So this morning at work I made everyone listen to my own version of the worst CD ever made. Meatloaf to ABBA, every song I hate but can't turn off. (This will end up being several volumes when I'm done....I'm a glutton for punishment, music-wise.) Anyway, this sparked a discussion I've had several times the last few months--namely, why am I retarded when it comes to music?
I've worked it out into a very simple theory--I am a movie snob, I am a literature snob, and I'm a tremendous sports fan. There's just no room in my head to follow which bands the lead guitar from Audioslave has been in before or who the early influences of Widespread Panic are. I barely know who either of those bands are, for that matter. And I'm happy this way.
The backbone of my theory is this: There are four main areas of potential snobbery for people in my age group--people between college and parenthood. Everyone I know is interested in one of these four things: sports, movies, music, or {other}(I'll explain, promise.). What's more, there's various levels of snobbery -- the more of your energy you focus on any one of these, the less snobbish you will be about the others, unless you possess a supernatural capacity for information retention and only require 2 hours of sleep a night.
Sports: The sports snob is almost always male. I don't mean to suggest that girls cannot be interested in sports, or shouldn't be. However, in my humble experience, the vast majority are not. So. The pinnacle of sports snobbery is that guy everyone knows who follows baseball and professional table tennis with equal interest, just because they're both sports. "Fan" is not descriptive enough for people at the top of their game in this particular region. Sports snobs are occupying their precious mental space with meaningless statistics and well-formed opinions on everything from the starting fullback for their local high school to Superbowl conspiracy theories.
Movies: My personal favorite. Movie snobs don't just watch movies, they devour them. They talk in great detail about camera placements and script to screen transitions as if anyone might actually care. They can list the entire oeuvre of even the least significant bit player and instantly rank for you theri favorite Western bad guy or Englishman-doing-American accents. The other related path for movie snobs is the People magazine/US Weekly/E! Network celebrity cult, the people who know who's sleeping with who before the condom's even dry.
Music: My least favorite, because these people can consistently make me feel slightly stupid. Popular music is almost certainly bad in the mind of the music snob, as a general rule the validity of someone's work is directly inverse to the number of people who have actually heard it. Underground rock bands, basement DJ parties, concert bootlegs--the music snob doesn't just listen, they listen. Ten seconds of any song, they'll give you five bands who influenced the sound. Twenty seconds, and they'll tell you what brand the cymbals are.
{other}: Other is not a throwaway category. Other can be a number of things, but it is important to note that ascending to a high level of snobbery in {other} will limit you to only being able to converse with someone of a similar level--no one else cares. Be it politics or basket-weaving, other is the category that makes us unique, as long as it's held in check. You can dabble in a million things on this category, but you automatically sacrifice accessibility, because you've limited your potential for common ground. The other category is always that oddball friend you have who refuses to care even a little bit about any of the pop culture stuff we all bask in, but will have excruciating conversations about wine or philosophy. Want an example? Two words for you: Evangelical Christian.
Pick two, pick three, you're going to be able to talk to just about anyone. Pick 4, and you're going to be in over your head in any conversation. Pick 1, and you needn't worry about conversations, they'll be few and far between, and most likely at conventions of similarly awkward people.
Oh, and don't worry if you're feeling below-average in any of these. Look around at anyone over thirty who has any kind of life, and you'll realize that once you have kids, a spouse, responsibilities, and a career, it's a little more difficult to care about meaningless bullshit like this. Lucky for you, too bad for the rest of us. Welcome to being an almost-grown-up.
7.22.2006
Same old song, but with a different beat since you've been gone.
So the Remix and I were mutually daydreaming last night, rolling along with ideas for beach vacations and hotel room sex, and we stumbled over a thought. She asked one of those questions, the ones she knows she shouldn't ask and I know she can't resist. Did you go there with {ex-wife}?
It raises an interesting thought. The town I grew up in is full of places I made memories with the Remix on the original release--places I avoided like the plague with {ex-wife}. The town we both went to college in was full of ghosts, restaurants and bars that belonged to us, not to whomever we were with at the time. By the same token, the places we went with other people are never going to be ours again.
Songs, books, movies, vacation spots--these are the biggest things you lose when you move on to someone else. Whether consciously or unconsciously, if I took the Remix to Cabo San Lucas, I'd be trying to live up to my honeymoon. (Or trying not to, if you knew anything about my honeymoon. next week, I'll fill you in.) The ex would never hear To Make You Feel My Love the same way as I do, because that one is always going to make me think Remix, whether she's around or not. Harvey the Wonder Hamster will never be quite as meaningful with anyone else as it was with the girl I dated when I was 15.
As per the norm, I don't really have a point. It's another little way to protect myself, to make sure I keep my favorite things unattributed, so that I'm never stuck associating Anchorman to an ex-girlfriend or having Confederacy of Dunces become someone else's favorite book.
I guess that settles it--the Remix will have to live with the fact that Predator is just never going to be "our" movie. While it hurts me to think how disappointed she'll be, I just have to keep some things for myself.
It raises an interesting thought. The town I grew up in is full of places I made memories with the Remix on the original release--places I avoided like the plague with {ex-wife}. The town we both went to college in was full of ghosts, restaurants and bars that belonged to us, not to whomever we were with at the time. By the same token, the places we went with other people are never going to be ours again.
Songs, books, movies, vacation spots--these are the biggest things you lose when you move on to someone else. Whether consciously or unconsciously, if I took the Remix to Cabo San Lucas, I'd be trying to live up to my honeymoon. (Or trying not to, if you knew anything about my honeymoon. next week, I'll fill you in.) The ex would never hear To Make You Feel My Love the same way as I do, because that one is always going to make me think Remix, whether she's around or not. Harvey the Wonder Hamster will never be quite as meaningful with anyone else as it was with the girl I dated when I was 15.
As per the norm, I don't really have a point. It's another little way to protect myself, to make sure I keep my favorite things unattributed, so that I'm never stuck associating Anchorman to an ex-girlfriend or having Confederacy of Dunces become someone else's favorite book.
I guess that settles it--the Remix will have to live with the fact that Predator is just never going to be "our" movie. While it hurts me to think how disappointed she'll be, I just have to keep some things for myself.
7.21.2006
Lord have mercy on the working man....
So I read this week that George Bush exercised his veto power on a bill that a majority of America supports, namely federal funding for stem cell research. I can deal with this, just barely. Then I read a quote from someone in the administration's badly overworked public relations department, Spokesman Tony Snow, where he referred to stem cell research as "murder."
Now I'm pissed.
How is it possible that an entire country stands by while our fearless leader hijacks important medical research on the basis of an antiquated and ludicrous religious belief that even a fertilized egg in a cup has a "soul?" Are religious types so desperate to be right that they will defend their unfounded beliefs to the death even in the face of clear logical evidence to the contrary?
I will not deny the existence of a soul. I believe that every individual on the planet has one. I don't believe it's a divine gift, however--its' merely the psychological summation of everything a person believes about themself and their place in the world. Soul is a gimmick, a metaphor, a word to describe something that there's no words to describe. Embryos have a potential for life, no more or less.
This fanatical devotion to a fictional character does more than simply disturb me. It angers me, especially when I see it in relatively intelligent people. I have a family full of smart, thoughtful people who are regularly offended by homosexuals, premarital sex, democrats, and embryo killers. Most hardship in my life has been met with the distinctly unsatisying "We're praying for you." Thanks for praying, why not throw some pennies in a wishing well, so long as we're pretending some unseen and unproven force is going to save us from our troubles?
There's no point to this, just flipping through news articles from this week and getting riled up for no reason. Oh well. Apologies all around. Pray for me.
Now I'm pissed.
How is it possible that an entire country stands by while our fearless leader hijacks important medical research on the basis of an antiquated and ludicrous religious belief that even a fertilized egg in a cup has a "soul?" Are religious types so desperate to be right that they will defend their unfounded beliefs to the death even in the face of clear logical evidence to the contrary?
I will not deny the existence of a soul. I believe that every individual on the planet has one. I don't believe it's a divine gift, however--its' merely the psychological summation of everything a person believes about themself and their place in the world. Soul is a gimmick, a metaphor, a word to describe something that there's no words to describe. Embryos have a potential for life, no more or less.
This fanatical devotion to a fictional character does more than simply disturb me. It angers me, especially when I see it in relatively intelligent people. I have a family full of smart, thoughtful people who are regularly offended by homosexuals, premarital sex, democrats, and embryo killers. Most hardship in my life has been met with the distinctly unsatisying "We're praying for you." Thanks for praying, why not throw some pennies in a wishing well, so long as we're pretending some unseen and unproven force is going to save us from our troubles?
There's no point to this, just flipping through news articles from this week and getting riled up for no reason. Oh well. Apologies all around. Pray for me.
7.17.2006
Lists
Things she likes more than I do: dresses, yoga, knitting, running, baking bread, trying on shoes, whatever color her hair happens to be, vintage clothing, shopping, her sister, chick flicks, underground music.
Things I like more than she does: video games, football, Ultimate Fighting, keg beer, chicken wings, heavy weights, basketball, poker, involuntary muscle twitches, Westerns, baseball, my cats, '80s metal.
Things we both like: Blue Moon, coffee, Raymond Carver, A Confederacy of Dunces, adventurous restaurant choices, things that happen on top of paisley sheets, garter belts, blogs and other voyeuristic sources of information, great burgers, Chicago, John Cusack movies, sleeping while touching/not touching, sushi, 100 Years of Solitude, writing, kissing, Scrabble, musicals, politics, each other.
I imagine this will be updated at some point, but somewhere in here I'm pretty sure there's a reason why this works.
Things I like more than she does: video games, football, Ultimate Fighting, keg beer, chicken wings, heavy weights, basketball, poker, involuntary muscle twitches, Westerns, baseball, my cats, '80s metal.
Things we both like: Blue Moon, coffee, Raymond Carver, A Confederacy of Dunces, adventurous restaurant choices, things that happen on top of paisley sheets, garter belts, blogs and other voyeuristic sources of information, great burgers, Chicago, John Cusack movies, sleeping while touching/not touching, sushi, 100 Years of Solitude, writing, kissing, Scrabble, musicals, politics, each other.
I imagine this will be updated at some point, but somewhere in here I'm pretty sure there's a reason why this works.
7.16.2006
Sweating like a whore in church.
It's hot. Really, really fucking hot. I was all geared up for a scathing entry, ripping apart my ex and her family for a moment of ignorance and cruelty I've never forgiven, laying the framework for a more measured response in short story form. It'll have to wait, though. It's too hot to be negative.
I spent the day with my family, again, and I'm feeling inclined to write about them for the first time on this particular outlet. I'm lucky. I know this. My parents are loving and supportive, no matter how many bad decisions I make. My brother looks up to me with that fanatical devotion that only little brothers can generate. I love it.
My mom is nuts. She's a full on, bible-thumping, evangelizing Christian, but no one's perfect. Although she's blind in her faith and stubbornly follows the church even when she knows in her heart it's wrong, I hold no ill-will towards her spirituality. Yes, she tries to convert me every chance she gets, yes she refuses to acknowledge my cousin's lesbian relationship even as it enters it's 10th year, yes she votes Republican across the board in an effort to rid the world of gays and abortionists. The thing is, she lives it out. Every day, every thing she does, she does with the Christian ideal in mind. While I tend to believe Christian politics are medieval, and Christian rules a little too restrictive with not enough logic, I can certainly think of worse moral codes to dedicate your life to. She's compassionate, loving, kind, and selfless. She's everything I'm not, and she doesn't hate me for it. That's a rare combination, and she's a special woman.
My pops is quite the opposite. I'm more like him than I want to admit, usually. Stern, unequivocal, intelligent, and firm. He knows everything, and it's rare that we catch him out on something, all too frequently a little argument and a little research proves him nothing but correct. He's also fiercely loyal, decisive under pressure, and he would unhesitatingly kill or be killed to defend his family. He left my mom, once, for a short time in the grand scheme of things. I've almost forgiven him, if not for leaving my mom than for not taking me with him. I'll never forgive him for forcing me to become the man of the house, for forcing me to over power him, to throw him out bodily in a moment of desperation. He loves me, though, and I love him. Mom has forgiven him, though I can't understand how, and the four of us are a stronger family unit for the experience.
Then there's my brother. Unfairly cast as the dumb one, the troublemaker, he was getting lectured on the phone about almost missing his curfew while my friends and I got high in the backyard every time my parents went out of town. He's brilliant with electronics, terrible at test-taking. Anyone who hasn't known us for years would be convinced he's the smart one, taking apart computers and improving them on reassembly since he was 13 years old while I flunked out of college five years after I started. He's got a wickedly sharp wit, able to make me laugh whenever he wants. More than that, he never fell into the trap laid by my father's outward stoicism, he wears his every emotion on his sleeve, ashamed of nothing. While pops and I hide everything, cover every sign of potential weakness with a sharp word or a commanding look, my brother overwhelms everyone with his acute sense of justice and his wide open feelings. He has a quick temper, and a quicker apology. He almost worships me, but he's not afraid to tell me when I'm an asshole. He's everything I could ask for in a brother, and one of my best friends.
As you can see, I'm a lucky man. My family bugs me, stifles me, smothers me, overprotects me. They also made me who I am, and they love me anyway.
I spent the day with my family, again, and I'm feeling inclined to write about them for the first time on this particular outlet. I'm lucky. I know this. My parents are loving and supportive, no matter how many bad decisions I make. My brother looks up to me with that fanatical devotion that only little brothers can generate. I love it.
My mom is nuts. She's a full on, bible-thumping, evangelizing Christian, but no one's perfect. Although she's blind in her faith and stubbornly follows the church even when she knows in her heart it's wrong, I hold no ill-will towards her spirituality. Yes, she tries to convert me every chance she gets, yes she refuses to acknowledge my cousin's lesbian relationship even as it enters it's 10th year, yes she votes Republican across the board in an effort to rid the world of gays and abortionists. The thing is, she lives it out. Every day, every thing she does, she does with the Christian ideal in mind. While I tend to believe Christian politics are medieval, and Christian rules a little too restrictive with not enough logic, I can certainly think of worse moral codes to dedicate your life to. She's compassionate, loving, kind, and selfless. She's everything I'm not, and she doesn't hate me for it. That's a rare combination, and she's a special woman.
My pops is quite the opposite. I'm more like him than I want to admit, usually. Stern, unequivocal, intelligent, and firm. He knows everything, and it's rare that we catch him out on something, all too frequently a little argument and a little research proves him nothing but correct. He's also fiercely loyal, decisive under pressure, and he would unhesitatingly kill or be killed to defend his family. He left my mom, once, for a short time in the grand scheme of things. I've almost forgiven him, if not for leaving my mom than for not taking me with him. I'll never forgive him for forcing me to become the man of the house, for forcing me to over power him, to throw him out bodily in a moment of desperation. He loves me, though, and I love him. Mom has forgiven him, though I can't understand how, and the four of us are a stronger family unit for the experience.
Then there's my brother. Unfairly cast as the dumb one, the troublemaker, he was getting lectured on the phone about almost missing his curfew while my friends and I got high in the backyard every time my parents went out of town. He's brilliant with electronics, terrible at test-taking. Anyone who hasn't known us for years would be convinced he's the smart one, taking apart computers and improving them on reassembly since he was 13 years old while I flunked out of college five years after I started. He's got a wickedly sharp wit, able to make me laugh whenever he wants. More than that, he never fell into the trap laid by my father's outward stoicism, he wears his every emotion on his sleeve, ashamed of nothing. While pops and I hide everything, cover every sign of potential weakness with a sharp word or a commanding look, my brother overwhelms everyone with his acute sense of justice and his wide open feelings. He has a quick temper, and a quicker apology. He almost worships me, but he's not afraid to tell me when I'm an asshole. He's everything I could ask for in a brother, and one of my best friends.
As you can see, I'm a lucky man. My family bugs me, stifles me, smothers me, overprotects me. They also made me who I am, and they love me anyway.
7.13.2006
Too tired to be tired.
Some days, I am tired. Occasionally for good reason, all too frequently for no reason I can discern without far too much introspection for a weekday. By tired, I don't mean sleepy, or insufficiently rested. I mean exhausted, wiped out, totally demolished. Today seems to be one of those days.
Maybe this is stress related. This time of year, problems are so commonplace at work as to become run of the mill. Yesterday, I agreed to take on a new responsibility at work, the kind of additional project that comes without title or increased salary. The kind of project that carries enormous potential for success with little reward. I work too much, most likely. I take work too seriously. I love my job. I cling to it, devouring every bit of praise, no matter how minor; reeling from every criticism, no matter how well deserved. I take no satisfation in a job well done--my satisfaction and my relaxation are bound firm to being the best. Not perfect, but closer too perfect than anyone else. There is no form of obligation so taxing as a constant commitment to one's self.
I stress very little, about other things. I am happy with the Remix. I am happy with my apartment, my cats, my finances, my life. Bills don't concern me, much. I do what I want, when I want, and I answer only to the people I choose to. And yet, I find myself worn out.
Don't get me wrong. I am not a zombie, I am not clinging to my sanity, I am not falling asleep at the wheel of my car. I am merely complaining. Sometimes the best thing for me is just a good bad mood.
Maybe this is stress related. This time of year, problems are so commonplace at work as to become run of the mill. Yesterday, I agreed to take on a new responsibility at work, the kind of additional project that comes without title or increased salary. The kind of project that carries enormous potential for success with little reward. I work too much, most likely. I take work too seriously. I love my job. I cling to it, devouring every bit of praise, no matter how minor; reeling from every criticism, no matter how well deserved. I take no satisfation in a job well done--my satisfaction and my relaxation are bound firm to being the best. Not perfect, but closer too perfect than anyone else. There is no form of obligation so taxing as a constant commitment to one's self.
I stress very little, about other things. I am happy with the Remix. I am happy with my apartment, my cats, my finances, my life. Bills don't concern me, much. I do what I want, when I want, and I answer only to the people I choose to. And yet, I find myself worn out.
Don't get me wrong. I am not a zombie, I am not clinging to my sanity, I am not falling asleep at the wheel of my car. I am merely complaining. Sometimes the best thing for me is just a good bad mood.
7.12.2006
KFC always smells good.
Of course, yet again, the title of this bit has nothing to do with what I'm writing about, just thought it was an important thought to share with the world.
It's hard, sometimes, to be the butt of the joke. I've always been self-deprecating, for a couple reasons. One, it's funny. I love to be funny, and I'm not so conceited as to hold myself above mockery. Two, it doesn't hurt anyone. I can, and have been, cruel. I always find a way to overstep that invisible line with others, the line that separates what's ok to laugh at and what really hurts. Three, it sets people at ease with me. I have a tendency to be a little gruff, and a little self-taunting smooths out the edges a bit.
All that said, and what I always forget until it's too late, is that once you open yourself up, you've erased your own line in the sand, and you can't go back. It would be horribly confusing to everyone around if suddenly, I was easily offended. Problem is, sometimes you just don't feel like being the punching bag. More frequently, someone you don't think ought to be punching throws a shot in just where you don't want it.
I can take the punishment, that's not really the problem. What I have trouble with is the soft spots. I can't tell people what things are acceptable and what things piss me off, I've opened the floodgates already, and I don't intend to change the way I am just because it's occasionally uncomfortable. There's a list, though....
Remix? Mock away, even we think it's a little bit funny most of the time. You can't start dating your ex and expect your friends to let you go unscathed.
Divorce? Yeah, I brought this one on myself, but maybe we could let it die already? Believe it or not, even with all the jokes, it wasn't all that pleasant. I can joke, it makes me feel better. When other people joke, it makes me feel like putting a knife in someone's eye.
Weight? No problem, baby. I got enough going for me to ignore the fat jokes. I'll lose the weight, on my own terms, and probably slowly, but this one never bothers me. If it did, I'd probably have pulled a Jared from Subway by now.
Work Ethic? Fuck you. The best friend is the main perpetrator here, mostly because his own obvious insecurities are a little much for him to handle; the combination of my being the boss and my being the best is enough to set him completely off his rocker. I work my ass off, and until someone else can match my numbers, my hours, and my dedication, anyone who wants to give me shit for letting the phone ring can bite my left nut.
Haircut? Yeah, it's bad. What can I expect for $12.99?
The bigger thing is always the who, not so much the what. Do I want the nasty bitch across the way or the brainless pair of breasts who sits in the far corner to feel comfortable taking shots at me in any circumstance? Fuck no. Do I think the best friend could afford to shut his mouth and show a little loyalty now and again? Hell yes. Can my brother say things to me that my new employee can't? Of course.
Why this has come up today, totally beyond me. Oh well.
It's hard, sometimes, to be the butt of the joke. I've always been self-deprecating, for a couple reasons. One, it's funny. I love to be funny, and I'm not so conceited as to hold myself above mockery. Two, it doesn't hurt anyone. I can, and have been, cruel. I always find a way to overstep that invisible line with others, the line that separates what's ok to laugh at and what really hurts. Three, it sets people at ease with me. I have a tendency to be a little gruff, and a little self-taunting smooths out the edges a bit.
All that said, and what I always forget until it's too late, is that once you open yourself up, you've erased your own line in the sand, and you can't go back. It would be horribly confusing to everyone around if suddenly, I was easily offended. Problem is, sometimes you just don't feel like being the punching bag. More frequently, someone you don't think ought to be punching throws a shot in just where you don't want it.
I can take the punishment, that's not really the problem. What I have trouble with is the soft spots. I can't tell people what things are acceptable and what things piss me off, I've opened the floodgates already, and I don't intend to change the way I am just because it's occasionally uncomfortable. There's a list, though....
Remix? Mock away, even we think it's a little bit funny most of the time. You can't start dating your ex and expect your friends to let you go unscathed.
Divorce? Yeah, I brought this one on myself, but maybe we could let it die already? Believe it or not, even with all the jokes, it wasn't all that pleasant. I can joke, it makes me feel better. When other people joke, it makes me feel like putting a knife in someone's eye.
Weight? No problem, baby. I got enough going for me to ignore the fat jokes. I'll lose the weight, on my own terms, and probably slowly, but this one never bothers me. If it did, I'd probably have pulled a Jared from Subway by now.
Work Ethic? Fuck you. The best friend is the main perpetrator here, mostly because his own obvious insecurities are a little much for him to handle; the combination of my being the boss and my being the best is enough to set him completely off his rocker. I work my ass off, and until someone else can match my numbers, my hours, and my dedication, anyone who wants to give me shit for letting the phone ring can bite my left nut.
Haircut? Yeah, it's bad. What can I expect for $12.99?
The bigger thing is always the who, not so much the what. Do I want the nasty bitch across the way or the brainless pair of breasts who sits in the far corner to feel comfortable taking shots at me in any circumstance? Fuck no. Do I think the best friend could afford to shut his mouth and show a little loyalty now and again? Hell yes. Can my brother say things to me that my new employee can't? Of course.
Why this has come up today, totally beyond me. Oh well.
7.11.2006
Setting yourself up for failure.
Ok. Lame title. I don't have the time, the energy, or the dedication to excellence to care. The Remix and I were talking about set-ups and blind dates yesterday, and I decided it was worth writing about. I've got mixed feelings on set-ups, really. The not-yet-cleverly-named ex and I set up her cousin with a co-worker of mine, and damn near ended up with a date rape case. That was a bad one. On the other hand, the Remix and I set up the best friend and BFGF to go to prom a million years ago, and now they share an apartment and a relatively similar worldview. Apparently, it's a toss up. Regardless, the story I want to tell is about an awful set-up, and hopefully a cautionary tale for all you aspiring cupids out there.
The BFGF worries about me. I'm sure the best friend doesn't help, what with his constant defensive posturing and tendency for belittlement, but she's not totally off the mark, either. Anyone who lives with two cats and an X-Box 360 for company at 26 years old and isn't at least partially open to the idea of a set up has problems I don't even want to think about. Her intentions were good, anyway, and I don't blame her for the abortion that unfolded, we all should have known better.
So BFGF picks out a girl from her bevy of friends, one she believes to be smart, funny, pretty, all the sort of things she believes I'd like. Since she believes me to be smart, funny, and good-looking, she believed that we'd get along. This is how it came to be that I'd be introduced to Lawnchair. (Do I need to point out that this is not her real name? Occasionally I wonder about the general intellgence level out there, so if you find this sentence insulting and pointless, please skip to the next paragraph.)
There are several things wrong with this plan, right from the start. First of all, Lawnchair does not know there is a set-up afoot, and I do. This leads us to rule number one in the set-up Bible: Thou shalt not introduce your friends with matchmaking intentions unless the terms of the arrangement have been described in equal terms to both parties involved. Second problem--the best friend and BFGF have decided for no apparent reason that I would be more comfortable in this situation with a homecourt advantage, so they decide this melding of the hearts should take place in the bar next to my apartment. This would be good if Lawnchair was into lonely drunks belting out karaoke from 9-2, like I am, but not exactly conducive to conversation. So rule number two: Thou shalt not bring your friends together in any environment where drunk girls might be incoherently howling along with "I Touch Myself."
So the best friend and I get there first, post up at the bar, and immediately begin drinking heavily. (This is so obvious, it doesn't even get a rule.) When BFGF and Lawnchair arrive, our eyes met, and sparks immediately flew. Most of the sparks were the angry kind, directed at BFGF from Lawnchair, but that's beside the point. So far, this is going swimmingly. Now, something you should know about the best friend: he's unable to keep his mouth shut. Period. He talks, regardless of who's listening, and the more uncomfortable he gets, the more he talks. So, put the best friend in the middle of a group that consists of one uncomfortable male, one angry female, and one slightly bewildered girlfriend, and imagine how charming this could potentially get. Within two minutes, any one of us would have gladly shot him.
I'm going to take the high road here, because I'm the author and no one can stop me, and place all of the blame for this catastrophe on Lawnchair. Rule number three: Thou shalt not introduce your boyfriend's beer swilling, sarcastic, overweight, and occasionally a wee bit obnoxious best friend to your overexercised, humorless, bitchy, and frightfully thickskulled acquaintances with any romantic intentions whatsoever. (Alright, that's sort of case-specific, but I think you get the idea.) Anyway, Lawnchair is immediately horrified and seeking an escape route, and I'm unsure on the next step. For BFGF's sake, and the knowledge that one can't masturbate forever, I decide to step up to the plate and give it my best shot, in spite of the fact I'm already batting with one hand tied behind my back. Let's turn it over to the play by play guy.....
Two out, no one on, and the batter steps in. First pitch...So, what's your favorite lunchmeat? *Author's note--no, this is not my idea of small talk, all thanks to the best friend for this conversational gem. I don't know, corned beef? .... God, that's so disgusting, I don't even eat lunchmeat! STRIKE ONE! SHE BLOWS THE FASTBALL BY HIM, NEVER EVEN SAW IT COMING!!! He taps the dust off his cleats, adjusts his hat, and steps back in. Here's the pitch... So what do you do for fun? *Ok, this one is me...I'm no Shakespeare either. I ride my bike, for, like, 50 miles a day. He's going to swing, here comes a joke! Gee, that's exciting, don't you do anything that's actually, you know, fun?....
Believe it or not, folks, it got worse from there. Bald black guy, huge muscles and a cheap watch, and he actually got away with feeding her a line about being a gynecologist. (I told you she was thickskulled.) I pointed out that she didn't seem to like anything about me, a potentially awkward social move made ten times worse by the fact I did it drunk, and in the middle of the karaoke song I was singing. BFGF and Lawnchair eventually left, leaving only me and the best friend to drink away the failure, and I could only think of one thing to say in summation of the evening.
"You know, man, I'd have been nicer to her if she was the fat one." The sad thing is, it's true.
The BFGF worries about me. I'm sure the best friend doesn't help, what with his constant defensive posturing and tendency for belittlement, but she's not totally off the mark, either. Anyone who lives with two cats and an X-Box 360 for company at 26 years old and isn't at least partially open to the idea of a set up has problems I don't even want to think about. Her intentions were good, anyway, and I don't blame her for the abortion that unfolded, we all should have known better.
So BFGF picks out a girl from her bevy of friends, one she believes to be smart, funny, pretty, all the sort of things she believes I'd like. Since she believes me to be smart, funny, and good-looking, she believed that we'd get along. This is how it came to be that I'd be introduced to Lawnchair. (Do I need to point out that this is not her real name? Occasionally I wonder about the general intellgence level out there, so if you find this sentence insulting and pointless, please skip to the next paragraph.)
There are several things wrong with this plan, right from the start. First of all, Lawnchair does not know there is a set-up afoot, and I do. This leads us to rule number one in the set-up Bible: Thou shalt not introduce your friends with matchmaking intentions unless the terms of the arrangement have been described in equal terms to both parties involved. Second problem--the best friend and BFGF have decided for no apparent reason that I would be more comfortable in this situation with a homecourt advantage, so they decide this melding of the hearts should take place in the bar next to my apartment. This would be good if Lawnchair was into lonely drunks belting out karaoke from 9-2, like I am, but not exactly conducive to conversation. So rule number two: Thou shalt not bring your friends together in any environment where drunk girls might be incoherently howling along with "I Touch Myself."
So the best friend and I get there first, post up at the bar, and immediately begin drinking heavily. (This is so obvious, it doesn't even get a rule.) When BFGF and Lawnchair arrive, our eyes met, and sparks immediately flew. Most of the sparks were the angry kind, directed at BFGF from Lawnchair, but that's beside the point. So far, this is going swimmingly. Now, something you should know about the best friend: he's unable to keep his mouth shut. Period. He talks, regardless of who's listening, and the more uncomfortable he gets, the more he talks. So, put the best friend in the middle of a group that consists of one uncomfortable male, one angry female, and one slightly bewildered girlfriend, and imagine how charming this could potentially get. Within two minutes, any one of us would have gladly shot him.
I'm going to take the high road here, because I'm the author and no one can stop me, and place all of the blame for this catastrophe on Lawnchair. Rule number three: Thou shalt not introduce your boyfriend's beer swilling, sarcastic, overweight, and occasionally a wee bit obnoxious best friend to your overexercised, humorless, bitchy, and frightfully thickskulled acquaintances with any romantic intentions whatsoever. (Alright, that's sort of case-specific, but I think you get the idea.) Anyway, Lawnchair is immediately horrified and seeking an escape route, and I'm unsure on the next step. For BFGF's sake, and the knowledge that one can't masturbate forever, I decide to step up to the plate and give it my best shot, in spite of the fact I'm already batting with one hand tied behind my back. Let's turn it over to the play by play guy.....
Two out, no one on, and the batter steps in. First pitch...So, what's your favorite lunchmeat? *Author's note--no, this is not my idea of small talk, all thanks to the best friend for this conversational gem. I don't know, corned beef? .... God, that's so disgusting, I don't even eat lunchmeat! STRIKE ONE! SHE BLOWS THE FASTBALL BY HIM, NEVER EVEN SAW IT COMING!!! He taps the dust off his cleats, adjusts his hat, and steps back in. Here's the pitch... So what do you do for fun? *Ok, this one is me...I'm no Shakespeare either. I ride my bike, for, like, 50 miles a day. He's going to swing, here comes a joke! Gee, that's exciting, don't you do anything that's actually, you know, fun?....
Believe it or not, folks, it got worse from there. Bald black guy, huge muscles and a cheap watch, and he actually got away with feeding her a line about being a gynecologist. (I told you she was thickskulled.) I pointed out that she didn't seem to like anything about me, a potentially awkward social move made ten times worse by the fact I did it drunk, and in the middle of the karaoke song I was singing. BFGF and Lawnchair eventually left, leaving only me and the best friend to drink away the failure, and I could only think of one thing to say in summation of the evening.
"You know, man, I'd have been nicer to her if she was the fat one." The sad thing is, it's true.
7.10.2006
Home is where your ass is....
Much has been made of the general lack of decoration in my apartment, mostly by the best friend's girlfriend. She finds it depressing, I'm told. Since the best friend's girlfriend (BFGF) is also one of The Remix's best friends, I get double the insight into her disapproval of my home situation.
Let me enlighten you, then, on what exactly Casa de DJ looks like. I live out in the Chicago suburbs, a safe distance away from the irregular din of the city, but close enough I can still go out for a nine dollar beer if the urge takes me. (Which it rarely if ever does.) I live in a building that's about thirty years old, in an apartment with picture rail and pale yellow walls. I don't do much in the way of furniture, the ex-wife took care of that with her amazing propensity to buy low-quality, overpriced couches and end table on a regular basis. (Side note, the ex still needs a clever yet anonymous blog name, management is working on it.)
The furniture I do have is atrocious. An ancient, burnt orange sofa with matching lazy-boy, both older than I am and recently rescued from my grandpa's basement. Apparently the people were considerably shorter thirty years ago, because the seat cushions are mere inches from floor level. The lazy boy is full of deceptive crevices, where quarters and cigarette lighters vanish into oblivion.
I have two cats, something of an anomaly for a straight male, fuck you if you have a problem with that. I like my cats, even if they cover the furniture in blonde and black fur, scratch up the armrests, and occasionally bite unprovoked. I also have two coffee tables. They do less biting, but offer nothing in the way of companionship.
One of the coffee tables is just an enormous slab of heavily varnished driftwood perched on four sections of tree trunk. It is the kind of coffee table you could park a truck on. Unfortunately, it is also the single ugliest piece of furniture i have ever seen. I love it. The coffee table that I actually use, more for a place to set the ashtray than anything coffee-related, is not as ugly. Worn out, flimsy, and horribly stained, but functional.
The focal point of the apartment is clearly the TV. The only thing organized in my entire living space is my immaculately alphabetized collection of DVDs and video games. I don't know what that says about me as a person, and I don't particularly care. My bills are strewn all over my desk, usually paid. I have boxes and boxes of books, open but not on display, which I also love. I don't have a bookshelf, which is why I've yet to unpack.
The bedroom is similarly spartan. No pictures on the walls, anywhere in the apartment. Strange, paisley sheets, broken blinds, a reading lamp with two-thirds of the bulbs out. Dirty laundry in one corner, clean in the other.
It's not much. It's not home, by a long shot. It is a place to sleep, to get away from everyone else. It's my place. And I love it.
Let me enlighten you, then, on what exactly Casa de DJ looks like. I live out in the Chicago suburbs, a safe distance away from the irregular din of the city, but close enough I can still go out for a nine dollar beer if the urge takes me. (Which it rarely if ever does.) I live in a building that's about thirty years old, in an apartment with picture rail and pale yellow walls. I don't do much in the way of furniture, the ex-wife took care of that with her amazing propensity to buy low-quality, overpriced couches and end table on a regular basis. (Side note, the ex still needs a clever yet anonymous blog name, management is working on it.)
The furniture I do have is atrocious. An ancient, burnt orange sofa with matching lazy-boy, both older than I am and recently rescued from my grandpa's basement. Apparently the people were considerably shorter thirty years ago, because the seat cushions are mere inches from floor level. The lazy boy is full of deceptive crevices, where quarters and cigarette lighters vanish into oblivion.
I have two cats, something of an anomaly for a straight male, fuck you if you have a problem with that. I like my cats, even if they cover the furniture in blonde and black fur, scratch up the armrests, and occasionally bite unprovoked. I also have two coffee tables. They do less biting, but offer nothing in the way of companionship.
One of the coffee tables is just an enormous slab of heavily varnished driftwood perched on four sections of tree trunk. It is the kind of coffee table you could park a truck on. Unfortunately, it is also the single ugliest piece of furniture i have ever seen. I love it. The coffee table that I actually use, more for a place to set the ashtray than anything coffee-related, is not as ugly. Worn out, flimsy, and horribly stained, but functional.
The focal point of the apartment is clearly the TV. The only thing organized in my entire living space is my immaculately alphabetized collection of DVDs and video games. I don't know what that says about me as a person, and I don't particularly care. My bills are strewn all over my desk, usually paid. I have boxes and boxes of books, open but not on display, which I also love. I don't have a bookshelf, which is why I've yet to unpack.
The bedroom is similarly spartan. No pictures on the walls, anywhere in the apartment. Strange, paisley sheets, broken blinds, a reading lamp with two-thirds of the bulbs out. Dirty laundry in one corner, clean in the other.
It's not much. It's not home, by a long shot. It is a place to sleep, to get away from everyone else. It's my place. And I love it.
7.08.2006
Meta-meta-analysis
So, I'm frankly in a little bit of heaven here. Got laid this morning in spectacular fashion, then got on the laptop and got some work done. Taking my parents to the movies this afternoon, then catching a UFC pay-per-view with my little brother. All around good day shaping up. I'm pleased.
The Remix is nervous again. This thing is too literal, from time to time. For defensive reasons, both of us keep hedging our bets when it comes to the details. Pretending that things mean less than they do, or qualifying even a simple statement just enough so it doesn't look incriminating later on. This whole blog exercise is a perfect example. I'll say about 99% of what I think, open and unabashed. There's always something, though, always some little throw-in so that when I read this later, I can tell myself I knew what was coming. (This last sentence? Perfect fucking example.)
We're afraid to hope for too much. We've got something of a routine down, now, which would be more unsettling if we didn't both enjoy it so much. I'm sitting here, watching cigarette smoke curl around the monitor, daring to hope and simultaneously making excuses in my head. I don't even know what I'm hoping for exactly, beyond the hope that things continue being this good.
And then there's always the parent issue. They won't approve. This is a given. The best friend barely approves, he's another one who's constantly hedging the bet. The parents are different, though. I could make them see, probably. Not without changing what we've got, though, and I won't do that for anyone. I could tell them she doesn't need me as much, that she makes me so happy, that we've grown out of so much of the bad stuff. I can sell anyone anything. That's what I do. Problem is, to do it right, to make my parents comfortable, I'd have to trade so much of what we like about this. The weight of their expectations would obliterate everything we have going. To be fair to mom and pop, it's not all their fault. We were very, very bad to each other when we let go the last time. For the first, and last time, I'm going to justify this on paper. This is what I would say, if I was going to say anything at all:
We were just kids. We were so in love, then, the way kids tend to be. I wanted to change her world, and she wanted to believe in me so badly. We set ourselves up to fail, trying to so hard to be things for each other that no one should have to be. It was a failure to her every time she wasn't perfect. It was a failure to me every time I couldn't help, couldn't fix it. It was wrong, though. She never had to be perfect, she was more than I could reasonably ask for. I was unreasonable then. I didn't have to fix everything, I gave her everything I could and probably a little more. She asked for too much. Five years have passed now. We've been around the block a couple times, and now we know. That's our dirty little secret. She knows what it's like to really not be perfect. I know what it's like to really try too hard. And we both know what it's like when it's not as good as it could be. We've got something good. This time, we both know how good. That, regardless of what happens, makes this worth another shot. We wouldn't be here, without all that history. We had to blow up, had to go our own way, had to find out what we wanted from life independent of what we wanted from each other. Now we know. Now we're making the relationship fit ourselves, not the other way around. Now we know.
The Remix is nervous again. This thing is too literal, from time to time. For defensive reasons, both of us keep hedging our bets when it comes to the details. Pretending that things mean less than they do, or qualifying even a simple statement just enough so it doesn't look incriminating later on. This whole blog exercise is a perfect example. I'll say about 99% of what I think, open and unabashed. There's always something, though, always some little throw-in so that when I read this later, I can tell myself I knew what was coming. (This last sentence? Perfect fucking example.)
We're afraid to hope for too much. We've got something of a routine down, now, which would be more unsettling if we didn't both enjoy it so much. I'm sitting here, watching cigarette smoke curl around the monitor, daring to hope and simultaneously making excuses in my head. I don't even know what I'm hoping for exactly, beyond the hope that things continue being this good.
And then there's always the parent issue. They won't approve. This is a given. The best friend barely approves, he's another one who's constantly hedging the bet. The parents are different, though. I could make them see, probably. Not without changing what we've got, though, and I won't do that for anyone. I could tell them she doesn't need me as much, that she makes me so happy, that we've grown out of so much of the bad stuff. I can sell anyone anything. That's what I do. Problem is, to do it right, to make my parents comfortable, I'd have to trade so much of what we like about this. The weight of their expectations would obliterate everything we have going. To be fair to mom and pop, it's not all their fault. We were very, very bad to each other when we let go the last time. For the first, and last time, I'm going to justify this on paper. This is what I would say, if I was going to say anything at all:
We were just kids. We were so in love, then, the way kids tend to be. I wanted to change her world, and she wanted to believe in me so badly. We set ourselves up to fail, trying to so hard to be things for each other that no one should have to be. It was a failure to her every time she wasn't perfect. It was a failure to me every time I couldn't help, couldn't fix it. It was wrong, though. She never had to be perfect, she was more than I could reasonably ask for. I was unreasonable then. I didn't have to fix everything, I gave her everything I could and probably a little more. She asked for too much. Five years have passed now. We've been around the block a couple times, and now we know. That's our dirty little secret. She knows what it's like to really not be perfect. I know what it's like to really try too hard. And we both know what it's like when it's not as good as it could be. We've got something good. This time, we both know how good. That, regardless of what happens, makes this worth another shot. We wouldn't be here, without all that history. We had to blow up, had to go our own way, had to find out what we wanted from life independent of what we wanted from each other. Now we know. Now we're making the relationship fit ourselves, not the other way around. Now we know.
7.07.2006
I'm sorry, do you have reservations?
It's almost comical. We're going out of our way, desperately trying to keep from making too many assumptions, get too comfortable, enjoy ourselves too much. Don't make reservations for dinner she says. I don't want you to do something out of the ordinary and resent it later. The worst of it is, she's got the justification of history on her side. She thinks I've resented things this pointless in the past, and punished her for it. How do you tell someone you're all grown up while trying to hide the X-Box 360 controller under the couch?
I'm not afraid of the same things she is. I'm trying to watch myself for new mistakes, not redundancies. A friend at work has dubbed her Girlfriend: The Remix. I like it, it makes me laugh. I'm hoping it's prohetic, though. Same beat, same hook, but a totally different sound. Not a sequel. A remix.
We laugh more now. That's a big plus. We can't keep our hands off each other, another big plus. We still love to talk. The best part, that. She's interesting, I'm not just tolerating the conversation until it's time to go to bed like so many of my contemporaries, I'm actually enjoying the motherfucker.
There's all kinds of downside to dating with someone with this much history. It's a proven failure, your friends give you more crap, every sentence has the weight of five years of memories behind it. There's a huge upside, though. There's no bullshit--We know each other too well, and we know what we want. We can't read each other's minds, but there's none of the deliberate shyness that most early relationships suffer through. Listen, if I don't want to talk anymore, I'll just tell you. Life is much simpler this way.
All that said, she's wrong on one count. I never resented doing things for her, going the extra mile, trying to make it special. That's one of the fun parts of dating. I resented being expected to do so, and as long this stuff still surprises her, I've got no reservations at all.
I'm not afraid of the same things she is. I'm trying to watch myself for new mistakes, not redundancies. A friend at work has dubbed her Girlfriend: The Remix. I like it, it makes me laugh. I'm hoping it's prohetic, though. Same beat, same hook, but a totally different sound. Not a sequel. A remix.
We laugh more now. That's a big plus. We can't keep our hands off each other, another big plus. We still love to talk. The best part, that. She's interesting, I'm not just tolerating the conversation until it's time to go to bed like so many of my contemporaries, I'm actually enjoying the motherfucker.
There's all kinds of downside to dating with someone with this much history. It's a proven failure, your friends give you more crap, every sentence has the weight of five years of memories behind it. There's a huge upside, though. There's no bullshit--We know each other too well, and we know what we want. We can't read each other's minds, but there's none of the deliberate shyness that most early relationships suffer through. Listen, if I don't want to talk anymore, I'll just tell you. Life is much simpler this way.
All that said, she's wrong on one count. I never resented doing things for her, going the extra mile, trying to make it special. That's one of the fun parts of dating. I resented being expected to do so, and as long this stuff still surprises her, I've got no reservations at all.
7.06.2006
Timing is everything....
Biology can be a real kick in the nuts. Thank God she's a trouper.
The really amazing part, though, is that it doesn't matter. I'm happy. For the first time in a long time, I'm happy with someone, even when it's just dinner and a movie. Funny. I honestly think this might be ok. It shouldn't be a surprise, necessarily. I just never, not in a million years, would have seen it coming.
The really amazing part, though, is that it doesn't matter. I'm happy. For the first time in a long time, I'm happy with someone, even when it's just dinner and a movie. Funny. I honestly think this might be ok. It shouldn't be a surprise, necessarily. I just never, not in a million years, would have seen it coming.
7.05.2006
Mindless babble
Two more hours, and it feels like a lifetime. I don't recall ever enjoying this side of things so much, but I'm more than willing to roll with it. Hell, I'll try to drink lots of liquids and do some stretching, and let's roll all night, baby. Seriously, I feel like I'm fifteen again, walking around all day with a perpetual hard-on. There's more to this thing than just sex. I'm glad there's more to it, and I think the sex would be less enthralling if we didn't seem to hit it off so well. But I'd be lying if I didn't tell you the sex is worth the price of admission all by it's lonesome. It's that fucking good.
Things are coming to a head with the new guy I hired about two months ago. I work in a very high-energy environment, and there's no room for someone who doesn't seem to hustle. Forget hustling, man, sometimes I have to throw things over the desk to make sure this cat's still awake. He's a good guy, great sense of humor, easy to get along with, blah blah blah blah blah. Unfortunately, he's also as dumb as a sack of onions.
I was going to be a teacher, at some point long past. Then someone pointed out that I have no patience for people who aren't as smart as me. God help me, I still don't. If he had a hard time negotiating rates, or was shy talking to customers, or couldn't keep organized, any number of other things, I'd be happy to hold his hand and walk him through it. He's just too fucking dumb, and I don't see that having much potential for immediate improvement. So I do enough work for two people, and I let Mongo stare at his computer screen all day with a slighly befuddled half-smile. Gotta love it, right?
Anyway, I have to go take a shower and clean up the apartment before the girl shows up. If I can move under my own power tomorrow, there'll be more for you then. (Don't count on it.)
Things are coming to a head with the new guy I hired about two months ago. I work in a very high-energy environment, and there's no room for someone who doesn't seem to hustle. Forget hustling, man, sometimes I have to throw things over the desk to make sure this cat's still awake. He's a good guy, great sense of humor, easy to get along with, blah blah blah blah blah. Unfortunately, he's also as dumb as a sack of onions.
I was going to be a teacher, at some point long past. Then someone pointed out that I have no patience for people who aren't as smart as me. God help me, I still don't. If he had a hard time negotiating rates, or was shy talking to customers, or couldn't keep organized, any number of other things, I'd be happy to hold his hand and walk him through it. He's just too fucking dumb, and I don't see that having much potential for immediate improvement. So I do enough work for two people, and I let Mongo stare at his computer screen all day with a slighly befuddled half-smile. Gotta love it, right?
Anyway, I have to go take a shower and clean up the apartment before the girl shows up. If I can move under my own power tomorrow, there'll be more for you then. (Don't count on it.)
7.04.2006
Recycling
This is reprinted from another blog I keep, but I like it, and I'd like it here. So.
So I'm a little confused....one of my good friends from college is getting married in two weeks, and she didn't invite me to the wedding. She says she didn't know my address, but let's be honest here....I think the real problem is that my ex-wife almost has to be there. Now, to be fair, I understand that when you get divorced, your friends have to come down on one side or the other at some point.The guys have mostly come down on my side of it, but this particular friend had thus far been fairly objective. Actually, she's the only one of the girls from our little gang at U of I who still talks to me at all.
I don't exactly blame her--who wants their wedding to be the setting for an incredibly awkward social scene, right? But they're nice couple, and I would have liked the opportunity to get together with some of the old crew. What really bothers me more than anything is that she won't shoot straight about it. I mean, she hasn't taken sides, and I really appreciate that. And I know she can't be fucking Switzerland with the wedding, it had to be one or the other of us. But she could have just told me, it wouldn't have broken my heart.
That's the worst thing about the divorce, really. I'm glad I got out of the marriage when I did, pre-kids and all. I'm not happy about the whole situation, but I don't regret it and I definitely have reached a point where I'm at peace with the whole thing. The earthquake was bad, but we're past that. It's the aftershocks that hurt. I miss some of those friends, and it stings a little to know that things will never be quite like they were, even if we all managed to get together.
I miss owning a house. I miss hanging out with my brothers-in-law, drinking beer and arguing about the kind of asinine things only close friends can discuss. I miss playing softball on Friday nights and then playing basketball hungover on Saturday mornings, reeking of booze and dragging ass all over the court with the guys. I miss my nieces and nephews. I miss all the innocent flirting with my sister-in-law. I miss playing bags on Sunday.
I don't miss the fights. I don't miss going to my in-laws four times a week. I don't miss the drama. I don't miss being broke. I don't miss the nagging, harping, constant browbeating about everything under the sun. I don't miss my ex-wife.
I take back my earlier comment. I have some regrets. I'm not sad that it turned out the way it did, I think it was inevitable. I don't regret the relationship, either. The good times were good, just not good enough to get us through. But I wish I'd made a better break with all the satellites that orbited our marriage. I wish I'd had a chance to say goodbye, man to man, to the guys that meant so much to me for the past four years. I wish I could have explained myself to my ex-wife's sister, because I can't stand the knowledge that she hates me now. I wish I could have kissed my nieces and nephews goodbye. I wish I'd told my father-in-law that he was a controlling, domineering ass. I wish I'd told my mother-in-law that half of what ruined my marriage stemmed directly from her fucked-up way of directing her daughter's every action.
But the one thing that can still make me tear up is a ridiculous little thing. So insignificant in the grand scheme of things, I'm almost embarassed to admit it. You all (yeah, sometimes I pretend someone reads this cathartic, self-indulgent shit) will probably think I'm nuts, and I can't say I blame you. But it just happens to be the one thing that still hurts. Judge me however you want, recommend me for psychoanalysis, never speak to me again. It's the simple truth.
I wish that bitch had let me keep my goddamn cats. I loved those fucking cats.
So I'm a little confused....one of my good friends from college is getting married in two weeks, and she didn't invite me to the wedding. She says she didn't know my address, but let's be honest here....I think the real problem is that my ex-wife almost has to be there. Now, to be fair, I understand that when you get divorced, your friends have to come down on one side or the other at some point.The guys have mostly come down on my side of it, but this particular friend had thus far been fairly objective. Actually, she's the only one of the girls from our little gang at U of I who still talks to me at all.
I don't exactly blame her--who wants their wedding to be the setting for an incredibly awkward social scene, right? But they're nice couple, and I would have liked the opportunity to get together with some of the old crew. What really bothers me more than anything is that she won't shoot straight about it. I mean, she hasn't taken sides, and I really appreciate that. And I know she can't be fucking Switzerland with the wedding, it had to be one or the other of us. But she could have just told me, it wouldn't have broken my heart.
That's the worst thing about the divorce, really. I'm glad I got out of the marriage when I did, pre-kids and all. I'm not happy about the whole situation, but I don't regret it and I definitely have reached a point where I'm at peace with the whole thing. The earthquake was bad, but we're past that. It's the aftershocks that hurt. I miss some of those friends, and it stings a little to know that things will never be quite like they were, even if we all managed to get together.
I miss owning a house. I miss hanging out with my brothers-in-law, drinking beer and arguing about the kind of asinine things only close friends can discuss. I miss playing softball on Friday nights and then playing basketball hungover on Saturday mornings, reeking of booze and dragging ass all over the court with the guys. I miss my nieces and nephews. I miss all the innocent flirting with my sister-in-law. I miss playing bags on Sunday.
I don't miss the fights. I don't miss going to my in-laws four times a week. I don't miss the drama. I don't miss being broke. I don't miss the nagging, harping, constant browbeating about everything under the sun. I don't miss my ex-wife.
I take back my earlier comment. I have some regrets. I'm not sad that it turned out the way it did, I think it was inevitable. I don't regret the relationship, either. The good times were good, just not good enough to get us through. But I wish I'd made a better break with all the satellites that orbited our marriage. I wish I'd had a chance to say goodbye, man to man, to the guys that meant so much to me for the past four years. I wish I could have explained myself to my ex-wife's sister, because I can't stand the knowledge that she hates me now. I wish I could have kissed my nieces and nephews goodbye. I wish I'd told my father-in-law that he was a controlling, domineering ass. I wish I'd told my mother-in-law that half of what ruined my marriage stemmed directly from her fucked-up way of directing her daughter's every action.
But the one thing that can still make me tear up is a ridiculous little thing. So insignificant in the grand scheme of things, I'm almost embarassed to admit it. You all (yeah, sometimes I pretend someone reads this cathartic, self-indulgent shit) will probably think I'm nuts, and I can't say I blame you. But it just happens to be the one thing that still hurts. Judge me however you want, recommend me for psychoanalysis, never speak to me again. It's the simple truth.
I wish that bitch had let me keep my goddamn cats. I loved those fucking cats.
New rules
I made her say it first. That's one of the new rules. I'm not afraid to be the pursuer--I'm rather enjoying the pursuit, what there is of it. I don't recall being so wanted, last time around. I don't recall being so effective, either. Either way, the point is not to curb any inclination of my own. My goal, simple though it may be, is not to be a salesman. If this unnamed thing is what we both want, we are going to have to come to it on our own terms, or it may all be for nothing. She didn't say it grudgingly, she didn't say it to stop my persistent harping, and I'm happy to say it back.
There's other rules, too. Most not worth repeating, all realistic and accomplishable. There will be no games, for one. She knows what I want, I know what she wants, it's that simple. If those things ever change on either side, there will be choices, but there will be no games. There will be no preconceived destination. This is not a linear exercise. Elliptical seems to be a theme in her life, and I'm pretty sure it applies here, too. Most of all, there will be no subjugations. I will not presume to tell her what she should do or how she should do it, and I'm confident I can trust her to do the same. Those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it. Fortunately, we've beaten that dead horse into glue already, and whatever mistakes we may make this time will assuredly not be redundant.
I'm not making a rule that no one gets hurt. I'm not making a rule that I must protect myself at all costs. I play poker. I play Hold 'em fairly well. In a shameless use of comfortable analogy, I'm going to use it.
Right now I'm sitting on a pair of aces in the hole, and waiting for the chance to bet. Pocket rockets is the best starting hand in poker, by a long shot. Of course, it wouldn't be poker if there were any guarantees--everyone who's sat a table can tell you a dozen stories about losing their ass on a hand that they were a 10 to 1 favorite on pre-flop. Here's the deal, though. You never make any money playing poker by laying down the best hands. You never make any money playing scared. This particular hand has been blown out of the water for me before. I know this. But I'm still going to push my stack into the center when my turn comes. If I lose, I'll take it like a man. Go get a cup of coffee, catch your breath, and then go buy some more chips. You can always buy more chips. You can't win, though, if you don't play--and the game is no fun unless you win.
There's other rules, too. Most not worth repeating, all realistic and accomplishable. There will be no games, for one. She knows what I want, I know what she wants, it's that simple. If those things ever change on either side, there will be choices, but there will be no games. There will be no preconceived destination. This is not a linear exercise. Elliptical seems to be a theme in her life, and I'm pretty sure it applies here, too. Most of all, there will be no subjugations. I will not presume to tell her what she should do or how she should do it, and I'm confident I can trust her to do the same. Those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it. Fortunately, we've beaten that dead horse into glue already, and whatever mistakes we may make this time will assuredly not be redundant.
I'm not making a rule that no one gets hurt. I'm not making a rule that I must protect myself at all costs. I play poker. I play Hold 'em fairly well. In a shameless use of comfortable analogy, I'm going to use it.
Right now I'm sitting on a pair of aces in the hole, and waiting for the chance to bet. Pocket rockets is the best starting hand in poker, by a long shot. Of course, it wouldn't be poker if there were any guarantees--everyone who's sat a table can tell you a dozen stories about losing their ass on a hand that they were a 10 to 1 favorite on pre-flop. Here's the deal, though. You never make any money playing poker by laying down the best hands. You never make any money playing scared. This particular hand has been blown out of the water for me before. I know this. But I'm still going to push my stack into the center when my turn comes. If I lose, I'll take it like a man. Go get a cup of coffee, catch your breath, and then go buy some more chips. You can always buy more chips. You can't win, though, if you don't play--and the game is no fun unless you win.
7.02.2006
This is all so new, and so old...
I'm sleeping with an old girlfriend these days. More than ex-girlfriend, really. She's still special, and apparently so am I, but I must admit to a certain amount of befuddlement. We're good together, in the important ways, but we always were. There's enough orgasms to go around, laughter, intelligent conversation. The building blocks of a functional adult relationship, I think. And yet, we have hushed discussions on whom we'll tell what, which friends should know what, whose parents would so desperately disapprove of this rekindled friendship. On some days we laugh it off, joking about what so and so would think, if they only knew.
She has a blog, an excellent one. I am a constant flood of competitive instinct. So. I have other blogs. None of the literary variety, which is the shortcoming I hope to address here. Forgive me while I find my stride. I need a voice, yes, but I also need to find a tone. My life isn't well-suited to the confessional variety--not enough happens. I need to be good enough to justify being obviously derivative. But here we begin.
She has a blog, an excellent one. I am a constant flood of competitive instinct. So. I have other blogs. None of the literary variety, which is the shortcoming I hope to address here. Forgive me while I find my stride. I need a voice, yes, but I also need to find a tone. My life isn't well-suited to the confessional variety--not enough happens. I need to be good enough to justify being obviously derivative. But here we begin.
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