Writer's block

Hm. I'm very much jonesing to write something today, in short story form, but seriously bone dry on ideas. Worst feeling in the world, if you've ever put pen to paper in an attempt to create something. I've written one decent short story in the past year. (If you'd like to read it, feel free to leave me a comment, I'll be happy to send it to you. I'm at the point of trying to submit it for publication, and I can use all the intelligent criticism I can get, you know?)

Truth be told, I'm pimping my last story here in a vain attempt to boost my ego enough to get something else started. I know the last one is good, good enough anyway. If enough people tell me so, maybe I can prod my brain enough to get another one free.

I've got the stories I can't write. The ones that hurt to remember, the ones that would kill me to write honestly and would suck any other way. There's gotta be something, though. Something worth putting down, playing with, pretending I might publish. Wish me luck...

Coda

Read the post under this one first, or this won't make any sense.

After all this family feuding was done, the Remix was reeling. This was mostly my fault, I exacerbated the situation by a wanton misreading of her tone in some early e-mails, leading to the always disastrous "I-thought-we-were-joking-around-and-you-were-near-tears" effect. (E-mails should come with coded fonts for tone...you know, the text turns yellow automatically if you're scared, or blue if you're sad, or stays a harmless shade of teal when you're just chatting. This would be both helpful and aesthetically pleasing...the sarcastic purple being my personal favorite.)

Anyway, my mom essentially managed to nail down both the Remix and my own worst fears about the situation--that someone would feel slighted, no one would be happy with what they had, and the whole day would be an overly tense high wire act trying not to further hurt anyone's feelings. I think I defused that possibility, but the potential was slightly terrifying.

One good thing, though. Even at it's worst, while I was yelling at my mom (bold red letters, possibly in all caps or underlined, under my new color/tone system), I never made it about the Remix. Eons ago, the first time around, she was always in the middle. It was unfair, and an impossible position for her to navigate.

Oh yeah. Also may have mentioned that I love her in the e-mail to the parents. Not that it's a secret, obviously, or even a surprise, but certainly different. We've gone public, baby! Woo hoo!

Family Feud?

Sweet Jesus....So I throw that last self-righteous, pandering post up about how the Remix's family is being difficult, blah blah blah, thinking that all the holiday family drama is over, right. Whoops.

Out of nowhere, when I least expected it, LOOK! There in the sky! It's a bird, it's a plane, no, no, wait, it's...my mom going all Maury Povich about the division of time on Thanksgiving. Thanks ma. Appreciate it, there wasn't enough stress swirling around this holiday, let's have the easy part blow up in our faces too.

Here' s the story. The Remix's family event starts at 4. We are definitely too ancillary to the scheduling to request any changes, so that was the one we were going to have to work around. No problem, though--ma and pop are staying home on Thanksgiving, and they'll be happy to have us, whenever we can be there. Baby brother and his fiancee aren't a factor, they're not coming by until later. Hit the Remix deal at 3:30, jet around 5 or 5:30, make it to my parents' house for a 6pm dinner....So I e-mailed ma, laid this plan out, sat back with a self-satisfied smile and patted myself on the back for a job well done. For about five minutes, anyway. Then I got the e-mail.

You don't love us. You don't want to come over. Waah. Your dad's feelings will be hurt. Boo hoo hoo. When we're dead you'll hate yourself for not spending Thanksgiving with your family in a thirty-six hour festival atmosphere. Poor little me. *

*Portions of this program may have been paraphrased, edited, or totally fabricated, all in the interest of illustration.

Ok, so she's got reasons. I'll admit it. The ex-wife didn't like my family. Actually, it was less dislike and more like apathy. In a way, to my mom, that was worse. Not only did she not want to spend any time with my family at the holidays, she didn't particularly care whose feelings this would hurt, my own included. So for three years or so, I saw my family infrequently at best, and never at the good times. We'd stop by on Christmas Eve, sometime around one or two, and by six the ex would be sighing and checking her watch, anxious to get on our way (usually, so we could spend the night at her parents and open presents under the tree on Christmas morning, like ten year olds.) It was awful, and I feel bad.

Counterpoint, though. The Remix and I see my parents/family all the Goddamned time. Like, once every couple of weeks. The Remix loves my parents. She asks to go see them, goes out of her way to make time for them, etc.

I told my mom off. Good, too. I told her I wasn't going to feel guilty. I told her that we'd done everything we could to ensure that they got the most of the day, and if it wasn't good enough I would stay home and cook my own damn turkey. Hell if I'm going to get steamrolled by my mom, I'm no mama's boy...

I apologized by the next day. But she got the point. Everyone's ok now. No permanent damage, no guilty consciences, and no cloud over what should be an otherwise delightful day. When the dust cleared, I found myself still grateful for the family I have. They may be clingy and overbearing, but at least they want me around.

None of my business, most likely.

Sorry, one more thought for the day. Apparently, I'm not welcome for Thanksgiving at the Remix household. Not by the Remix herself, of course. Her dad still has it in for me, or for her, or for anyone she's dating--whatever the case, he's afraid I'll upset the social dynamic of the event. He's right, maybe. I'd be the only person there who cares about his daughter enough to consider what she wants, the only person there who would see how his stubbornness still hurts, the only person there who's willing to love the Remix on her terms. I'd be the first boyfriend who remembers what he was, the ways he hurt the one person I would fight to protect. I was there. I was there when he wasn't, and I suspect that's the one thing he could hold against me. That and the fact that my last name has a rolling R and my family eats Thanksgiving dinner with tortillas instead of dinner rolls.

It hurts her, I know. It hurts that my parents both welcome and want her there, not just because she's my re-girlfriend, but because she's fun, and smart, and nice to have around. Familial obligations mean something in my family, possibly because they never feel like obligations at all.

I would still go. If the new lady of the house will have me, I'll gladly sit in, put on my most charming demeanor and enjoy my reconstituted mashed potatoes with the rest of the family. He doesn't have to like me. He doesn't even have to look at me. But I'm not going anywhere, chief. I'm going to be around next thanksgiving, and the one after that, and so on ad infinitum. We'll have to sit in the same room, eventually. For her sake, for his wife's sake, I hope he learns to swallow his pride and play along. He's done enough damage, here. It's never too late to man up. I just hope he learns it soon.

Good times, bad times, you know I've had my share.

Yesterday, the best friend and I dragged our girlfriends (best friends in their own right) out to see Frank Caliendo at a comedy club here in town. Good time, all around, lots of laughs, no tension, no arguments before or after. A stark contrast, really, to the last time the Remix and I went down this road.

You see, when I was a kid, from the second half of high school through my first four years of college, I had friends. Good friends, the kind who would step in front of a truck to save you, without a second thought. Bad friends, the kind who complain about your girlfriend when she dares to keep you from them, no matter how infrequently. Unfortunately for me, and for the relationship I once had with the girl I still (again?) love, I didn't really get the second part, at least not when it was important.

"The Guys," as we collectively called ourselves, were a tight group. I don't regret the friendships, the laughs, the good times. Like any past relationship, I prefer to think of the times we were good together, and not dwell on the way I grew up, out, and away from their influence.

We're still friends, sort of. The best friend was one of the gang, and he's like a second brother. I still see the others, off and on, at weddings and superbowl parties, and it's still fun. For a while. For your benefit, and my nostalgia, let's profile the gang...

Yo was a good guy, with a heart of gold and a liver of asbestos. We were good friends, roommates in our college dorm, our girlfriends similarly situated in a dorm across campus. He's still a good guy--when he's sober, and therefore rarely. By the time he drank himself out of college, there wasn't much to say to each other, really. When Yo and I are together now, it's still too tense, something too big has changed between us, mostly my own fault. It's not just my mistake, though. I judge, without meaning to. I can't drink until sunrise anymore--and my unwillingness is a sharp enough contrast to shame him, even when I don't mean to. I'll always remember him, though, talking softly and without the self-righteousness I was always too guilty of, while I lay crying in my bed, depressed and lost after the Remix and I cashed it in the first time. A lot of friends, a lot of places, would have still been good people without being so kind, but he was anyway, and with no selfishness.

The J-Dog is the one I talk to the most, the most grown-up, married to his high school sweetheart, the girl we used to tease endlessly for anything and everything she could say or do. When he married her, I think it caught up to us all. We mocked him because he had what we didn't, what we couldn't--someone who loved him anyway, even when he was trying to light pop cans on fire, or saving gay hardcore porn as someone's desktop when they had the poor judgment to go to a class. She still loves him, more than we did, and rightfully so. We used to think that each other would be all we'd ever need. The J-Dog proved us wrong, so much so that he doesn't need us anymore. And still, when the mood is right and enough empty beers are on the table, we can still laugh, still remember what it was like watching American Ninja with tears rolling down our faces because we were laughing so hard.

The Dragon is still the baby of the group, the youngest both in years and maturity. When we were chasing girls, he was doing jigsaw puzzles in his bedroom. When we were getting married, he was flirting via emoticon with freshmen on AIM. He still doesn't have a real job, a girlfriend. We've joked for years that he might be gay, but I hope for his sake that he isn't. Not because I don't approve, but because if he is, the last 25 years must have been torture, stifling himself to save some face. He was a sidekick, though, the best kind. Never had a bad word for anyone, never one to ask you the tough questions, The Dragon is the one who would never ask you to act like a grown-up. Want to do a J at nine in the morning? He's in. Want to get drunk two hours before your Spanish final? You know who's buying the first round. My good memories of the Dragon are too numerous to count, but they're all about the same. Sitting back on a couch, with a good buzz, laughing and planning. The Dragon used to talk about hitting the lotto and buying us all houses in the same cul-de-sac, with a bar in the middle. We laughed and agreed, and then slowly everyone moved on to their own idea of the perfect house, none of which involved spending the rest of our lives together.

Zorba the Greek was the sweet, dumb one. Smart as a bag of hammers, but always prosperous, making the kind of money at 18 that I didn't see until three years of post-college work. Now he's the rich one, the club kid, sleeping with 20 year olds every night until he settles down to marry a sweet and silent virgin with Greek parents. Racist and misogynistic, homophobic and cruel, somehow we all overlooked it, all the time, and he was one of us. We used to play poker at Zorba's house, with his dad and uncles, and I believe that's where I really learned the game. Staying up all night, when we'd wake his mom up at 3 she'd wander bleary-eyed into the kitchen to whip up a snack....usually four or five courses, with dessert. We had fun, then, but like everyone else, we have little to talk about anymore. He's my realtor, for what that's worth, but he's not much more, not these days.

I don't miss these guys, exactly. They're still largely the same, and if I wanted to spend a weekend drunk off my rocker, reminsicing about high school football and arguing about movies, they're all still there. Back then, I blew it with the Remix because I couldn't give that up, I didn't want to, and I certainly wouldn't let her take it from me. Now, I'm happier sitting at home with the Remix, talking about whatever strikes our mood, cuddling on the couch and reveling in each other's company. I used to feel like I didn't know who I was, separate from my friends. Now, I don't know who I am when I'm with them. I can see the ghosts, lurking in the shadows of my brain, occasionally leaping forward for a belly laugh or a round of shots, but the rest of the time I'm on the outside looking in, remembering how good it used to be but painfully aware of how bad it always was.

Turn, and face the change.

We moved to a new office today. Predictably, everything was fucked, from the get go. The phones didn't work, the computers didn't work, the fax machine ate everything you put into it, and everyone was a little haggard by the end of the day.

My new office is nicer, by a long shot. It's sunnier, there's more room to spread out, everything is easier. I wouldn't dream of going back. Not everything is different, but the things that are most certainly are better.

However, I was almost freakishly stressed out, all day long. My shoulders ache, a sure sign of extra tension, and I'm exhausted. Upon further review, (and what, really, do I not subject to further review) I realized that even as a grown man, change makes me uncomfortable. Different, I like. Changing, not so much. My new office is better, without question. Yet I find myself stubbornly resisting to learn the new phone system and futilely complaining about the (beautiful) courtyard my fellow smokers and I are relegated to. I don't like having to stand idly by while major changes are foisted on me by powers beyond myself. The adjustment is too rough, like slamming on the brakes and taking off in a new direction. I like the new stuf, sure. I just don't like getting there. And in a couple weeks, I'll never want to leave the new place.

I'm like this in other ways. Give me eel sushi and pig's feet in my pozole--just don't ask me to go somewhere new to try it. I'll try The End of Alice--but only if I casually pick it up while the Remix makes dinner, otherwise I'm going to sit on my couch and reread A Confederacy of Dunces again. Bring on shared apartments and kids and marriage--just don't start telling me all the things I have to do differently.

This last is sort of what I'm driving (meandering?) at. When the Remix and I were first dating (does that make her "the Mix?" Hmm...) I wasn't ready for the relationship we were trying to have. Now, five long years later, I am. We always loved each other. The requirements haven't changed, I have. My priorities are different. The five years sucked, for the most part. Without them, we wouldn't be here. I changed on my own. No one asked me to, no one forced me to. We're different now, both of us; but in all the important ways, nothing has changed.

My new relationship is nicer, by a long shot. It's sunnier, there's more room to spread out, everything is easier. I wouldn't dream of going back. Not everything is different, but the things that are most certainly are better.

However, I am not stressed out. Upon further review, I'm not missing anything. I don't feel like the car is turning without me. I turned by myself, and somehow ended up back on the road beside the person I love the most. I'm ready now, sweetheart. I'm with you now. And it only took a couple of dates to know that I never, never want to leave the new place.

The way to a man's heart...

So right now, there's a lemon-garlic chicken, four miniature apple pies, two pans of gratin potatoes, and a pan of rolls baking in the oven at casa de Remix. Could I be any happier?

On the agenda for next weekend, the best friend, the BFGF, the Remix and I will be taking in the 7pm Sunday show of Frank Caliendo's recent comedy tour. (Yes, we know it's the senior citizen special, but we saved four dollars a ticket. Fuck, that's a watered-down beer for each couple to share.) I'm really looking forward to it, to be honest. For all the cool things to do around my apartment, I very rarely do any of them. Here's hoping it's a good time, and a good show.

There's still a couple things I don't know...

So I have no excuse. None whatsoever. I have 32 minutes until the laundry is done, and when the timer beeps there will be folding and muttering under my breath. I'm not hungry, I don't need to clean anything...nothing to do but add a posting here.

Yesterday the Remix and I were talking idly (as we so often do, gladly, at great length and to my unceasing amazement) and I mentioned that there were literally dozens of things I'd like to know how to do, but just don't have time for. Lousy excuse, right? But it's true. The things listed below are all things I'd like to learn, but not one of them is important enough to me to take time away from anything else. Without further ado...

I'd like to learn:

• to shoot a gun. A handgun, even though I'd never bring one into my home. I'd like to know if I'm good at it.
• to sing harmony.
• to play the guitar. I owned a bass for a while, purchased under the influence on Ebay (Ebay should come with a breathlyzer, or so my college Visa bill would suggest), but my fingers are far too stubby to actually play the damn thing.
• Computer programming. I was good at visualBasic in high school, but that's as relevant to now as my guidance counselor's insistence that I pursue a career in law enforcement.
• to properly make menudo, or molé, or enchiladas, or any of the other fragrant oddities my great-grandmother used to make for holidays.
• the keyboard shortcut for a lower-case e with an acute accent (é)...oh, right. Just did. check it off the list.
• to swing dance. Swing dancing is totally cliché (there it is again!) now. It's not cool to take swing lessons, unless you also think it's cool to wear sweatshirts with Disney characters and fanny packs on vacation. But...if you just know how to swing, and you can bust it out just at the right time at a wedding, or a bar, you're instantly so cool Frank Sinatra would go get your drinks.
• to play the piano. Well. Like, hear a song on the radio and start playing along well. I can read music, and pick out Joy to the World with one hand, but it's not even close to the same.
• to wiggle my ears.
• to play blackjack.

So there it is. All the things I would do if I could, if I had time, and space in my brain. On the other hand...

I'd like to forget:

• reading Running With Scissors. Terrible book. Worst thing I've read in the past five years, including the bad sci-fi paperbacks my pop keeps in the guest bathroom.
• the lyrics to T-U-R-T-L-E Power, Total Eclipse of the Heart, Somewhere Out There, and Hit Me Baby One More Time. (And a solid 300 more awful songs that reside somewhere in the back of my mind.)
• the day my grandma died.
• how to play backgammon. I mean, really, when is that going to come up again?
• 16 years of Sunday church services.
• seeing Armageddon, Nothing But Trouble, The Blair Witch Project, Con-Air, and Corky Romano, my official top 5 worst movies I've ever seen.
• what asparagus tastes like.
• putting my dog to sleep.

See, there's plenty of ways to make room there. Anyone have an idea on how to pull it off? First person to show up here with a powerpoint and a bonesaw gets to do the operation.

This just in: My political leanings have finally caused me to fall over. Story at 11.

A second post, since my girlfriend is out gallavanting and my bankroll wouldn't support poker tonight. On a totally different topic, for a change.

"As it turns out, Mr. Foley has had illicit sex with no one that we know of, and the whole thing turned out to be what some people are now saying was a -- sort of a joke by the boy and some of the other pages."

I found this quote about the Mark Foley/teenage boys/cybersex scandal on Salon today, from Dr. James Dobson, by way of Media Matters. I was repulsed, and feeling the need to argue about it with someone, I took the opportunity and forwarded it to my mom, who is always sure to come down on the side of the church.

She took her normal line, when one of these scandals targets someone to the left of her political leanings, and pointed out that it's atrocious that people are playing partisan politics, and that the media is clearly trying to paint Dr. Dobson in a bad light, by quoting him out of context. And in her defense, I agree, for the most part, though I'm constantly awestruck by how quickly that attitude changes when it's a Democrat who's done something untoward.

Also, to be fair to mom and the good doctor, Dobson has gone on the record vehemently condemning Foley for his actions. (Vehemently condemning people is one of the things Dr. Dobson does best, as a matter of fact.) Which brought both mom and I to the most disturbing facet of all this.

Dr. Dobson is a leader of men. Largely brainwashed, unthinking, close-minded men, but a leader nonetheless. He professes to be a man of principle, guided by his relgious beliefs and supposedly unbendable to the whim of anyone but God himself. He is most likely genuine when he calls Foley's behavior disgusting and wrong. And so much the worse, for this statement. Here is a man who's personal beliefs have taken a backseat to partisan politics. This is the state of our political system. A powerful and disturbed representative of the people has used his duly elected position to take sexual advantage of emotionally fragile children, and the people America looks to for guidance are either playing it off or playing it up for political gain.

I grew up going to church, and while I adamantly oppose fundamentalist religion, I respect people who have chosen to live their life by those arbitrary standards, so long as they demonstrably keep to those standards. Nowhere in my understanding of Christianity has the end ever justified the means. While it may be important to Dr. Dobson for myriad reasons that the conservative party maintains control of the government, it flies in the face of everything that he purportedly stands for to in any way use deliberate misinformation to mislead the public into underestimating the gravity of this situation.

I could argue, if I had to, that Congressman Foley's behavior should not cost the Republicans any votes. In a way, it fits my argument anyway. He is an individual, and should be held individually responsible. Obviously, his problems are not indicative in any way of Republicans as a group, in the same way that his predeliction for young men is not indicative of the preferences of homosexuals as a group. For the Democrats to use this abomination as a means to gain political capital is equally distasteful to me.

But then again...my own logic aside, I still believe this should cost the Republicans, and dearly. I believe it because I believe the Republican leadership played a part in deliberately covering this up. I believe it because I believe the hypocrisy they've shown in defending their own is telling in the lack of conviction and moral relativism it shows. I would believe the same thing if Foley was a Democrat and the shoe was on the other foot.

Our politicians, our religious leaders, our political activists, and our own opinions need more accountability. Are party lines really as firmly drawn across America as the politicians would have us believe? This kind of behavior is a direct result of Americans' inability to adhere to the basic tenets of democracy. The average voter doesn't choose a candidate because they believe that said candidate is the person whose strength of character and personal principles will guide them in doing what they believe is right. They vote for the person who appears to be most similar to themselves. Abortion, gun control, immigration, sex education--all of these "issues" inform the average voter--it's just wrong. America's government was designed to ensure that the people best-equipped to make difficult decisions were in the position to make them. People who wouldn't be influenced by the desire to retain their job at the next election, or to please the lobbyists who fund their "fact-finding" trips to the Carribean, or the constantly fluctuating opinion polls. This government is designed to be run by men and women with the strength of will to make what they truly believe is the right choice, regardless of personal consequence. Instead, our servants of the people serve only themselves, and crucial government issues are decided by $1200 lunches with lobbyists instead of personal deliberation.

Our political future is bleak. When a representative of the people can verbally assault their children and the first thing people talk about is the relative effect on the mid-term elections, I find it difficult to hope that things will change.

Sympathy for the Devil

Ah, the first fight. Over, done with, and in the books now, but boy was it bad while it lasted. Shamefully easy to predict, really...little thing becomes a big deal, everyone's feelings are hurt for no rational reason, now everyone is defensive. (Everyone, of course, being me.)

Anyway, the Remix is at the Stones concert, and I am still slightly brooding and a bit cranky, but the worst is over. So in typical form, I'm going to break it down and tell you why, even when we fight, this girl is way too good to me.

For one thing, it didn't get too nasty. A little bit, here and there, I said some unnecessarily harsh things out of frustration, and she hit me with some half-decade old reminders out of defensiveness, but on the whole we were civil, if not exactly tender and understanding. That's something of a relief to me, given the way we used to go at each other, years ago.

What's more important to me, though, and the reason that even though I'm still not thrilled with this whole situation, it's over in my mind, is the fact that nobody won. More than that, even, no one was trying to win. Let me clarify: Winning, for me, would have meant keeping her from doing this thing that I don't like, thus proving that my will is superior and even my most irrational feelings deserved unquestioning respect. Bullshit, right? Winning for her would have meant convincing me somehow that my feelings were just wrong, thus proving that she can always do whatever she wants, regardless of how I might feel, as long as she can justify it enough to sell me on it. Equally bullshit. The good news? No one tried to win. I never told her "no," she couldn't go. She never told me "no," my feelings are ridiculous and irrelevant to what she decides to do. Essentially, we agreed to disagree. She knows I'm not happy, and regardless of whether she thinks I ought to be, she's sorry that this is the case. I know she does actually care about my feelings, no matter how irrational and uncontrollable they are, and I'm sorry for not being more cooperative in the first place.

The funny thing is, nothing really changed, between yesterday morning and right now. She's still going, and I'm still pissed. Except that somehow, it's become ok on both sides. She's ok with me being pissed, because she knows I understand now where she's coming from. I'm ok with her going, because I know she understands now why it bothers me. The actual going, the actual concert? Afterthought. For a split second yesterday, I felt less important to her than her friend, the show, and most painfully, her desire to be free. For the next second, she felt like I was trying to own her, rein her in, and most painfully, cut her off from the other things that matter to her. And when all is said and done, we both know now that neither thing is true.

I hope she's having fun. I hope at some point, she wishes I was there. The rest? Already ancient history.

Dude, are you fucking this up?

Oh dear. This is one thing I could have done without today. It was a crap Monday, compounded by some unnecessarily created relationship tension. (My fault.) Today started out not much better, with the unwelcome addition of more relationship tension. (This time, not my fault.)

The remix has a ticket to the Rolling Stones show, tomorrow. A free ticket. A free ticket from a friend. So far, so good, right. A free ticket from a friend who’s a boy. Uh oh….danger, Will Robinson, danger! Like a shot, my brain is off and running with utter disregard for anyone’s feelings but my own. I’m trying to be reasonable, arguing with the demonic little voice in my head over and over again, trying to be ok with this.

It’s not like a date. Oh yeah? Tell her you’re going to see The Who with the girl from customer development, see who thinks that’s a date. Ok, ok. But I know she’s not interested. Who cares if she’s interested, he clearly must be? What do you mean? Oh come on, you fucking putz. You’re single and you get a free Stones ticket, who are you calling? The Best Friend, or some girl you’re trying to score? Give me a break, here, they’ve been friends forever, he’s had his chances. Right, and all those girls you were “friends” with, you never gave up hoping that some day the switch would go on and they’d be willing to redefine? Maybe he doesn’t have anyone else to go with? Maybe he should get his own girlfriend and quit borrowing yours? Look, she and I have been over this already. I told her that I’m only uncomfortable when she’s doing stuff I’d be embarrassed to have to tell my dad. Right on. Call him up, tell him some dude is taking her to see the Stones, and enjoy the awkward silence. It’s the Stones! It’s a special occasion! She knows I’m uncomfortable, but it’s the Stones! I see, so your feelings matter…as long as it’s not something really cool? I’m a big boy, I can deal with this. Then why are we having this conversation? You’re just insecure. I’m past all this. Uh huh. Obviously. I mean, it’s not like you’re whining to the internet about it or anything, right?

And so on and so on. The battle rages, rational grown-up DJ against sixteen year old, jealous DJ. And the winner is….absolutely no one. One of two things happens here. One, she doesn’t go, she resents me for being so insecure, the friend thinks I’m interfering and too clingy, and I’ve managed to simultaneously piss her off and unite her with the person I’m already feeling insecure about in one fell swoop. Perfect. Two, she does go, I have hurt feelings, wondering why she’s so willing to disregard my feelings, unnecessarily resentful of the friend, and I can’t even tell anyone because I refuse to deal with the sympathetic looks and sneers from my friends and coworkers.

Christ. Why is it always hardest to do the right thing when you know you’re blatantly wrong? I am so not in the mood today.

Random thoughts

Some things I'm pretty sure I think:

• I think 90% of the time I offend someone, I had no idea it was going to be offensive.
• I think 10% of the time, I'm just being a dickhead.
• I think one of the biggest reasons I love the Remix is the way her face lights up when she's excited about something.
• I think there's not enough time in a Sunday for all the football I need to watch.
• I think Mondays should be outlawed.
• I think that apologies are better when they're least expected.
• I think that apologies are worst when they're most necessary.
• I think, more than anything, that my worst habit by far is constantly qualifying things I have to say--for examples, see "Some things I'm pretty sure I think."

I don't mean to be overprotective, and I don't mean to be undersensitive. They come from the same place, most times, that warm and cozy spot in my brain where the whole world still revolves around DJ. And I know, for certain, that I can't afford to stay in that spot too long, or the world really will revolve around me, if only for lack of any other options. I made a mistake today, a small one, but one that only happened because of a dreadful lack of circumspection. And I'm sorry.

Easy like Sunday morning

It's a beautiful sunny Sunday, and I'm in a great fucking mood. Played poker yesterday, not terribly well by my own stringent standards, but well enough that I'm not feeling bad about being knocked out. (Also easing the pain--once I was out of the tournament I got rip-roaring drunk, which I do infrequently enough at this point in my life for it be something of a thrill.) Got up early, made the two and a half hour drive from Peoria in an hour and forty minutes, somehow managed to not be the car that got pulled over when a state trooper descended on a pack of us going 95 on I-55. My beautiful girlfriend is coming over tonight, and we'll freeload on my parents for dinner. My Chicago Bears are dominating the opposition once again...the list goes on and on, but the reasons become somewhat irrelevant after a while.

I've got nothing to say, clearly, other than the sun is shining, there' s football to watch, a girlfriend to love, and I'm pretty goddamn happy, all around. Weird, huh?

Who doesn't like cake?

So the Remix wants me to run the Turkey Trot with her in Chicago this Thanksgiving. I’m game, although not much of a runner. (Guys like me only run if there’s an italian beef ahead of them or an angry buffet owner behind, as a general rule.) She’s surprised, as per the norm, that I’m willing to do something so far out of my comfort zone, just to make her happy. That’s the key, I suppose, the just to make her happy part. If it was that, and that alone, I wouldn’t go anywhere near it.

That’s one of the crazy things about this, really, the propensity to do things to make her happy coupled with the realization that it makes me happy too. Apple picking, Nip/Tuck, running…all things I could catch some grief over from the boys at work, the little brother, any other redblooded male, right? But not one of them solely her idea, not one of them requires any coercion, and not one of them has caused me any pain. (Ok, the runnning will almost certainly cause me pain, but not in a bad way.)

I think the willingness to get away from my own sphere is partly her fault, too, but not in the way you’d think. When we broke up, way back when, I at first considered it to be all her fault, as usually happens with a breakup. Then I thought it was all my fault, for a long time. Some time (quite a bit of time, really) later, I realized that it was both of our faults, and none. One of the things I figured out for sure was just my problem was my selfishness with my time. Oh, we spent plenty of time together, for certain. The selfishness manifested in the ways we spent time together; or perhaps more importantly, the ways I spent my time when we weren’t together. See, I thought I could give her the garbage time, the late nights and weekend mornings, and still spend the “important” time doing my own things. Hanging out with my friends, drinking, playing video games until 3am—the things a normal 18 year old is wont to do. Unfortunately for both of us, we just don’t work that way.

Now, she gets the best of my time, She’s the one I want to be with on Friday nights and Sunday afternoons, she’s the one I want to take to the movies when something good comes out, and she’s the one I want to talk to most every night before I fall asleep. It’s so easy to understand, now, that I don’t see how I could have missed it the first time. I’m going to spend the night in some podunk Central Illinois town tomorrow, playing poker and swilling beer with some work friends. I’m still glad I’m free to do this kind of stuff—but I’d be a jittery wreck if I didn’t know I was going to see her tonight and kiss her goodbye when I leave in the morning. She’s first priority. No questions asked. The other stuff is just icing, my girl (she’ll be pleased by this comparison, I’m almost positive) is definitely the cake.

I'm a posting machine, watch me get down...

Ok, last one for the day, then I'm going to have an apple and watch some TV. I upgraded to beta, now I have labels. A quick explanation thereof:

Remix: Duh, usually has something to do with
The Good Stuff: Sunshine and rainbows, all the happy posts, the antithesis to
The Bad Stuff: Doom and gloom, all the "God, am I an asshole!" posts, happens to coincide closely with
Divorce: Stuff about the ex-wife, and not the same as
Marriage: which is a much more general category, thoughts on marriage and such things. Tends to lead to
Family: Mom, dad, the little brother, and all the speed addicted aunts anyone could want, fortunately I'm distracted by
Work: a rare one, unless I'm talking about
The Best Friend: who also only occasionally occurs, but there's a lot more under
Rambling: all the random, "Hey, look what I thought of" posts, except the ones that apply to
Politics: which I figure I'm bound to write about too often to keep it from being it's own category.

Oh, and there's meta-blogging, which is exactly this kind of thing...blogging about blogging.

So there you go, peruse at your leisure, and hopefully enjoy. Oh, and if someone can tell me how to make these bold things into links instead, I'm all for it?

Is there something in the water?

Everyone is getting engaged. By everyone, I mean my brother, and the best friend. By engaged, I mean promising to someday (not too soon, of course) get married, have babies, and spend the rest of their lives sharing living quarters and laundry duties.

I have been engaged twice. Once, too young and too quickly, and with no idea what to do next. Once, still too quickly, and to the wrong person entirely. I intend to do it again at some point in the future, with I'll possibly even have a chance to rectify the disaster I made of the first one. Anyway, I'd have to consider myself an engagement expert at this point, seeing as how I've done it more than anyone else I know.

My brother has been dating the same girl since high school. The laugh at the same jokes, they have the same friends, they even look startlingly alike. From the get go, it's had all the makings of a storybook romance. The best friend took the BFGF to prom, back when she was just the Remix's best friend. It's been up and down, but they seem to love each other, and he has to know by now that no other girl is going to put up as gamely with his various eccentricities. They all seem happy together, faux nervousness and commitment-phobic posturing aside.

I have two bits of advice for these fairy tale couples. One, remember that the wedding is your day. If you want tuxes with hawaiian shirts, or chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, tell Modern Bride to go fuck itself and do it up right. It's a party, it's a celebration of your particular relationship, and if your relationship parties like Guns 'n' Roses on a three day bender, rock on.

The more serious bit of advice--storybook romance or no, "happily ever after" rarely means just that; and "The End" isn't anywhere near the page with the wedding picture. Nothing gets easier just because you got married. It's the real deal, all the way. You'll fight about things you never even thought about before. Money, sex, TV volume, air conditioning habits. You'll wonder some days how this raving lunatic you married ever conned you into saying "I do." Regardless of how happy, or how perfect, you seem, there's bound to be hiccups. Granted, with a young divorce already under my belt, I'm hardly the person to chide you to hang in there. I didn't. There's a difference, though. You guys have the right partners. There' s been no mistake, no greener grass to be found. I made the wrong choice to get married--I didn't start making the right ones until it was too late.

My next one will be the right one. My last one. I hope it's this one, obviously. (Somewhere, right now, the Remix is reading this and possibly fainting.) All told, though, the people I know who seem to have caught the marriage virus have got the pieces in place for a long happy life. They've got the right one, right now. That's worth hanging on to, and I'm ecstatic for everyone.

Borrowed Time

No, really, I have my own readers. Seriously, they live in Canada and we met at summer camp, you'll probably never meet any of them...

So the Remix decided to flip me some of her traffic. Much appreciated, sweetheart, and thank you. Hopefully this is mildly interesting for y'all, if for no other reason than the unintentional counterpoint to her superior work. (To be fair, she has way more practice, and I think I'm doing fairly well under the circumstances.)

Anyway, welcome to all the newcomers, from Albuquerque to Miami (Miami, Oklahoma, but whatever.) Feel free to leave a comment, and visit often, I'll try to step up the updates and I'm interested to read some of the blogs out there that the Remix swears by.

More later, I'm at work and badly misbehaving. Quick, everyone, hush and look busy!

Double dipping

Ok, I'm giving you two posts, because I realized the last two posts now are about negatives on the Remix front, not the positives, and I'd hate to risk giving my audience the wrong idea. So for clarification's sake, please note that the two weeks in between the last post and the one before were fabulous. Unfortunately for my readership, the continued success of the budding relationship does not generally insipre me to write the same way unburdening myself of my mistakes does.

That said, let me tell you about yesterday. 3rd person narrative style, because I need the practice...

The couple got in the car already smiling. Unshowered, unshaven, with the early Sunday morning determination that only comes from the prospect of some enjoyable event--the antithesis of families getting in the car for church. An hour drive, laughing and talking, he sneaking glances at her pretty smile, taking solace in her obvious contentment.

Later, in an apple orchard, they both reminisce about past experiences with bushels and short ladders, and they are both relieved to see that the new memories will not taint the old. Holding hands, stealing kisses, everyone around them can see how obnoxiously in love they are. He helps her load her apples on the wagon, though they both know she doesn't need it, and they joke about falling off as the tractor plods back to the barn.

Holding hands and filling a basket with smoked meats and cider donuts, she turns and smiles. She's happy, and says so. He agrees. This has almost become familiar enough that they're barely surprised. As they drive home, sipping apple cider from gas station cups and licking leftover donut sugar from their lips, the laughing and talking continues. The laughing and talking never really stops, which is why this works.

Laying sweating on the bed, after, they joke about what strange pillow talk they make, and debate the intellectual abilities of Jessica Alba and Cameron Diaz.

<*><*><*>

Ok. It's a bad story. The happy ones always are. See why you all just get the stuff I'm worried about? Long story short--I love her, she loves me, we're happy together, always, and if this thing was any better, I'd probably die.

Forgive, me for I (mostly) know not what I do.

Great weekend. Apple picking, my brother got engaged, made the Remix a key for the pad--ok, so the key didn't fit, but it was good anyway. The Remix and I spent one of those largely perfect weekends together again, doing couple stuff, going out to eat, staying in bed an extra hour in the morning, the usual. One little hiccup, though. Totally my fault, and totally preventable.

So we're talking, our normal meta-relationship sort of talk, and we stumble on the always lovely topic of exes. If you read the archives here, you can see how perfectly I pull a Chasing Amy on these things, so you can imagine how this went. She revealed a completely run of the mill and unsalacious to the point of being ordinary detail from her own history, and I flipped out, as usual.

OK, not totally "as usual." I opened my mouth before my brain caught up, and mistakenly lead her to believe that I was judging her past, well, judgments. Even as I was doing it, consciously trying to make her feel bad so that I could switch my focus off of my own problem and onto hers, I knew I was fucking it up. See, here's the thing. There's always a thing. I don't care, really. I don't care about who she's slept with, who she's been in love with--she's doing both with me now, and the hell with the past. I have my own history, and just like her I'll own the good decisions and the possible mistakes without apologizing. The sex isn't the issue.

What killed me, and what I was thankfully able to explain to her the next morning, before any lasting damage was done, is much more complicated than sex. See, when we did this the first time, sex was important to her. Not in the "I'm saving myself for marriage," holier-than-thou way, just a very poignant and emotional part of the relationship. When we were talking about this Friday night, what set me off was her explaining that sex wasn't as important to her as it was, that it wasn't such a big deal. I tend to agree with her, but. But, but, but, but, but...

What makes me mad, and sad, and more than a little guilty is knowing that I had a part in that. I helped take something that was important to her, and devalue it to the point that it became no big deal. I didn't do it alone, and I didn't do it completely, but I broke her heart, and put her in a position where it couldn't be that important.

Now, more clarification. I don't want her to be more innocent or more virginal. I don't want her to feel bad about any of the decisions she's made--on the contrary, I hope she's got no regrets, and I hope those guys between the first time and this time made her happy when I couldn't. I wouldn't change anything, either. Whatever heartbreaks and true loves she had in between then and now have made this re-dating experiment a wild success. I wouldn't change any of it. I wouldn't change anything about her. I just wish it hadn't happened the way it did. I wish I hadn't been a part of whatever changed her in such a fundamental way, regardless of the fact that the change is nothing that I'd undo. I love her, and even five years after the fact, I just wish I'd been better than I was.

So I managed to explain all this to her, probably better than I did here. I couldn't stand for her to think that I was judging her--that would be both hypocritical and cruel, and not my style. And like I said, the original issue is no issue at all. I'm still learning, god help me, and I hope I can get it all figured out before I fuck up something I can't fix.