Serious as a heart attack

So in my last entry, I wrote about how I was a little worried about my mom, going off on her big road trip to Sin City and waiting for a sign from God on how to run her life…well, she got it. And then some.

Two weekends ago, my mom had a mild heart attack. Technically, we’re told, she had a spasm in an artery, which temporarily blocked blood flow to her heart. Either way, it was scary as hell. It turns out the heart attack was caused by some carelessly prescribed migraine medicine, but there was still some damage to the heart and an increased chance of future problems.

I don’t really know what to say about it. I’d like to say I’ve had some sort of life-changing revelation from the whole thing, a renewed appreciation for the mundane details of my every day existence, but I can’t. It was scary, yes. I’d rather not lose my mom just yet, thanks very much. As far as the big picture goes, though, I can’t take it to mean anything special. She’s very lucky, lots of people have heart attacks and don’t make it. At the same time, lots of people have heart attacks—our situation here isn’t unique, it’s not even particularly dramatic or interesting. She got sick, she got better. We’re glad we have her back and relatively healthy, of course. I’m not heartless. I just expected to feel some sort of profound relief after the massive worry? Am I out of my mind?

I'm so sore from laughing, I haven't got the will to fight.

Totally cribbing from the Remix again, stealing her habit of using obscure song lyrics to title blog posts. I'm shameless, what can I say?

It's an interesting counterpoint, this whole friends dumping friends thing. A year ago, I was recently divorced, and the friend in question was one of the people who stood by the whole time. No, he wasn't exactly full of pithy advice, that's not his style. He didn't lend himself to any epiphany type moments, either. But he sat, and he listened until he was sick of hearing about it, and then he listened some more.

So now it's my turn. I know I should be talking to him--once upon a time, when I was younger, my friends looked at me as the one to turn to for advice. (This may have been because even at 17, I was pretty sure I knew everything there was to know about everything, and sold everyone else on it pretty well. I still don't know everything, but sales is sort of what I do best.) Either way, in this case I don't even know that advice is totally necessary. I think it's too far gone at this point, all the strategizing in the world isn't going to get things back to where they were.

Whether or not there's a solution to be found is beside the point. He needs someone to listen, and I'm not doing much of a job. Our relationship is such that I don't know how to start the conversation at all. When it was me having problems, it worked, but only because I talk all the goddamn time, whether someone is listening or not. For him, it's harder--our whole relationship is based on jokes. I play straight man to his ribbing, we have ludicrous arguments about whether you can make a parachute out of a thin sheet of lead (I say yes) or whether it's actually possible to have a 0% chance of rain (I say no.)

We're running out of jokes, though. I can see the strain in his face, and I hear about it thirdhand from the Remix after her nightly talks with the female in question. He's angry, and he's bitter, and I don't know what to do. If anyone else asked me, I'd say he deserves it, based on his actions. Can't say that to him, though. So I'll sit back here, waiting for him to open the door, and hope that he finds a way to bring it up before it's too late.

Migraine, Breakups, and Italian Sodas...Happy Mardi Gras!

Oh sweet Jesus Asshumping Christ, does my head hurt. I don't often get migraines, but on a scale of one to ten, this one is a motherfucker. I missed work today, which is a rare occurrence, mostly on account of the fact that my walk to the shower made me nauseous enough I had to sit down.

I have nothing productive to say, really. I'm not tired, so I can't possibly sleep anymore today. My head hurts if I watch TV, play video games, or stare at the interwebs too long. Reading isn't going to happen, period. So I'm sitting here doing nothing.

Recent developments in the Breakup (it gets capital letters now) between Boy and Girl, some friends of the Remix and I's, have got me thinking, though. Boy (the one I'm friends with) is clearly in the wrong. I won't say why, because it's not my story to tell, but suffice it to say he's not garnering much in the way of sympathy from me--and that doesn't absolve me from my duties as a friend.

As I told the Remix the other day, the dilemma for me is simple: I know what's wrong, at least superficially. I could give Boy a laundry list of things to say, even things to do, which might convince her to consider taking him back. I can't, though. Girl is my friend too, and I'm not sure that taking him back would be very good for either of them. So when he asks my advice, what do I do? It's like being a public defender--I know he's guilty, but I also feel like he deserves the best defense I can give him. So I've decided to lead the witness. I won't tell him what to do or say, and I'm certainly not going to pat his hand reassuringly and tell him everything is alright. If he starts down the right path, though, I'll prod him in the right direction.

For this to work, for Girl to consider any possibility of getting back together with Boy, Boy needs to undergo some wholesale changes. The old Boy, the one who screwed this up in the first place, isn't getting back together with anyone. If there's a possibilty of a new Boy, he still may not be able to make up for this one--but if there's a new Boy, he'll be better off with the next girl, too. He may be an asshole, and he may deserve every bit of misery he's got right now, but my own personal experience makes me a firm believer in second chances. I don't believe they'll get back together, even if he says all the right things and means them. I think it's too far gone. It'll be easier for me to look him in the eye and respect him, though, if he gives it his best shot. Girl is the best thing that ever happened to Boy--unfortunately for him, he doesn't realize it, and Girl could do a whole lot better for herself anyway. If he can figure out what he did wrong, there's a chance he could turn out alright, whatever happens with Girl. If not, well, I'll just keep preparing myself for this same dog and pony show every four to six years, and hope I don't get tired of him before he stops needing a friend.

Eesh. That's depressing. I'm going to go back to laying on my couch trying to keep my left eye from popping out of my head. Any advice here is welcome, folks, whether it pertains to migraines, disastrous break-ups, or recommendations on a good, cheap place to get Italian soda. (I'm sort of hooked on Target's private lable brands of Italian soda...orange passionfruit mango is the favorite so far, but I'm looking forward to trying the blueberry pomegranate in about three minutes...)

Honestly, is there anything gayer for a straight man to drink than Italian soda? Ok, maybe Jagerbombs or Amaretto Sours, but in the non-alcoholic category, it's gotta be tops.

When it rains, it's a motherfucking category five fucking hurricane.

Having one of those days...

My job is stressful, but I love it, and apparently it can't be both.My boss is pissed, I'm uncoachable. My girlfriend is pissed, and long past the expiration date for listening to any venting about work. Now things are weird, and I give up for today. I want to crawl under my desk, suck my thumb, and cry myself to sleep. Instead, I'm going to justify why my job isn't unmanageable, just high pressure, while simultaneously trying not to get defensive about the barely unspoken implication that maybe its not really that stressful and I'm just incapable of coping; and all this while making sure I don't go too far the other way and give anyone the impression that I'm just making a play for some sympathy and attention.

I really party like a rock star on Fridays, huh?

Last Minute Magic

I've grown up to be a fairly responsible adult. Granted, my standards for this are low--paying my cable bill on time, remembering my dad's birthday, doing my laundry before I'm down to one pair of clean boxers, and a million other things you probably take for granted.

Time management is still an issue though. Not when it really counts, mind you. When I'm at work, I can get more done in half a day than some of my coworkers do in two. Getting to work on time, on the other hand, not so much.

My problem isn't a lack of time to get stuff done. Not by a long shot. Say I have to be at work at eight, like this morning. I was up at six-thirty, out of the shower and dressed by five to seven. If I leave my house at seven, I'm at work in forty minutes. Due to the vagaries of suburban traffic, if I leave my house at ten after, I'm at work at five after eight. So what do I do this morning? I put my jacket on, get my shit together to leave...and sit down at my computer, reading blogs and sports news I could easily get at my desk, until seven-fifteen. I'm a moron.

I have a similar problem Christmas shopping. I had plenty of time to get it all done, just like the rest of y'all. I got the remix taken care of early, because I knew exactly what to get and where to get it, and because she's the one I'm most excited to give a gift to. The rest of my gifts, though? I feel like I still have time. I do, sort of. But then again...my family is exchanging gifts next Sunday. Between now and then, I have two Christmas parties, my brother's graduation party, a trip to St. Louis for a Bears game, a Holiday reception for a work event, and probably at least one more after-hours work event. So how many shopping day do I have left? One. Next Wednesday or Thursday, whichever I have free. And here I sit bitching to the internet about how little time I have left to go shopping. Awesome.

That's the way it crumbles...Cookie-wise.

It has been a very strange week, thus far. A coworker put me in an awkward situation on Tuesday, one that I'll refrain from writing about, since I read this at work from time to time and would really hate for it to become an issue. (Praticing some decorum, new for me.)

The Remix wrote today about how frustrating her life can be, lugging a duffel bag full of wrinkle-proof clothes around because she's always coming here. I can sympathize, I've even been there before, been the one who has to travel, who's never home, who has to choose between waking up in a strange bed and waking up alone. I didn't mean to put her in this position, and as far as I'm concerned, it's easily remedied. I've always been willing to go to her, to be where she lives, to make it easier. I'm willing to do more, if necessary. I'd like her to move in, sooner than later, if that's what she wants. I'd like there to be no travel, no conditions, no concessions involved in our spending time together.

I told her tonight as we were talking about this that this may just be the phase of the relationship where boundaries take center stage again. We've gotten comfortable together--not complacent, just familiar. There's still passion and laughter and cuddling and love, with plenty to spare. I think every relationship has this point, though, the point where precedents have begun to be set, consciously or not, and you have to scramble to make sure the ones that you don't like don't make that deadly switch from precedent to expectation. It's a good thing, honestly. Her frustration is apparent, but at least we're talking about it in the pre 800lb gorilla stage. It's more a capuchin monkey, or possibly a small chimp, and that's pretty manageable.

I say all of the above rationally, and without doubt. I say all of the below fearfully. Because it's also scary. She assures me that it's not me, that it's not too much time together that's the problem, and I trust her. The fear is there, though. A tiny seed of doubt, way back in the nervous part of my brain, just enough to make my stomach clench and heartbeat race for a moment, and it's gone. What if, what if, what if...what if we do start spending more time in her place, on her terms, but the problem doesn't go away? What if it is me, or the sudden intimacy, or simply that trapped feeling that occasionally clouds a relationship? What if she's not as sure as she's been?

What ifs are dangerous territory. Spend too much time there, and all sorts of nasty things can crawl out of the dark, each one bigger and more terrifying than the next. I know she loves me. I know I love her. She said she was feeling neglected the other day, attention-wise, and my heart sank. Not because I don't have it to give, or because I wouldn't gladly give it. No, my heart sank because nothing had changed on my end. That's the scariest part of a relationship--those moments when something has changed, but you feel the same. "I love you, but I'm not in love with you" wouldn't hurt if everyone agreed. "I just want to be friends" is harmless, unless you desperately want more. It's not the idea that I'm not doing something right that scares me. It's the idea that maybe, somewhere, there's a microscopic chance that somehow what I'm doing right is just not good enough.

I'm hesitant to post this now, after writing it, because I don't want her to feel bad--I know this isn't how she feels. The shadow of a doubt, that lingering fear, is a little thing. I feel it acutely, I think, because I don't want it to become true, and because I've seen it become true before. I broke her heart, the last time. If she's afraid to get too close, it's partly my fault. If she's defensive of her turf, and her time, it's partly because I so callously disregarded those things before, when I could pretend not to know better.

I don't want to lose her. I don't want to be scared. I don't want her to be unhappy. If it means packing an overnight bag every other weekend, sign me up. If it means going back to weekends alone, wondering how it went wrong, I'm RSVPing unable to attend. I'll do what I can, and I'll hope like hell that what I can is what she needs.

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.

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.

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.

DEFCON 5: Normal Peacetime Readiness

Ah, it was bound to happen, sooner or later. This week marked the first time the Remix and I have had the misfortune to match similarly short tempers on the same day. Whoops. No fighting, not really. More disagreement, some harsher-than-necessary words back and forth, and then over, cuddling on the couch, nothing too wrong to fix with a hug.

Stupid stuff, really. I talk about work too much. True, true, but it's not my fault. No, wait, I mean it's the most important thing, other than you, in my life. Ahhhh, not that either...how about it's just on my mind, and why can't you just be interested anyway?

OK. I talk about work too much. I know it. I'm sorry. Defensive systems shutting down...ten minutes too late. Every goddamn time. One of these days, I'll grow up, and instead of firing back at every barely perceived slight, I'll just sit back, relax, and separate the direct hits from the collateral damage before responding. One of these days.

I'm a moron....

It’s funny. She keeps a blog, right, sort of the inspiration for this one. So I’m bored today, and I decide I’m going to peruse the archives for a while, see what’s up.

Let me stop my run here to preface this whole thing with two thoughts. 1) I am not normally a jealous type. Used to be, leaned to get over myself somewhere between getting married and getting divorced. 2) The remix and I have talked about this, before. The fact that I’m able to deal fairly well with past boyfriends/lovers/men as long as I have no specifics to get in my head and rub it raw like a bit of sand under your tongue. So what do I do? I go find specifics. Nice call, Deej.

I’m doing ok, reading this. The primary thing to come from all this wasn’t the jealousy. The biggest thing was a deep and penetrating sense of longing. I miss her, retroactively, just from reading the pseudo-biographical blog archives. I wish I’d been there to comfort her, the days she was sad. I wish I’d been there to laugh with her, the days she was happy. I just wish I’d been there, the way you wish you’d seen the beginning of a favorite movie you just catch the end of. Unfortunately for everyone, the biggest thing is not the thing I’m interested in, just now.

The interesting thing is the jealousy. And it’s a weird one. She told me once, beforehand, that the only people she’d really been with I already had names for. I didn’t quite believe it. I knew she wasn’t the one night stand type, don’t get me wrong. I also knew that she dated, serially, by her own confession, and that somewhere in that whole Bill Clinton gray area there would be something to bother me. I found it. Great.

“Can't wait to see you again. Perhaps I ought to print this out and slip it in your pocket, as the face-mashing doesn't seem to leave a great deal of room for talking lately.” There’s more, of course. Much more, burning on my brain, of course, because I ask for it.

Rebound, I know. Didn’t work out, I know. I’m the one getting the glowing words and the face-mashing, which is what really matters. I know. I know, I know, I know.

Dear God, let me get over myself. And quickly.

Some things never change....

So I've been bad about money for as long as I can remember. Even as a kid, if I had it, I'd gladly share it, buy a round of slushies at the white hen for my friends, never expecting anything in return. If I didn't have it, I'd borrow it, and occasionally even pay it back. In college, I'd spend money I didn't have for things I didn't need, racking up an incredible amount of credit card debt with little or nothing to show for it. (Don't even get me started on the student loans/no degree thing, thanks very much.) Nowadays, things are only a little different, but I've got it much better under control. It's a couple rounds of beer now instead of slushies, and the people I've borrowed money from are considerably more corporate and considerably less inclined to forgive infrequent reimbursement.

All that leads me to this. The reason I feel like a moron, sitting here this evening. Since the fateful day that BankOne's collections department finally tracked me down and told me I had 7 days to repay several thousand dollars or face them in court, I have been much, much better about my money. No credit cards. No long term debt. No overdrafts. No scratching from paycheck to paycheck.

And then today.

I overdrafted my checking account today. Actually, Monday, I just figured it out today. Let me preface this with some mitigating circumstances, before I beat myself up too bad. It was an honest mistake, not a case of overspending. Last month, my regularly scheduled payment to my credit card was somehow not sent. So I paid the minimum, a couple days late, apologized profusely, and decided to pay off a big chunk this month to make up for it psychologically. So I moved some money from my stock/savings, and paid it. Here's the part where I'm an idiot....I set up the huge payment to come from my first paycheck of the month, the same one where i pay rent and all my monthly bills. Better yet, it cleared before my stock money made it in, so I paid it with money I didn't have anyway. I feel like I'm eighteen again. Not in the good, perpetual hard-on, conquer the world way, either. The bad, irresponsible, can't remember to take care of things way. What a schmuck.

Anyway, long term, this is not so big a deal. Tomorrow I will get on the phone and sweet talk some hapless bank employee into waiving most of the overdraft charges. If i need to buy anything, I will use the credit card I so recently cleared space on. This, however, is not enough. Frankly, the confidence I have in myself to take care of these things is clearly misplaced. Not that I can't take care of it, mind you, just that I can't take care of it without doing a much better goddamn job of keeping track. So right now, I'm making a spreadsheet. Tomorrow, I'm calling the cable company, and lowering my bill. I'm making a budget, and buying some goddamn groceries so I don't have to eat out for lunch every day. And I'm never, ever, feeling like this again.

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.

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.

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?.... HE MISSES THE CURVE BY A MILE AND A HALF! WHAT'S THIS KID DOING UP THERE? The pitcher stares him down as she shakes off the sign...she's bringing the heat, folks, and the batter is in trouble! *At this point, BFGF and the best friend decide they should come up with pathetic excuses to leave us alone together, so they sneak off to the bathroom or some such thing while I try to drink an entire Jack and Coke in one swallow....Here comes the pitch...holy cow! I've never seen such a changeup in my life, the batter starts to swing, opens his mouth to speak, and yes, yes, she did it! She pulls out the cell phone and starts text-messaging someone midsentence! She's unbeatable! STRIKE THREE, and the batter's out!

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.

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.)

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.