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.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, December 21, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
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.
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.
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