with bradley, and lets not forget tampa boy, all 3, i might add, send me a note on valentine's day which led me to think, oh shit. this is a small island, though bradley and VB are on separate sides, it's small, and somewhere, without sounding pompous, to avoid, strife and war, i need to clue one into the other, minding raging male island egos and the fact that andy returns from miami today. it doesnt matter that nothing but a kiss has transpired with bradley and a hug with VB, expectations and territory are cavemanesque in these parts. with the way i roll, tampa boy will come for a visit too.

so what to do? let nature run its course... who do i play with? Bradley? then what? what of VB who i now harbour a soft spot for? and tampa boy, who is too far away and a florida diversion anyways till he steps foot on this side. but i sense he thinks he may be my one and only as well, bahahahah.

Greek Haze

If I ever wanted to know what it was like to be in a sorority, which mind you, I have never, ever, ever had the urge to do, but for the sake of cultural experiences and being a team player, yesterday was the day to broaden my horizons into this very American phenomenon.

I’m in Tampa, a city, up till a few months ago I could not have picked out on a map, let alone known anything distinguishing about. I have now learned in my ever expanding world that Tampa is the home of strip malls, strip clubs and white people with big boobs, bleached blonde hair and muscle shirts. Here, I look like a freak of nature and they all look normal. In four days in this city I have seen 5 Asian people, excepting the Asian people in the Thai restaurants, sushi bars, and local Asian groceries which is like going to the zoo to see the natives. Not to say that any of this is negative, but ultimately different after leaving a Caribbean Island of blacks and whites and the melting pot of Vancouver where not seeing an Asian person or mixed race couple would be anomaly. Speaking of which, I have not seen any Amer-Asian couples here either... or black and white...

Back to yesterday, there is town event called Gasparelli, where grown adults in their 20-40s re-live their college Greek days in a haze of alcohol and senseless festivities, bonding mindlessly over copious amounts of alcohol, I say mindlessly because with the level of noise and preoccupation in the quest for inebriation nothing of substance would formulate. I have to say I was immensely curious but with definite forebodings as the preparations for the day’s drinking became the focus point of all planning and I got to know the players in the game. This is all under the guise of a parade to celebrate pirates plundering Tampa Bay, truth is more along the lines of a reason for women to dress like slutty wenches and men to act like boorish unkempt pirates with the slutty wenches. Really a good day to throw out inhibitions and be your inner slut.

I met Celia, Latin, high spirited, luscious lips, single mother of a 23 month old child who had my jaw hanging to my toes as she told me about partying with her baby into the wee hours of the morning as it was her given right as birthing being to extend her baby monitor’s range down to the local bar. Ok, I have to say, I am a liberal mom, I’ll hike my kids across countries, demand they eat foreign foods to broaden their horizons and I have a sink or swim, face your issues teaching style, but, this is for their greater good, not mine, I'm not sure where my 5th tequila shot at the neighbourhood bar enables my toddler the next morning when she is off schedule and screaming at her lack of sleep while I fight off a massive hangover and the need to slit my wrists while holding my head in the toilet. Celia is also with Guido, madly, crazy in love with Guido, who broke up with her 2 weeks ago.

Then there’s Guido, exactly as the name implies, lots of hair gel, skinny, huge smile, but likely a big dick. He’s with Celia, but not really with Celia, because he broke up with her in a drunken haze, but they’re still together, but I can’t diss that as my track record on the break up be friends is a long and involved project. However, it seems, Guido, like myself, has some side projects already in works, but unlike me, the current project is still in the works and no where near ending, so my conclusion will be Guido and Celia will stay together as well as Guido and Leila and Guido and Myra and Guido and Reina and Celia will become bitter and hostile bemoaning her lot as a Latina female but will marry Guido.

Then there’s couple B, who I met at the Alumni lunch, the lunch at which I was not an Alumni, and felt yet again, strangely in a different space, rather like an alien stuck on the wall, observing but not quite clicking. Couple B has issues, they’re newlyweds, with issues. She’s beautiful, Latin (Celia's BFF who hates Guido) delicate features, mocha skin, gorgeous hair and pretty smile (an overbite but if you don’t look too hard you wont see it just like her snippy looks she gives her husband while still trying to stay pretty and charming), but also a very dominant personality when it comes to her husband who I daresay is likely henpecked but thinks his wife is probably prettier than he would ever find in the average white girl so he’s in for the ride. He’s your average white guy, kinda cute in the right light but not quite there. I daresay he is probably a swell guy, but not much came through amidst the 4 other strong personalities in the room, and a hazard a guess his wife would withhold sex for the next year if he let his white boy corniness come out too much (which on half a day of drinking was rearing its white head). I hazard she got an almost cute white boy and he got a pretty dime a dozen Latin girl, and they look good in the social perfect world of America driving their Jetta to their cottage in the soon to be perfect neighbourhood.

So this is the group, my group. Nothing like going out with BFFs that you have nothing in common with, and partying with a bunch of Frat kids re-living a dream who you also have nothing in common with forcing Psycho flashback nightmares of your one and only frat party you attended in 1989 where you stood in a beer and puke soaked corner frozen in horror at the vulgarness of your situation while some boy dressed in khakis and a blue shirt tried to dry hump you with his tiny penis while swigging a beer that came from a barrel in a tub.

I am remiss. The Alumni brunch, nothing like my Alumni brunch, but I did get to eat a moundful of breakfast sausages which made me very happy and perhaps I ate away some of my fears but didn’t have enough time to hurl it back down the toilet so then felt like a fat alien for the rest of the brunch listening to drinking, drunk, wasted, totaled, gooned war stories coupled with the best bars, clubs, holes and pubs to frequent if one ever went back to celebrate the glory days of college. I am dying here but I got game face on and the day is young, can only get better.

I managed to excuse myself to pee at least 5 times so as to breathe in the fumes of the bathroom for relaxation and ponder the meaning of my life as I sat on the porcelain throne eking out a few drops so I wouldn’t actually be lying and the preening peacocks in the bathroom not think I was a lesbian hanging in the stalls for a peek of jiggly thigh flesh.

Let me add its cold in the sunshine state, cold, cold, cold and I am severely under-dressed, and wearing a rain jacket 5 sizes too big for me, making my head look completely disproportionate to my body and just god damn ugly too. If anyone knows me, nothing gets me worse than being cold and unprepared, this lack of crucial control is crippling especially while group dynamics take over with no visible leader taking center stage (this would normally be me but thought best to not let my need to organize take over while on someone's turf) while standing in the parking lot watching people tail gate (why tail gate in the rain in a university parking lot, really why tail gate at all?) and no consensus on where to go. With weeks leading up to this event you'd think someone would have made a plan?

Ends up the smashing plan is to walk 2 blocks to the bar to make another plan. Common sense would have said we should have just walked to the bar to begin with before we began to pontificate on the best places to get drunk in Tampa prior to a parade in the rain.

Bar, typical college looking bar, pretty much a bar, wood floors, smelly toilets and a juke box. Pick it up, put it down in any college town and it wouldn’t be remiss. Purpose of bar is to drink as much as possible to be as smashed as possible and grunt and dance with strangers in mock camaraderie in the singular goal of getting shit faced in as loud a manner as humanly possible, while also checking out the opposite sex. I found this highly entertaining as long as no one actually touched me for too long or fell on top of me. I did try to pursue a few conversations but eventually realized the futility of this as no one was here to talk and I just seemed moronic. I would have been better off to grab a random male and shove my tongue down his throat and it would have seemed perfectly sane. I think they call this local customs. This is also where I felt I had leapt back 13 years in time to my dorm of sex and alcohol crazed freshman more stressed about rushing the best sorority and fraternity houses as opposed to actually studying and learning which I thought was the point of university. I could be wrong, if I went into Politics I would have had no need to study and would still be a brilliant Republican.

So now, grab greasy Italian sausage sandwich outside of the bar, still in the rain, to join 8 other breakfast sausages busily entertaining themselves in my burgeoning belly. It was good though, lip smacking grease, pound gaining pork and all. Next stop, parade route where we pass an amalgamation of sorts from pretty half naked blonde co-eds (note it is raining), muscle head boys running after the co-eds with coolers in tow and abs on display, to I-f*#@ked-my-cousin to look like this in-bred types, your standard issue meatheads, your cougars and panthers in heat, your basic issue muffin top girls and beer bellied boys and the list is endless. Who needs a parade with such a variety of intriguingly disgusting humanity?

Parade was not what I was thinking. Parade in my mind is pretty lined streets, pretty policeman smiling, an assortment of eclectic stalls, parents and children, friendly neighbours, food from around the world, and organization. I complain that Vancouver is Pleasantville, and y'know, for all my bitching, there are merits to Pleasantville, its clean and civilized and people are too well mannered to morph into screaming, sweaty apes. So, swallowing my shock, I decided to best indulge as the locals do. The point of the festivities, is to scream, jump, yell at passing floats in hopes of being hurled bead necklaces, which is the epitome of gold. Note, drunk, screaming grown men and women, throwing all sensibilities and decorum into the passing garbage for the chance to have more beaded necklaces then Joe-Bob who's married to Donna-Sue, his sister, screaming blind drunk, sweating like a freakin' pig, shirtless in all acneic glory, with matted armpit hairs stuck together with globules of deodorant letting his bestiality out beside me. There is some excitement in the process of dismantling and releasing one's inner red neck and the grotesqueness of standing beside a living breathing redneck.

There is also the observance of male behaviour in this city. If you are a blonde woman, young and with ample breasts, you are the Shining Star of David in this city, like bees to honey I watched the men walking the parade catch the sight and blindly bee line to the subject with armful of beads in hopes of touching the shiny object of lust. Curious. Very curious. I suppose this is why there are no ethnic groups in sight because you are pretty much ugly, and if you want any sort of self esteem its best to move North to a different state or South to Miami.

Not sure what the point of the floats were other than to throw beads. Some were cool but not overly remarkable and you were so busy hollering for beads you had no time to look at the floats whilst trying to break a back muscle leaping into the air for that $.01 beaded necklace before the next guy. I am sure, though did not witness, that one a many a fight has broken out over a purple plastic necklace.

Parade comes to close and I had in mind night time street party, lights, fireworks, picnics, concerts, performers... bahahahaha, I am an idiot.

We walk and walk and walk and walk to go eat bad Thai food, at which point I am done, past done, overly done and just done. I could not be more done and could only excuse myself to the bathroom once to celebrate my done-ness and enough material to write this tome. Did not help that everyone loved the awful Thai food and I smilingly nodded while grimacing internally and trying to tactfully avoid any conversation at this juncture for fear of imploding. Was quite the conundrum at the end of dinner, as plans were being made, yet again, outside in the cold, as to which bar to next frequent. Let me note, on long, long, long walk to Thai restaurant, same discussion ensued, whilst passing several bars, but due to inability of group to coalesce instead decided to walk half the town before negating all bars in lieu of bad Thai. So, coming full circle, I prayed that end result would bring me home, but if not, I would have to consume quite a bit of alcohol to masquerade any sense of liveliness. I was not going to be the party killer at such an auspicious local event, regardless of wet, soggy, cold state, aching knee, bloated belly from aforementioned sausages and complete and total mental shut down.

I was saved from the dead thanks to Plane boy, who echoed need to get home, and even with a 2 mile walk on pounding knee this sounded like heaven and I was happy to walk on coals just to get rid of the din of banality.

So this ends my cultural foray. Though my tone is very sarcastic and tends to the negative, this will be remembered, likely not to be repeated without better planning and a differing personality set, but there are stories to be told, and jokes to be made, and a story to commemorate. I did forget to mention my pee in the porta-potty which in a Third World Tsunami ravaged country I am happy to do, but in a First world nation there needs to be something more civilized...

Failure

I saw his face today, across the green murky video camera feed. He somehow looked older than I had ever seen him, the stretch across the lower jaw as you begin to age, the beginnings of age creeping in that I never noticed. But the hardest part was the slackness in the eyes, the emptiness and sadness looking back at me. I wanted to reach into the screen and touch through my sorry, my sorry for everything, my sorry for the hurt, the pain, the broken heart, I am so sorry for the chasm of all that could not be undone. Did I cause the light to go out, for you to lose your spark,

Everything across my screen looked so small and far away, like a tiny fishbowl that I wanted to press my palms onto, to look in, to watch my life without me, how it all could be the same but so different. How unknowing and innocent excepting the knowing in my mind, knowing what I held would change so much and they didn't know, they were all still so happy.

How long do I carry this time bomb of indecision, of fear, of moving forward with no regrets, accepting this as not failure yet feels like the mantle of failure? I know, when I step off that plank there will be no peter pan to swoop in, because heroes only exist in fairy tales, and a mistake in reality is borne by me and me alone.

Why cant I see this as a shining light, as that beacon at the end of tunnel, is it the sacrifice. I read copious amounts that tell me about me, about what I am, about what I do, about what I think, that all of this is normal for me, the instability, the chaos, the impulsiveness, how do you fight against what you are? Where are the words of light, of saviour, that maybe, maybe I can make the right choice, that maybe I don’t have to leave a trail of hurt in my wake. Is it ok, does it make it ok because the books say this is what I do? It’s ok because this is I, this is what I do, this is what I've been given and the children bear the sins of the mother.

There are no answers, just questions and doubts. I am insulated here, hidden, shrouded, but I know I am weak and fragile. Even a tiny sliver of reality jars like a million shards cutting, and I remember, I am not as strong as I wish. It’s good to have the reminder because I get complacent, begin to assume all is well with me, in a vacuum it's easy to be lulled into safety. Reality bit today and I bled.

There are days that I drop tears onto myself...

Walk Away

I feel like I've lost the upper hand right now and it makes me uneasy. I let down a guard, let a chink through in the wall, just enough to be plugged by a finger but now holding back a torrent. I complain and poke about walls and inhibitions but I know I am full of them myself, I need the ball in my court, firmly in the black and white, once it moves to gray I get unstable and uneasy, as I am now, and not liking it in the least. Am I ready to bolt, maybe I should?

I know I have been reticent to give away emotions or even too much of a sign of affection, what does that mean, it means I am harboring against being held to anything, if I don’t admit, or open to anything vulnerable than nothing can come back to me, no promises means no responsibility, and no responsibility means no guilt.

I'm no Catholic but guilt loves me, I am consumed by guilt and my ability to hurt, I hate hurting people and I absolve myself of this by not, or convince myself that by not committing- I can't commit a crime I never agreed to.

I talk about taking chances and leaps, physically I would do anything for crazy fun; hop a plane to Amsterdam on a whim, ride a motorbike into the nether regions of Vietnam, trek through Panama, meet the strangest of strangers, but the heart and soul, the heart is strongly fortified against risk, some days I can't find it myself, the beating muffled by the layers upon layers of insulation and the soul is just scarred stupid.

I want to say take a chance Vida, you never know, who might be and what might be, but what if it comes to nil and my words are held against me, what if I make a mistake and someone gets hurt? What if I roll full tilt as per norm and again flatten everything like a steam roller, could I live with myself?

I am gutted by indecision, flawed by my impetuousness and doomed by my fears.

I am a horrid person to be with, I am a roller coaster with no end, the turns and twirls exhilarating and tiring all at once, and the ride never ending, I never seem to coast into the final peaceful scenic ride of calm. I personally hate roller coasters, it’s a shame I just analogized myself into one... I personally like the pretty scenic ones with action around me as opposed to sitting in the pit of my stomach as I yet again corkscrew.

So the boy, I feel like I should put a huge "do not cross" yellow sign over me, maybe even wrapped all around me, with a few "danger" signs tacked on for good measure and perhaps crime scene tape as well. Is there a male version of me that somehow could break through my annoying, annoying sense of self-preservation and selfishness? Tame the beast so to speak, make me be alive for someone for a little longer than now, cut through the tape, the insulation, the walls, the hot and cold, the on and off. I quite like the laughs, the smiles, the energy, but what am I doing? I have doubts, I have hesitations, and I am scared of me. The so far beyond me power of me…

Run Forest Run, run away from yourself. I feel that familiar tug in my chest, its uncomfortable, it means there's risk and I am starting to move to close to my fire, care what he does and thinks and I’m fidgeting, I don’t want the uneasiness, I don’t want the unknown and I don’t want to be at the mercy of my thoughts, give it yet another finger hold into me to wring indecision and insecurity. If I cut the cord now, banish the niggling while its still young then maybe I can come away unscathed, and him too... walk away before I know, walk away before I put too much, walk away before I make any mistakes, walk away from risk. Leave the field open, nothing rooted in, nothing sown, just cattle grazing through, and never tilled. Albeit boring and never deep, nothing grows, but nothing to spoil and rot either; nothing to steal, nothing to take, just empty and unfettered.

Excellent Vida, you have now gone from analogizing yourself to a roller coaster, to a roller coaster on an empty, barren field wrapped in police tape with a few cows. Excellent, I feel just smashingly lovely playing in my field of fetid dung.

Living Pleasantville Hell

I'm in Hell. I think Hell may be nicer, for sure warmer.

I thought this as I drove home tonight, stomach clenched, nauseous, wondering if it was possible to have an out of body moment and have your soul drop through leaving your physical body out smiling, gurgling and pretending that things are just swell in Hellville previously acknowledged as Pleasantville.

I am bouncing off my bubble's walls, and the soap scum skin is starting to wear thin and shrink, making my trajectory tighter, more painful and infinitely less bearable. I've been living in clutter, the clutter of Christmas, the clutter of life, the clutter of ghosts of years past. I keep cleaning, arranging, moving, knowing full and well that no matter how hard I try, it's a mess, a hellacious mess that I just need to sweep into the dumpster and start over. The house is never going to be clean, it will be when my mind is clean, but my mind is soaked in a pail of soggy, brown, dish water blowing concentric bubbles that continue to encase me.

I went to dinner last night, perfunctory, felt like I should, a brief moment where I may have had fun. Outside looking in, it was Desperate Housewives mashed up with The Real Housewives mashed up with a show tune from Les Miserables, further mashed up with Leave it To Beaver.

Truth is, I really don't flipping care what you do, what you want, what you like and what woe is betiding you because if you thought to peer out of your little existence amidst the country clubs, the posh cars, the sniveling children, the square footage, and the best of the best of the best that you can possibly buy of shoes, bags, husbands and divorces to display, you will realize that you are nothing. That substance has molded, is rank and gone to reside somewhere in your 350cc left breast implant, tummy tuck or been sloughed off on your last chemical peel.

I am so tired of the charade, of pontificating on the woes of divorce and lack of men, rich men, to further pad your 5 million dollar home, how bored you are to play tennis everyday, how aghast you are at the incestuous sex lives of your neighbours that you secretly covet, off all the people in their Barbie world with their Barbie toys, the world that you whine incessantly about but would never dream of leaving, your ecosystem of waste and shame and privilege, wrapped up with the golden bow, sparkling smiles, shiny kids and purring hummers. I am just sick as a drive home, wondering how, why, where, and when did I go wrong, how did I end up here, filleted and gutted into a life I don't want, a baby that I would happily throw out with the bathwater.

Of course, it's my fault, I followed the yellow brick road, I veered to the path less trodden but I second-guessed myself and veered back when I should have stayed on the dirt path. I thought I needed Sleeping Beauty's castle, and I never saw the thorny bushes till they pierced right through. I made the mistake, let the rosy glow of materialism and perfectionism cloud me, let my guilt dangle the carrot in front of me, do the right thing, play with the shiny toys, have tea with Barbie. When I was little I used to dismember Barbie and pretend to sell her off as chicken pieces at my marketplace. I should have known better.

So now what? What do I do with the toys, with Ken, with Skipper, the Dream House, the accessories, with the glut of Mattel cluttering my life? They sure are pretty, all lovely, and hollow, aching, and everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Everywhere my head spins and I bounce off the walls and it's still there no matter where I turn, what I hide, where I clean. Or leave, but I can only leave so much, and all the everything just sits there waiting for me like that horrid plant from Little Shop of Horrors, ready to gobble me whole and then spit me out and eat me again and again and again as long as I keep coming back. It keeps me skinny…

Diversions

Can a dalliance strengthen a relationship? Can finding some fun spark a flame and open your eyes.

Boy is cute, fun and fluffy. Makes me smile, not necessarily my heart beat, but comfortable, entertaining and most of all, light. A nice guy, good to look at, not the best in bed, but workable.

I haven't slept with too many Americans, this has been the first time in 10-12 years, before which I slept with a few with underwhelming results. The first boy I ever slept with was American, and though I loved him, the orgasms and fireworks were non existent, leading me for years to think it was me. The next American down the line, sweet and loving, was a little like a horse with blinders.

Is it true? Do American men understand foreplay? Slow? Do we all need to go leaping for the clit? It's not an on switch, I am not a faucet, nor is it a stress massage ball.

You know, he's so nice, but unattentive in the sack, or maybe clueless, not sure. Maybe he's just not into me, or gay, but I think he may just be American. I checked the polls, American men are in the top 10 worst lovers, primarily for being too rough, which I can attest to. Harder, faster and stronger does not equate to awsome, amazing and awe inspiring.

But I think he can be taught, the first couple of naked moments culminated in a few groping moments, rough, scratchy. I hate to say the second time there was even less foreplay and a direct hit onto my clit like he was scrubbing a stain, which bordered on uncomfortable.

Saving grace, he has a good penis, not overly large or long, just right, good head which made up for the sprint to intercourse. It lasted a mere 5 minutes and the next time perhaps 10 which left a little to be desired damn it.

TBC

Mundane

I've realized, like my heart and soul, my blogs are random, they veer from the extremes of insanity to the mundane of life. I chitter about boys and then dream of technicolour death in the same day. I talk about roses and puppies and blood leaking from my skin. OK, I don't really talk about roses and puppies, usually just bad sex and random experiences that plague my soul.

It's the theatre of the macabre, Sex in the City amalgamated with the Rocky Horror Picture Show bundled up into an inocous package that is me. It's unfair that I look so inocous, like the librarian that by dark is the sexed up tart, I look ordinary, you would never know that I surf porn and dream of oral sex, that if could, I would kick every single pretentious school mum in the ass, that yes, I do want to run you over in my car, and have meaningless affairs with your husbands to occupy my mind. I hate smiling at you over de rigeur conversation over the weather and nodding pleasantly about your lauded volunteer work to turn our children into model citizens driving SUVs and coveting lake houses and second homes. I am sure your husband is having an affair but as long as you have your million dollar home, your daily trainer and Botox you should be fine. I think you're pathetic and myself pathetic for living in your world.

Truth is, I should have been a man. I have commitment issues, neediness makes my skin crawl. No, I don't feel the need to call you when I am away and I don't care what you're doing unless it's titillating. I like to be alone, and I'm selfish, I want you when I do, and when I do you better be on, and if I don't, be gone. I don't crave and covet, unless it's food or a great dress. I like fun and games, I don't want to pontificate on marriage. The big white dress and the Cinderella fairytale (unless he's a sugar daddy) nauseating. Give me a bikini, a beach, tequila, a party and an airplane to an unknown locale where I can find culture and life outside of marketed perfection.

I wonder as I walk down the street whether people can hear the ruminations of my mind, that i feel like a deer in headlights constantly in heat of some form. That I shop savagely for release, that I mingle amongst them for escape, that I'm scared to go home, that work is impossible, and life strangling.

I have a perfect Christmas tree, in my perfect house, on my perfect couch, with my perfect cat, and my perfect car outside. I also have the perfect tan, the perfect look and the perfect job. I am perfectly filled with shit.

I have to go to my perfect life now, so i bid you adieu till later.

Bitch

I'm on vacation, I haven't left the hotel room in 3 days, I traveled across the country to vacation in self angst, frolick in the surf of depression while sipping sugar rimmed margaritas. At least I wasn't cliche enough to cry into my drinks, instead I lay on the ground wondering how it could come to pass that, 3 days later, I was still in my pyjamas, laying on the ground when there was a bed, watching reality show re-runs on my laptop and serial cop shows on TV simultaneously and haphazardly attempting to do sit ups to somehow feel like I was worshipping my temple of a body in this time of need.

I am not sure how others handle angst but mine is a roiling hotpot of contradictions. I am not sure hotpots actually roil but being so amazingly muddled as I am it was probably the bargain basement model that got recalled for roiling.

What is there to say? That life feels so much better confined to 600 square feet at the Four Seasons with Mariska Hargitay as my constant companion in the quest for serial rapists while chewing on room service tuna tataki and drinking $5 Fiji water.

I was in a relationship with a wonderful man, who, against my will, is patiently waiting in the wings. It's been approximately 3 years together, 2 since he asked to move in and 1 since I have started to splinter. I have a fabulous job that would make you green with envy and I travel to exotic destinations that require bikinis and stilettos in the name of work. I also have 2 adorable, charming, well-mannered children who think I walk on water and I drive a Lexus and live in a 3000 sq ft home in the most coveted area of town. I also have a country club membership and I'm skinny with a great shoe and clothing wardrobe. Go ahead, say it, I hate you bitch.

To top it off, how many people vacation angst at the Four Seasons? Can I be the epitome of pathetic? How many people fly first class, take off for a week, say bye bye to life so they can wallow in 5 star self pity?

The one silver lining of all this is I lost 5 pounds and bought a pair of fuck me heels. That should fare me well now that I have no relationship, have sold my house, am quitting my job and am trolling kayak.com for escape hatches from my self inflicted suburbia of perfection.

Who the hell is this bitch, you may ask yourself, as I do numerous times a day.

The song that comes to mind is Bitch, apropos. Loosely and with much liberty it goes, I hate the world today, it's so good to me but I can't change. I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a child, I'm mother, I'm a sinner, I'm a saint. I'm bitch, I'm a tease, I'm a goddess on my knees... I'm your angel undercover. I'm your hell I'm your dream and I'm nothing in between.

I may be giving myself too much credit for the goddess on my knees but it made me feel better so suck it up, how's that for sexual entendre?

My insides hurt, not a physical pain but a pain of indecision and guilt, guilt that sits so heavy it presses the air out of my lungs and my cage wants to crack from the pressure.

I am depressed, my world is splintering, slowly the veneer peeling strip by slow strip exposing truth, the honest truth, the truth I want to hide, run from. The life is sucked out of me, the hamster wheel turning, the light gone, the cage well nested but a cage nonetheless.
I am trapped, again, in someone else's dream, someone else's Pleasantville that I tried so hard to create, mold, perfect, sealed myself into the pinata with the pretty candies and toys I never wanted.

Everything is so heavy, breath is heavy, movement laborious, walking within a dream, not touching or feeling, life circling me in slow motion. I want it all gone, I don't want the toys, the sweets, the life, I want my independence back, my right to choose, to do what I want, to run, to play, to hide with thought to no one but myself.

Shackled.

I tasted freedom, brief and sweet, and one tiny drop turned into a ripple, to a swell, to a wave, an insurmountable wave that will wash clean my path and drown anything in its way. I can't stop it, I don't know if I want to, I should, I cannot. The guilt eats me.

Dalliances

I kissed a man yesterday, a man that wasn't my partner. I met him on a plane 2 weeks ago, we never spoke on our flite, sitting side by side in first class, it was not till the last 5 minutes off the flite and no more than 30 minutes in the airport together that we looked and spoke to one another yet the attraction was palpable, just writing this I can feel myself flushing, remembering the feeling. It wasn't a crazy in love madness, it was a pull of two people that knew they would enjoy time together. And I did, I did resist, I wanted to walk away after we sat on the hard plastic chairs and laughed in the airport, trading barbs and the sensations of 2 people knowing. I could have watched him walk onto his plane, we could have kissed after those 30 minutes and never looked back, but I didn't, he didn't, we traded Facebook aliases.

As far as I know, he had no reason to walk away, I never gave him any doubt that I wasn't single, he never asked, I never asked, why did we? We were 2 strangers off a plane. He's tall, charming, handsome in that boyish way, slim, funny and caustic, eyes that twinkled, we could flirt all day, I'm 41, he's 40, we're not kids, and we're not stupid, we're both professionals. I've been married, I have children, I know insanity, but I also know feelings.

So it went from a casual encounter to trading a few sentences everyday, him convincing me to come visit and myself for him to come see my world. I kept telling myself I was inviting him to introduce him to a friend. I was on a work trip in Hawaii, he was on holidays, we were on 2 separate islands, separated by a 30 minutes on a plane. It was light, it was fun, it gave me smile to see my Inbox flash his messages.

He never came to see me and I didn't go see him, but for a week we jockeyed on-line, both knowing we were dueling attractions. He went home and I was slated to fly back home through his city, with an overnite. Right there danger sat, throbbing at me silently from my itinerary as each day drew near. We both played the game, ebbing and flowing like the tide, at times giving at times drawing back. We never spoke, we emailed, we texted, and I continued to lie to myself that I didn't truly enjoy the banter, just a nice guy I met on a plane. We settled on breakfast, or I convinced myself nothing could come of breakfast, that inocuous time of day where nothing happens. We would have breakfast, we would say good bye and I would leave, safely.

He was everything I remembered him to be, and I cursed myself inwardly. Breakfast was fun, it was comfortable, that invisible string was there, tugging, niggling. It was my bad, I didn't want it to end, I selfishly wanted more time, more laughs, more energy and when I should have said good bye, I didn't.

He took me around, we toured the city, took pictures, enjoyed the sites. I know for me, it wasn't the city, it was the company. Anything can be fun when your energies are high and mine was high. He is a really nice man and it seemed we had a lot that we similarly enjoyed and liked conversation never stilted and attraction only grew. I had kicked myself internally so many times my kidneys were bruised but I was there for the ride and no turning back.

The day had to end, my flite was leaving, we had lunch, a couple of drinks and all I wanted to do was touch him, hold his hand, feel the chemistry be tangible, but we walked with the invisible string pulled tight between us. We pulled up to departures and I knew the kiss was inevitable, I wanted it, would he kiss me? Could I avoid it though I wanted to feel the sensation, find out whether this was real. I pretended to gather my things, dragging my time getting out, knowing once I looked up and we had to say good bye I wouldn't be strong enough to look him in the eye and say no, lie to myself again.

The good bye never left my lips, what should have been a hug were lips meeting, softly, gently, questioningly and hesitant. His hands lay on my hips and the warmth of this still burns in my mind. I don't remember anything but the feel of lips and his hands. It was 5 seconds that was eternity, my body wanted to lay against his and kiss him again, my instinct told me I would never leave. I looked into his eyes, the closest we had ever been, the line crossed and I said good bye.

Posessed

The world starts to slow, movements seems arduously long, moments interminably stretched, thoughts sluggish, limbs moving in slow motion, actions swirl around me, a vortex of happenings outside my reach, I'm stuck in half time, unable to concentrate, unable to move. And then the possession begins, the air breathes differently in my lungs, fluid sensations permeate up my skin, eyes go hollow, sight without sight, words swim and drown in my head, sentences hang unheard, comprehension hard, the mind losing touch, my body a shell. Almost possessed, it feels like my breathe becomes another, my mind pollutes with foreign thoughts, as if someone is ripping and crawling through the membrane of my mind, gripping and tearing the edges to crawl its oily, wet form out into being, coming form within me, to become me, draping like mucus, hot and slimed, its force leaching into my subconscious like blood absorbing into soil, filling me, blood mingling into one, breath taken as one.

I become but a conduit to reality, the puppet not holding the strings, my mouth moves, my brain thinks, my limbs act, but not of my accord, I cant stop them, it all seems so far away, and I reach to bring them back but its so far, yet so near, I can see me, I can feel me, but I cant touch me, screaming silent screams from a glass room, no one can hear me, but they all see me.

I watch, feel, see myself think, vivid images, palpably real, willing me to believe. My hands closing over the handle, gripping steel, cold, shocking, welcoming, strength in the power, relief in the feeling. I point the blade, tip pressing against my breast bone and I plunge, deep, feeling so real the blade piercing through skin and heart, cleaving open my chest, sinking deep, freeing, painful and relieving. But this is not real, it seems so teasingly real, I can imagine each sense, every pain, feel the gut of the knife deep in my soul. How much it wants me to move, to go, to do, make this our reality, deeper it sinks into me, flesh becomes one, how easy I can feel the slices on my arm, skin separating for blood to flow, rivulets of warmth, thin, cold blade, cleanly on soft hot skin, the image erotic, stirring me, my blood absorbing into soil, re-joining mother earth, so sensuous, thrilling, how I long to hurt, how I want to be destroyed to feel the orgasm held before me.

Inside the walls I struggle to discern the truth, I know all this to be wrong, the addict tempted by the drug, just once more. I try and breath, struggle, struggle to come out, to see, tears, how it possesses me, fitting uncomfortably into my skin, my discomfort intolerable, I cant take it off, my body burns, my mind parched, throbbing and aching, beating against my skull, swollen with poison, retching. I wish I could burn, scrape the skin of my bones, I writhe, I beat, I cry, make it go away, a child’s cry so tiny in wake of such magnitude.

Like magic, a simple pill, a swallow, a flow of water extinguishing the burn, melting the ache, dulling the shards, so much relief, siphoning the fury, shedding the discomfort, vacant now, but safe. All drained, nothing moving, nothing harming. Still, lost, not sure where thought is, but no matter where it is, I now move in a blank safety, sedated, whole, entirely my own, but dumb, dumb of thought and sound, waiting in void till I truly return, to move and live, again, whole of mind and body in reality.

Frozen

There is a picture hanging in my bedroom, beautifully framed in silver. She sits perched on a rock, back to the world, watching the sun set into the darkening ocean in front of her. You might wonder about the girl in the frame, such an idyllic scene of calm and peace, the magnificence of the world before her. If you look closer you may notice that her shoulders are pulled perhaps a little too tight, her back straight and not relaxed as one would think, her arms and legs protectively close to her body. The sky is darkening and the rays of the sun leaving and I know in her heart, she too is feeling the darkness come in and the light fade.

It starts as a slow freeze, watching icicles form, corners of the heart hardening where it once pulsed softly, like watching each fragment that makes up our skin turn into ice piece by piece, the heart having less and less room to beat within, starting to feel confined and beating stronger and tighter into the space causing a suffocation to rise in the throat and the heart caged and pushing tight against the lungs.

Outside the rain falls, each droplet hanging like a tiny weight on each thread it clings too, the steady accumulation slowly creating a weight that takes hold. The rain a metaphor for the slowness, the weight of water pulling the arms and dragging the feet downwards, each step a monumental effort. One would think it would be easier to let the rain fall, the gentle rain, seeping into every fibre, saturating, the trickle leaking between the ridges and folds of the face, tears from the heavens, winding down the neck in cold rivulets, shivering the soul. Hair matted to the skull, leaking drops off the swollen ends, thick and full, bursting with shards of emotion to disappear into a watery grave.

My soul is so heavy, it cries in futility to be let free, beating fists against its invisible bars, turning in circles, wandering a never ending maze that ends where it begins to begin again, the cold rattling wind of despair whispering through. Hollow, a vacuum deep inside, sucking the life, soundless screams as the chambers empty of light, the dullness reaching and pulling itself up and in, digging into the walls with each effort to climb into the echoing emptiness, an infinite black hole, swirling in its vortex, feeding on every defeat and apathy, growing with each piece of surrender.

Thought is so far away, my own thoughts a mirage, hazy and so far away, my eyes glaze trying to find answer, the clarity. So slow, the synapses firing in slow motion, the sound muffled, decisions fading towards the mirage and I reach but my fingers move slower than time, I can’t make it to the mirage as beautiful as it may be. Underneath me the ground is barren and hard, the weight of water so heavy, each step interminable, every breath a surprise, words escape through lips of their own, surprised I am to hear them and I listen to hear what I say and do. The body its own temple, the Trojan horse, hollow, the shell for the force within, movements on a string governed by no force of my own, puppet to the owner, death-like in motion, encumbered with emptiness, selfish in its space, fierce, a rose covered in thorns, poison leaching the surface, loathe to touch, abhorrent and flinching from any that may try to near, recoiling and repulsing.

Nothing belongs to me but the chained soul, hidden so far and deep, aching and throbbing, buried within the heart, so sad it hurts, it aches, it writhes, she screams and I feel her, I feel her anguish, the despair so loud I want to wring out the unrelenting pressure, feel it molt and melt between my fingers, hot and heavy. My hands are filled with shards of glass, painful to touch, my feet burning from a non existent flame, needles pushing into every nail-bed, my limbs, my skin stretched so tight I fear it may tear, all seeking respite, strung like torture on a rack. Life is slowly receding into that space, the little space left within, my beating soul, with walls closing in, descending with the setting sun into the darkness, like the darkening sea swallowing the sun.

To draw the blade along the taut skin, watching the skin slide open, a trail of blood in the blades wake, at first slow, the astonishment and miracle of spreading flesh and warmth of life. It’s a drug, healing drug, as the pressure oozes from blood, the feeling a horror and fascination, but beautiful, beautiful easing pain. The first cut so tremulous, the release immeasurable, the next is quicker and faster, frenzied almost, wanting to feel more and more, insatiable need to bleed out the ugly, the wetness dripping hot beads of release. The rights and wrong jumbled into one, the salve so sweet, the demons leached, the scars too deep to repair, the thank you from within heartfelt, the regret from outside... so sorry for the wrong, it needed to go, I needed it to go. I slump, spent, finished, the cowardice of the moment ashamed, the reality fresh, nothing left neither inside or out, expunged and tired, now begins the rise from the fall, phoenix from the ashes.

Strangers on Planes

I met a boy coming down the breezeway of my plane, I caught him smuggling his lip balm in his backpack. I guess we didn’t actually meet, I was just horrified that he had lip balm, and unfortunately not horrified for the right reasons (like national security and threat to the lives of many). Admittedly, all self centered, how dare he have lip balm when I had painstakingly separated myself from mine that same morning? Why did I not think to forgo rules and regulation for the sake of my lips and not spend half the flight gnawing on my dry bottom lip as I pored over a complete book of fluff and sex by Jackie Collins. It was just not fair and truth be known I never actually met him (the boy), because somewhere through the causal banter one has with strange people alighting from planes I was still amazingly pre occupied with that little ball of wax he had and I didn’t.

How does it work when you’re walking down a narrow pathway and have conversational blah blah blahs and then you’re done and you’re still stuck walking next to each other. That awkward silence of thinking maybe you should say more, but what is there to say? Then you don’t want to walk too quickly because it seems you’re running away and might offend them (but who cares, it’s a stranger on a plane?), but if you lag behind you seem rather stupid (again, see previous blurb)… what is it with exchanging words that all of a sudden changes the air around you. Have you ever noticed that cars never drive exactly in tandem with one another, we’re always inching a little bit ahead or behind? We’re scared of making contact, because once you invade that space, how do you get out? You’re stuck on the breezeway and the end seems interminable, like steps to the guillotine and what a relief as you get out and immediately pretend to be busy so you can escape.

After escaping, in the best possible way, not from the boy, but from the annoying to talk or not to talk dilemma, I eventually made it to food. The thing about America is they don’t realize how much they eat. I tend to forget this till I get in line at your standard fast food burrito place and realize the burrito they’re rolling is about the size of my head and probably just as full. The other thing America cannot understand is waste, it was inconceivable that I would be willing to pay for an entire burrito and only request half- sacrilege! Really I would just throw it away so why not give it to someone that had the potential of eating a head? So I request my half a head, much to the sales attendant’s amusement, and from behind me a voice requests the other half of my head (at this juncture I could make a lewd comment about head but will refrain). So now, yet again it’s the boy with the lip balm, here we are sharing space again, how close does sharing a burrito make you?

You can’t really share a burrito and not interact, so as we wait for our burrito we jockey about for position and the right tone and end up having a meal together. I wavered on the sit down together but decided in the end it was polite, he looked like your nice boy from next door (your standard psycho killer), we were sharing and if we had nothing to talk about I could always escape to my plane and never deal with it again. First off, I decide, for me, that this needs to stay non-engaging and relatively removed. Of course, when I decide things like this it is almost always usurped by the fact that we have too much in common to not connect and have a good conversation (sigh). We’re both from Vancouver. We’re both in Dallas. We both are headed to Miami and then we’re both going to the Caribbean AND we’re both working on luxury villas in the Caribbean. What a game fate likes to play sometime, I swear they’re pushing the pieces up there, down there, wherever! I could toss in the fact that we both carry lip balm, like burritos too fill in the cracks.

OK, OK, it was nice to actually talk to someone, I usually spend most plane rides hidden behind my headsets and a few magazines (usually the Economist (has anything happened in Africa?), Oprah (find my inner woman) and Cosmopolitan (the next 50 ways to orgasm) but this trip Jackie Collins wormed her way in, perhaps this was the start of it all, I looked shallow? What does reading a Jackie Collin’s book connote? To me, dumb, airhead, embarrassing and lame. Perfect, just the image I want to put out, a woman that needs to vicariously live life through women named Birdy and Lucky who have wild sex with Russian mobsters) so I don’t need to speak with anyone. Nothing worse than talking to the person next to you and feeling beholden to then carry a conversation the whole flight. Plus men always feel the need to talk to the single female traveling alone, like we need some petting, a bowl of water and a history of their successes?

So LB and I have a great conversation about building in the Caribbean and his plans were fascinating, and so were the differences between the two islands, and a few other points that I have now forgotten but were entertaining at the time, and then we had to catch a plane. I might note that neither of us are that great at keeping or tracking time as we near missed not only the flight but the gate.

So the dilemma, do we sit together on the next flight? 2 hours is a loooooooooong time if you run out of vivacious chatter 30 minutes into a flight. So while he’s asking me this (whether we should sit together) I am furiously calculating in my mind if I truly had the fortitude to do so, does it mean I’m interested in more than a friendly way (I hope not, that would put me in the Jackie Collins category) because it was not my intent to pick up wayward Canadians in airports, then what if we did talk for 2 hours and I came off as so (that would be even worse), so maybe circumvent this all by not sitting together, but then I’d never know what the end of our conversation would be, as it had been pretty good rapport so far and he did seem like a decent guy. 3 seconds wasn’t a lot of time to properly address all of this, including pondering whether this was an elaborate pick up line (how do I know he didn’t follow me to the burrito stand? Was I being gullible?) while standing at the counter with both him and the service agent looking at me expectantly. I capitulated, how was I to resist interesting, entertaining Canadian and (damn me) cute.

The Female Mind

The female mind, inexplicable to men and equally bewildering to myself in my current situation, and if to be honest, probably a lot of times. How can men ever think to figure it out if we can’t? I think it’s almost a curse, this entire web of female neurosis and irrationality, also plagued by more intense moments when involving pre-menstrual periods.

I am on vacation, on tropical paradise, in sumptuous villa, deserted beach and disgustingly perfect sunsets (plus several bottle of Moet and Chandon) with suitors abounding. I know you think I am going to start complaining... But, hear me out! It’s not that I’m complaining about the men in my life, I’m more complaining that I don’t seem to appreciate the men in my life. I understand it’s every woman’s wish, especially gals who are combing through Match.com and Lavalife.com to find the man of their dreams, or even just a man, and the ring and some sperm are bonus. I’m just trying to show that I am certifiably ill for not appreciating my bounty.

Have left nice HSBCman in the city, who I have been dating every so occasionally, without a backwards thought. I realize I must divest myself of HSBCman, regardless of the fact that he has perfectly stepped out of the pages of an Eddie Bauer catalog. I think my shrink summed it up for me, I was too polite, “he’s too boring for you.” Fine, perhaps I needed hundreds of dollars worth of therapy to realize I need to date men out of Rolling Stone and not Eddie Bauer catalogs. Ok, problem I need to deal with (ok, ok I know its not a PROBLEM) when I get home from vacation, but for now will respond to his very sweet and of course just perfectly written “thinking of you” emails while clutching at chest in overwhelming guilt. Sigh. In perfect world, wish I could date HSBCman, have lovely, entertaining time, give peck on cheek and not have to sleep with him. Of course, him not being a eunuch that’s obviously out of the question, I cannot keep avoiding him, and making excuses on why I need to go home imperatively after each date. Made harder by the fact that I did sleep with him out of wishful curiosity that maybe might zing, and sadly did not, but he did zing and thinks I am sexual goddess. Channeling my best “I am not a sexual goddess” routine, I try and stick to lunch dates pre-empting any nocturnal activities.

On Tropical Island have ex rugby player/sailor/whatever you want him to be who, no joke, has the perfect male physique. Absolutely adores me, and would gratify every single whim and desire at beck and call. Feel free to slap me. Yes, he’s hot, very hot; we have a hoot of a time together. Yes, can you believe it, am just not interested, no raging hormones, no being tickled pink, nada, nothing, zip. I want to strangle myself, here I have perfect and more than willing boy toy and I'm humming and hawing and cannot get my pheromones to kick in (really must see specialist about this). You couldn’t get better out of Playgirl and I’m having issues. THIS is what I need therapy for… you think a man would think twice given a Playboy playmate on a platter?? I’ve thought twice, thrice, and no amount of temptation has gotten me to rationalize myself out of this. I’m turning into a self-induced prude.

So not going to believe this, then we have JC. JC I met once for 6 minutes while doing pleasant chit chats with a friend while visiting her. Then saw JC at the airport the day I was leaving (JC does not live in same city). We had a brief and entertaining lunch, common interests, like minds, etc, etc. JC is smart, witty, Havard MBA and ex navy seal or something equally worth making noises over and dates the chick from CSI Miami. JC has sent me an email everyday on my tropical sojourn, begging for me to return and be entertained by him. I have gotten every promise of the most amazing time of my life, and to prove it he is willing to fly me at his expense to see him. Thing is, I like JC, sure would have loads of fun, but somehow I think we have different agendas in mind. I’m thinking, hey swell, great time, and thanks, see ya later lets be friends. He’s thinking, awesome chick, I think there’s potential here, lets go steady. Definitely parallel thoughts not coming anything close to perpendicular or horizontal.

And then there’s the babysitter, who through some cosmic alignment of stars I met for two brief nights, and he now resides permanently in my head. It’s getting to the point where its like one of those lingering colds that won’t go away and detracts from everything you do. I’m feeling like I need to get rid of this cold before it makes me truly miserable. I cannot get this moment of time and space with the babysitter out of me, and its marring all these potential escapades I could be having and potentially some good people to meet. All these other men are here and now, nothing wrong with them, all good looking in their own right, all athletic, all smart, and all have great hearts and personalities and I've ground to a complete halt because of a somewhat arrogant babysitter that drives a Porsche Cayenne who’s otherwise engaged with younger woman. I think to self, “self, if he’s capable of having a girlfriend, he cannot be in the same zone as you as you seem incapable of giving anyone else a fighting chance.” Not to say am proud of this, am thinking am retarded git that needs a good boot up the backside to kick start some common sense.

On last assessment was semi-rational female being. Yes, do believe in fate and karma, destiny and all this. However, is it supposed to sit on my life like this? My tropical vacations are going to get very boring if this continues and my entire dating life is in jeopardy. I sense this is going to be one of these tiiiiiiiiiiiiiime things, works itself out of your system, start to forget, things get foggy, absence cannot make the heart grow fonder if you didn’t have that much to be absent from.

What does babysitter think through all this? No idea. What do HSBC, Sailorboy and MC think, no idea why they’re interested in somewhat short, clearly fanciful, not too exotic woman? It’s all a big confusing muddle and I need a quick fix pill, like some over the counter Tylenol anti-karma cold medication.

Evil Friend

I sit here trying to squeeze my mind into spilling thoughts, I have them, I feel them, they are a quagmire of hot, bubbling quicksand, every now and then a bubble bursts with a satisfying release of warmth, expelling a ball of pressure, but then the moment is gone as I continue to flail back into the thickening mass. Why is it so hard to bring these thoughts into cohesion?

How do I feel? I am screaming for the answer, what do I want, what makes me happy, who am I, am I shallow, am I selfish, am I smart, who am I? Am I a bad person, a bad mother? Who is judging me, am I judging myself? Where does all the guilt come from, who am I accountable to, why do I feel accountable? I don’t know and I want to know. I want to know whom I love, why I love. I want to know what makes me content, am I happy in the world, then where in the world? Why am I searching? Why can’t I just be?

I’m so plagued with guilt, its like evil seeping into corners of my mind, making me doubt, clouding what decisions are mine and what decisions belong to this being that lives and breathes in my mind. I have this being I house, that I nurture in its darkness. He lives in my mind, comfortable in the darkness and fed by my thoughts, my fears, my guilt, robbing me of what I need, hiding what I need in a sick game of hide and seek in the chemical pathways of my brain. Trapped, in a maze, being given pieces, sometimes a reprieve, but never the answers, never a path out of this captivity, hitting darkness, the occasional shard of light piercing through, the blank walls, the tantalizing delight of the windows cracked momentarily. I’m reaching, I'm reaching, I cant get through the bars, not far enough, not wide enough, I'm not strong enough to rip them from the walls, they’re so strong, they’re always there, closing me in as the light sets, random, at times bringing me light for days, and other times shrouded in gray for weeks.

It’s a love game, a destructive, co dependent relationship, thriving off weakness and fear. I can’t get away from you, I need you, you possess me, I own you, you’re mine, and I am yours forever. You keep me here, wrapping those long thin, bony arms, like reeds twining around a bark, around and around me; I don’t know what its like to not have you. Do I love you, can I live without you? Safety, safety in the dark, in your voice, your familiar voice ringing in my head, cocooning me, helping me know who I am, what my worth is, you love me, you hate me, but you need me, like I need you.

Sometimes you let me go, I get to skip through the streets, pretend I am free, swing my arms, dance in circles, laugh. I think, I really do think it’s me, I am alive, I am making my choices, I feel so empowered, so strong, so smart, so liberated. I swagger, I posture, everyone is watching me, like a child in her first school play, reveling in the audience and the attention, they want to see me, they see me, and they love me. But your jealousy reels me back, you remind me that I belong to you, that what I get is what you give me, I didn’t make any of that, you gave me that, you let me go, a treat, a day out in the park for the good girl, but don’t forget, don’t forget that I belong to you. Because when I do forget you punish me, shackle me into that dark place and whip the notion that I thought I was standing on my own into pieces, tearing into my flesh till I bleed, hating me, I hate me. Crying into the cold floor, feeling the pleasure in the pain of the welts, wanting to be hurt, make me sorry for who I am, for ever doubting, the heat of my blood pooling and dripping off of me makes me feel real, there is a me, its warm, it gives me comfort, I crave that, I want you to hurt me more, I want you, you make me feel alive, you’re the only one who understands me, I want you to hurt me, suffuse me in me, bring out my pleasure in my pain, enveloped, I am enveloped by your hate of me, it makes me safe, you want me, you always want me, you love me when you hurt me. Only you want me, always, anytime, and when I give you my loathing of what I have done, you love me more, nothing matters to me when I surrender to you, because all there is me and you, so why do I fight you?

Because I have seen the lights, I am curious, I am mad, I want you to let me see. I am a big girl- daddy let me go. I don’t want you to not take care of me, will u always be there for me; let me play with my friends. I won’t rebel, ill be good, I will listen. But you’re scared; scared I might love someone more than you, might love me. You don’t want me to love myself, I won’t need you anymore, where would u go, would u die, would u fester and rot in my head, taking me with you in your disease. Taking my nutrients like my children did, killing me with you, leaching me, leaching my blood, and we can die together, forever together.

I feel that cavity you inhabit, I can see the halls, I know where it is, I can feel you walking through, running your hands down the sides of the walls, my walls, I know you’re there. You live in the left side of my brain, you live in my brain, my epicenter. I know the address well, the hallway curves into the back of left eye, traverses through to the back of brain, I see the curve in the hall, rounded, smooth, when you're mad you have your stick, you scrape it on the walls, the walls of my mind, you pierce it, you scream, you scream for me to hear you. I hear you, I always hear you, please stop piercing me, your anger presses into my eye, the pressure, I assuage you with drugs, try and calm you, move you back into your haven, the space within me. Stay calm, please stay calm, why do we live in the oppressive darkness, why are our hallways so small, so dark, there’s never anything there, just a never-ending path, it’s always red, such a morbid brackish red. No wonder we keep moving, live in the external world, beautiful places, beautiful things, we can pretend, pretend that our home is a happy place. I can paint the outside, change our locations, make people like us, see how pretty we are, see how smart we are, isn’t it lovely here, our new home, look what we can do with it, it can change, not like our real home, this home can be fixed, it can be beautiful, it can be light. This place we’re in, all the amazing people, they want to make me happy, and can you believe that, they want us to be happy.

Why do you want me, why does anyone else want me? They think they love me, sometimes I believe them, I do believe them, they love what they see, our pretty home. But they haven’t met you, they don’t know the evil I am, we come together, I am taken, I hate, I hate so much, can they see that hate, the gurgling nastiness that courses through me. I just want to laugh, scream, be hysterical, they don’t love me, they love this figment, this amazing creature, the creature you’ve made, you taunt them with me, lure them in, bring them close, its like the walk in the park, sometimes I believe, believe I can be with someone else, that they love me and know me like you do, but they don’t, they don’t love me like you do, you’re saving me, you show me their weaknesses, how they don’t know what to do with me, they turn away, they can t see, why cant they see, see how much I need, you do, you always do, stroke me, stroke me when they disappoint me, hug me, bring me home, they need to go, why did I trust them, they always fail. Your life is I, no one can be that, be like you can be, I love you even when I hate you, even when I want you to go away, I don’t know who I am without you.

How pretty I am tonight. I have a new dress. I put my make up on, I know people will like me; they’ll want to see me. I am so happy they see me. I look good, so strong and fearless, such an amazing person, don’t they wish they were me. I spun in front of the mirror, who would notice me when I walked in. you didn’t want me to go, I know you didn’t but you didn’t complain, I felt a little sad, but I wanted to feel special. You let me. I'm sad. You know I am sad, I am not really special, its just an act, another act in the play, let the audience clap, but you know, it feels good when they do, even if it ends, I got the adrenaline, I did something, they watched me, they didn’t see the make up, the clothes, the script, I convinced them it was real, I was real and they watched, they applauded, they wanted more, it makes me forget that I am not happy, that its only a stage. I love the stage, but I need to keep it changing and moving, new props, new sounds, locations, I cant disappoint because they wont clap, they’ll get bored, ill leave them, don’t get bored of me, I need you too, I need your applause, but don’t touch me, stay away from my stage, don’t come into my life, you can applaud and pet, but do not hurt me. Ill hurt you. It’s my stage, my house of cards, don’t hurt it, I don’t need you to hold it up, I can do this alone. You might drop my cards, forget the lines, make the applause go away. I hate you. You hurt me.

Look at the beautiful girl, in the beautiful hotel, isn’t she beautiful, isn’t she lucky, don’t you want to be her, look what she has; she has nothing, nothing, nothing. She has nothing. A beautiful girl, a beautiful woman, with nothing inside, I have nothing inside. Its rotten, its spoiled, its broken, everything is broken inside but isn’t she pretty. What happens when I am not pretty?

When I am old and ugly, when the audience finds someone new, all ill have is you. Then you will have me, they won't come for me anymore, they won't look anymore, and they won't care. But you care, ill move into your darkness, we'll take apart our decaying outside, no one wants it anymore, it’ll just be the ugliness, inside and out. The ugliness you love, you’re waiting, waiting till I have nothing but you, and you will own me. You’ll kill me won't you? I'll want you to.

The Baby Sitter, part 2

Don’t you hate it when people read the last page of a novel before they take the time to enjoy the story? This irks me to no end, like fast forwarding to the end of the movie before you watch the beginning to make sure Julia Roberts does indeed give up a life of prostitution, or maybe googling the winner of American Idol from the east coast results before you watch your finale on the west coast so u can fraudulently psychically predict who loses. It’s just not right… like fixing your mindset on what to expect so nothing deviates and you’re confirmed of your outcome. I’m the kind of girl that gets wrought if I hear a whisper of what is to come, like Avril says in her teen anger and angst… “So much for my happy ending!”

Wasn’t sure if babysitter was in the cards again after he fled into the darkness of the hotel parking lot in a single bound. Yes, he had mentioned some mumbo jumbo about it not being about the red tide and he’d call. Blah, blah, blah, he’d call? Perhaps my cynicism of Big is getting the better of me, do any men use the phone anymore? At some point during the previous night I had asked him to the wedding reception, as had been invited with date, but only option at time was ACman and he seemed to view weddings and morgues in the same category and probably expected me to kiss him and maybe even do the nasty with him, and he is just too short, nice and I've decided too furry for that (I’m sorry…). So I invited the sitter and then immediately regretted it.

Who’s to know all the connotations surrounding inviting someone to a wedding?? Who knew it was such a big deal laced with innuendo!? Next time I’ll have to pick up a copy of The Rules I and II before I make a single decision about men! I mentioned extending invite to girlfriend and she just about doubled over and toppled over at my insanity. Dude, I invited him as my guest to a wedding not to rush the altar. But backtracking, inviting sitter to wedding is classic diarrhea mouth syndrome, this inane ability I have to spout out and do whatever I happen to be thinking at time and failing to consult the stars, the oracles, my shrink, or the scribes of etiquette before even thinking about talking to a man. Ok, so maybe the ladies have some cause for concern as did disappear to live in Mexico with Manuel after knowing him for a raucous week, causing father to not speak with me, and the end of my Masters at Cornell (which btw, saved me a lot of money). Like to think am genteel lady in mid 30s now and not so prone to such extreme whims of fancy… like to think.

So now had said invitation hanging overhead for next morning. Problems with making rash decisions is you then need to get up and find resolution or be plagued through the course of the day. Groan, of course not as rash as bounding into babysitter’s lap in moment of heated frenzy the night before and now having to live with wanton, so not cool flagrancies. Please don’t remind me.

Where to go from here? We all know the connotations with sleeping with a man on the first date, I never read the subtext, and does this include men in different countries? How about extraordinary zing? Cabana boys? Once in a lifetime? I’m not sure I need to give him that much kudos and he isn’t a cabana boy, though those can be fun too, right girlfriend (wink)? So while prancing through town with old buddies, babysitter kept popping to mind and impending communication. Much easier if he could be a rat bastard in which case would never hear from him again and could relegate this to the big mistake category, feel like an idiot and go on with life knowing never to trust my karmic feelers again. The part that makes me woman, is knowing that there probably was not an iota of this much thought going on in his world… in his world, we’re looking at basics, post-modern learn-to-read books: boy meets girl, boy snogs girl, girl bleeds on boy, boy leaves girl, boy chalks off bedpost and goes golfing.

Did I fail to mention that when we did come together off our night of champagne, bowling and double entendres, it was really quite magical? I had my apprehensions, can anyone really manifest outwardly what you believe you want and also deliver when all inhibitions had been stripped down and we became two people bare off all defenses? What if the knight didn’t ride me off into the sunset (serious, no pun intended but funny eh?) and completely failed, this would ruin all my libidinous fantasies about him and my Rabbit for months! Sometimes it is best to not know, as imagination usually presents a better tryst than actuality as one gets exactly what one wants. Unfortunately, even given all our setbacks of the evening, there did come oneness and tremendous warmth between two strangers, in our bodies, minds and air. So much so, that I willed my mind to turn it off and not release completely to the moment, emotion has a powerful strength over the mind and I was not willing to relinquish mine not knowing what it would do to me. Maybe this was the ultimate cause of my menstrual cycle, karmic bleeding????

So, again, day two dawns and we are back on the inevitable question in life, to call or not to call? To text or not to text? Of course to compound matters girlfriend had spoken to him as we drove in circles looking for a place to eat, surrounded by gorgeous, young, male surfer bodies (sorry, extraneous information) and he has mentioned probably not coming to the reception to her. Hold on, you aren’t going with her, I invited you, information through the messenger is so not hip, like soooo not hip (tally book is back out). Ok, now wouldn’t it make sense to tell me this?? I think men forget that in the grand scheme of life, women like to be in the know, we NEED to know, we are genetically engineered to implode if we don’t know and we cannot read minds (though truly try very hard). So was not impressed that we are now at lunchtime and still no word… except through girlfriend, which does not count.

Being completely brash I decide that all this crap about waiting for the man to contact you is a serious and complete waste of time. If he wants to think that I am not playing by retarded rules made up by bored spinster in colonial times then so be it. I had a wedding and reception to go too, and having planned many weddings (no, not mine), ultimately you save the bride some calamity by being able to tell her how many people plan to be at her soirée. So, I do the deed and text the boy, who comes back with the fact that I'm lame (my addition to the dialogue) and he is immersed in existential life thoughts and deep painting and I am worried about a place seating (also my addition)? Sigh. Then to compound matters, I realize, bleeding on boy and him turning into the Flash is no way to end my fairytale, and that existential life thoughts can always be paused and replayed at later date (expiration: death) and I needed to re-visit the situation to ascertain whether or not I was out of my mind or there truly was a blip in time.

Plus, was not enjoying wedding, as was far too conservative and had marks of too much Hollywood romance movies thrown in which made me blubber. Adding insult to injury, priest managed to say, advertently or inadvertently (you can never tell with these holy types) that the only people worth anything on this earth were single heterosexuals who had or were planning on joining their unions under God. Translation: if you are not Presbyterian, are separated, divorced or gay be prepared for that hole to open up, the blast of lightening to bolt down, and be incinerated and flushed downwards. I was so nonplussed that had definite urges to get up and leave at the close mindedness placed in front of me but decided to wait around and see what my bolt of lightening looked like and whether the underworld needed any help re-decorating.

Babysitter was not piling on the points by explaining that did not feel like getting dressed, socializing and in any case was planning on watching I (heart) Huckabees. Hello? So, let me get this straight… you have on one end of the scale, Demi Moore (have decided prefer older, sexy woman analogy) in town for the night and obviously wanting your company versus Lily Tomlin, the epitome of sexuality- NOT. Though, with Jude Law, Mark Wahlberg and Naomi Watts in the cast, I admit some eye candy competition (if you like men and blondes), including the fact that it is a movie on existentialism. Sadly, he ended up watching sci-fi movies making it worse by choosing fictitious alien fembots in skin tight lycra over non fictitious very real me! Do we hear a lesson here? HES JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU! I never read that book…

Did I fail to mention the girl in the OC, not Mischa Barton or Rachel Bilson as that would then be the end of this story. But close, we have young 25 year old, exotically Persian, and studying for her Masters in Fiction. Ok, so being realistic is almost 10 years younger than me, and probably not having to work so hard at being 25 than 34. Note: However, what’s she going to look like at 34 with two kids, I’m already a proven case and point that body and soul are important to well being. Not being catty, aren’t beautiful Persian women akin to the gorgeous Indian and Italian women that once the ring gets placed on the finger the ripcord gets pulled? Cant answer that, have not wed any of the above. Next, the exotic bit, hard to beat as am a pure mutt and not sporting the glamour of a nation in war. Note: Did have a tsunami and slogged through numerous refugee camps, though still am not exotic. May have to lose this point. Masters in fiction, I can see the draw, babysitter is an author (when not selling animal cages and being artsy), common ground, things to talk about, ponder deep rhetorical views, hash ideas, etc etc… meanwhile I write chick lit, bemoaning the end of Sex in the City and the escapades of neurotic women. Perhaps not so deep, but then again, have not displayed any of my deep writing as is too deep and rather scares me that such literature can come out of my mind. Note: I’d have to say depending on what’s wanted, I don’t need a Masters in Fiction to write and would probably be too obstinate to listen to someone explain to me how to think and besides really want a life in Art (nope not fiction). Did I lose this point too? Why did I write this paragraph, how depressingly self -flagellating? I could beleaguer this point, age & experience vs., youth & innocence, its all a matter of choice in the end and hence am not too worried, to each his own, I am who I am: 34, fun, feisty, awesome in bed, divorced and with wonderful kids. C’est fin.

Am now feeling melancholic. That was a tough paragraph to write and highlighted the fact that men want innocence. How many 35+ year old men do I know dating under 25 year old students, I’ve met 3 this month who have told about the joys of their younger, accommodating companions. Thankfully was not interested in other two as would have been dashing blow to ego and may need to revisit nunnery. Caveman instinct to protect, to guide, to mold and to teach and places the man at the top of the pedestal with woman learning under him. He-man has forged his way, now he will lead female (bad 80s cartoon analogy) to forge hers within his path. I’m sure it feels good and powerful, and as women we do want to feel safe, but as you get older, you don’t want to provide adulation, but instead a balanced relationship based not on being molded but through growth and compromise of two adults understanding who they are, souls fulfilled not seeking and coming to work in tandem to realize a future of two level lives becoming one with autonomy and respect. Jeebus, this is getting a bit too deep for chick lit, time to jump off the tangent wagon and head back to simplicity and smiles.

Where were we, fembots vs. Demi? I have to give kudos, he did come out (must mean something to him?), did brave a few moments of the reception (points) and off we went arm in arm. A tick awkward, do we kiss? Do we hug? Though had manic urge to throw him up against Cayenne and snog him as did look quite hot, did manage to pat down the Samantha within. Though looking back shouldn’t have done, damn it! Now, back again to awkward car moment. Had my sufficient fill being imbued with alcohol so no gumption to hit a bar, and was satisfactorily fed by bridezilla. However, going to his place or my hotel room again placed me into the wanton friggin’ hussy category again. There’s just no winning this.

The Baby Sitter, part 1

Part I, The Babysitter

Sometimes when you least expect it, life takes an imaginative turn of its own. Though I’d have to say with my life I don’t really need more turns, but obviously I wasn’t given a choice in it. Went down to a wedding in San Diego this weekend, and through some immense brain aneurism I managed to not read everyone else’s itineraries and was set to arrive hours before anyone else into a town that is reputedly fun but who the only person I was familiar with is married to a neurotic single-female fearing woman... oh and the lesbian documentary film maker, also not high on the list.

To compound matters my girlfriend ended up sucked into the hurricane calamity and remained on the east coast, a day delayed. But being the good friend she is began a campaign to find me a babysitter for the night. I remember a remarkably similar event in high school, where same friend somehow engineered to have me roller skate around school in a silver lame evening dress with inserts and a sign around my neck stating, “I need a date”. Horrid friend.

I still haven’t figured why I needed a babysitter as upon last check I was 34, with all limbs functioning and had probably accrued enough solo frequent flyer miles to round the world twice. Playing along with the game and for my amusement, I got a babysitter. Lets just refer to said being as “the babysitter”. I didn’t know much about babysitter except friend said he was interesting, good looking, but perhaps not tall enough for me. This final bit of information managed to have me imagine the quintessential Napoleon complex, short man with immense attitude who talked too much and feared he was balding too… great.

I’m not sure I did anything to prepare for the night, we were going for dinner, and my escape hatch from Napoleon was I was sooooooooooo tired from flying. Good thing about situations as such, there is no reason to obsess neurotically over perfect outfit, attitude or bum size. You assume the worst and seriously do not want to look your best or may have super freak hanging on you forever. Jeans and an Old Navy tank top was just right, throw in a pair of no name streets of Bangkok shoes and I was styling really low. Top it off had no shampoo as had left house in manic frenzy at 5:30am, so after valiantly fighting with hotel shampoo and conditioner hair was in weird state of disarray… as had forgotten all styling potions as well.

He was coming in a Porsche Cayenne; my Napoleon dread was coming close to breaking me out in hives. Who drives a Porsche Cayenne but short, balding 40+ year old real estate agents who live in West Vancouver dreaming of dating nubile 25 year olds during their midlife crisis? Plus, Car and Driver had likened it to a piece of &^* on a field… I have to sheepishly admit I did test drive one when choosing my last car.

I got in the car and I was stymied, great smile, boyish, devil in the eye, very controlled, and overwhelmingly there (presence), was it just me I wondered, or did he feel this energy too? Did I ooze knock-em-dead energy too? I really had to rethink my togetherness, as the babysitter was not what I was expecting?!! Kind of like hopping into a car with Paul Walker (The Fast and the Furious) when you’re expecting Danny DeVito, and having to put on your best Jessica Alba with bad hair and frumpy clothing. Definitely off guard, definitely, definitely, DAMN, hate that!

Hate to be cheesy but he was pretty neat (is that the best adjective I can think of, YES). Did the mundane chitchat about this and that, and the awkward here and there, each of us jockeying for the right tone and attitude, and doing the once over. Somewhere on the drive to wherever we settle into sarcastic banter (love sarcastic banter), which is always a plus point in my man tally book, so he was gaining some and losing some (still not sure on car). Bits and pieces elude me but unquestionably there was more than hope to a definitely entertaining evening. Ok girlfriend, you get some brownie points, this was much better than having to take your 10th grade boyfriend to the Christmas Formal for you!

So, not sure if he was planning on taking even Attila the Hun to this restaurant, which was pretty swank for just any old chick that may or may not have been fun, but somehow ended up on twinkling outdoor patio, with view of ocean and enough atmosphere to not be weirdly romantic, but accurately fun. At this point we’re falling into Mr. Big territory, but doesn’t quite cap seaplane to island with sunset dinner on rocks with seals on cue (though must note that Big is currently in the doghouse and not being entertained at present (see The Demise story)). Plus, babysitter had no forewarning if he was getting messy Jessica Alba or Roseanne so thinking quick garners a few points too.

Somewhere in here I get a bit fuzzy, but do remember going to bathroom wondering what my ass looked like in my jeans. Would have checked in bathroom but swank restaurants are not immune to puking women and was quite nasty in there (perhaps a California thing?). We had some champers (per norm) and I watched him eat more than I ate but that’s neither here nor there as was not hungry, and no, not due to him (lame), but due to the burger I devoured upon arriving. Not sure why this particular point is necessary in the story…

Sometime as the sun set and the evening darkened, we moved from easy discussions to the more substantial, and then I quit tallying. He asked me if I meditated which I though an odd question, never had that asked before, and wasn’t quite sure where to go with that. I am touchy on my meditation, my rocks and pelicans on the beach, but surprising myself did tell. I wanted to wax lyrical about the thousands of fish surrounding me every evening, the turtles, all the little odd creatures and the bliss of going from the ocean to my sheltered rock that takes me to my meditative state but was sure that would scare him half to death so refrained. Of course later I find, OF COURSE, that his meditation is so far further into the next realm than mine, that I’m almost jealous but since I'm not currently ready to leap through my mental lands at the fate of my mind, I’m quite happy to sit in my itty bitty land of nothingness and peace for a while. Ok, so maybe I’d be cooler if I could meditate daily (want to be cool meditative person) and not rely on fish and rocks, I mean who needs fish to meditate??!!

Now here I can’t help but chuckle, we run through some life stuff, most of it eludes me now, but trust me it was deep. And I swear he said he needed to go bowling after dinner. I’m thinking I'm not channeling Jessica Alba so well if he has to go bowling, I may be better off with The OC back in the hotel room. And is he serious? He’s saying he has to bowl to dump me, I’m just starting to bring the tally book back out when I realize he’s dead serious (thankfully had not said rotten things about bowling and am secret bowling geek). He’s in a bowling league, now how cool is that AND I get invited to come watch, way cool. Ex husband used to think bowling was totally lame but also thought that flowers were reserved for funerals and not Valentine’s Day, so what’s the point?

So got to go to bowling alley, en route may I point out that babysitter had gotten a bit friendlier, arm on back, a little closer, etc etc, do you think they think we don’t notice? I’m thinking he’s thinking he’s going to get lucky, I mean why on earth would I want to go to the bowling alley if I didn’t want him neked (do u think they think that way? That’s just gross…). Serious, was furthest thought on my mind at that point (was geekily interested in bowling), sex that is, am not one for hop in sack on first meeting girl, took me a friggin year to do the deed with ex bald boy and though momentary fling with Paul Walker may have sounded good, not sure wanted to live with that, didn’t even go there with Big and that’s saying a lot. Though could argue am now single, 30 something year old, with no constraints and past the sexual revolution and should try and use and abuse men more for their carnal abilities. A la Carrie Bradshaw I should be toting around my designer condoms and mini lipstick vibrator with remote in chic Balenciaga purse. My Rabbit doesn’t fit in my purses, which are Kate Spade, Marc Jacobs or Fendi, and my condoms are Trojans and live happily in my non-portable bedside drawer with Rabbit friend. Giggle.

Bowling. Fun. Odd. Troubling. Memorable.
The leather clad biker homosexuals canoodling with also homo-effeminate, nerdy, GQ types bowling at the end of the room, coupled with babysitter league of leave it to beaver skinny guy, porn photographer layered in coloured catholic guilt tattoos, bio tech-meditating, Porsche driving Paul Walker and not really a trucker but I’m sure as heck going to look like one brother who may have had a mullet under the ball cap. Oh my. Neighboring league consisted of characters straight out of That 70s Show (and I’m not talking Ashton) complete with insecure NAPOLEAN bowler with gay hand flick bowl (I knew Napoleon was going to show). I could have written a sitcom, it was all too much, down to custom bowling balls, the requisite very asexual, somewhat plump women, pooch bellied daddies, the “cool” bowlers who were so not, stuck in the 80s tight jean, white heel wearing skanks, the occasional Asian to remind us that we are in the modern age and the trite neon lighting and bizarre graphics of bowling balls mutating into angels and triple x porn stars. If I didn’t know any better this could have been a really psychedelic mushroom trip. At one point had to retreat into pool room, which reminded me awfully of scene from The Accused which wigged the heeby jeebies out of me that I gave up watching CSI in subtitles on the bar TV while ducking pool sticks and horny players.

Not much convo during bowling, though got to know cast of characters who were really swell and incredibly nice people. Truly liked porn photographer to the point that would actually want pictures of me in the buff done. Sincerely, all had hearts of gold and it was a lovely night in the bowling alley, and I found out a lot about salvation and redemption, why to wipe your ball as well as how to fix your bowling handicap… I am sure this will all come in handy in the next generation of Trivial Pursuit.

Now, awkward post bowling moment, I was anticipating being dropped home so was a bit surprised when asked what plan was next. Perhaps am so used to Vancouver dates with nice Vancouver boys who go to bed at midnight and don’t dare kiss u for days that I was a bit stupefied. More? We had some existential life talk in car which I was trying to decode from “I’m being a sensitive man” to “I want you in bed”. Did he really feel a connection or was it a line? I had mentioned early in the evening that you could tell if someone was meant to be, and had the misfortune of having it thrown back at me. Acting coy while feverishly thinking if I say “yes, I do feel that for you” then I’m feeling really out there in vulnerable land, and he may be grunting “Score!!” but if I say “no” that sounds a bit insulting and would be so not true. As Jewel sings, “these foolish games.” This must have been traumatic as I have conveniently forgotten my own response to save self-embarrassment, but must have muddled though with some half assed non-committal statement in very unworldly way. What would Carrie have done? We know Samantha would have launched at his belt buckle in a millisecond, Charlotte would have passed out and Miranda would have said go to hell. I think I started in Charlotte, considered Miranda, guiltily thought through a Samantha, and ended up as Carrie.

He did ask if we should head back to his place as he did have wine there. How cliché is that, negative tally in book??? I wanted to see him more, so did, but so did not want to give off the wrong vibe as did really like the boy for who he was, knowing it was short lived more time together was nice, but how does one convey that without sounding like a hussy? I mean what self respecting woman ends up with a man at her hotel room at some ungodly hour of the morning and not expect them to be counting down the seconds till your clothes come off (am secretly fearing gave off hussy vibe). Oh, did I forget to mention stopping at the bar for champagne that wasn’t really champagne w/ 2 flutes, cliché, after cliché, after cliché, I’m killing myself. It was emotion over logic and logic was putting forth a great effort in the ring, “go to bed”, “say goodnight”, “you only have so much willpower, use it now”, “don’t go upstairs”, “stop, stop, stop”. We know logic is generally right, but I’m damned with these female hormones that rampage around my body making me act irresponsible, hate it. Why can we not be as detached and single focused as men… because then we’d be stupid (right I remember now why we don’t want to be men), plus we’d have distracting appendages hanging off of us that get sweaty and cause us to grope ourselves and we’d have to give up our Rabbits.

Sigh, yes it was a knockout for logic and upstairs we went, emotion and I, to Never Never land. Never Never Never land, the dice had been thrown, I was officially in the game. Why, I've asked myself this a million times, why? How many boys (sorry men) do I date, send them home, write amusing stories, answer idle texts and calls, and feel no zing, lots. And when I give them a chance to prove some zing (sorry HSBC man) there’s still no zing and then I need to pretend zing to make their egos feel like they’re zinging. And when they do zing they end up being Big and need to be unzinged. Maybe it was the moment, never see you again, different country, sayonara, you seem perfect and I need to see if that’s a well rounded assumption requiring you to be naked to judge. Gasp, did I just say that??????? Plus, was working the “c’mon girl” you’re a single liberated woman what’s wrong with having fun (conscience… ), you’re so not into the men you’re dating, live it up.

Ok, one thing led to another and fate intervened and I got my period. Horrors of all horrors I kid you not. Mortification was the only word that comes to mind and if could have done an ostrich and buried my head in the pillows, and gotten away with doing it gracefully I would have. It wasn’t quite the walk of shame but perhaps the scarlet letter would have been more appropriate. At this point babysitter retreated rather rapidly which was a tad alarming, a) was definitely looking for score and had failed b) no zing c) found out I had kids d) faints at sight of blood e) all of the above

Faster than a speeding bullet, he leaped into clothes, quick good night something or other, here a kiss for the girl and he was off in his wonder Cayenne. What’s a girl to think? Have messed up royally and truly? Messed up what one may ask (other than the sheets)? A one night stand, not much on the accomplishment roster so ok to disregard. Life’s true mate, getting a little too karmic (though secretly believe said being does exist), reputation, doubtful as you’ll not meet again, so what’s the bother. The bother is (long sigh) girl likes boy, girl hopes boy likes her too, and… to be continued.