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.
9.13.2006
I just wanna bang on my drum all day
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8.28.2006
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.
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.
8.21.2006
Ghosts, Spiders, and the Space/Time Continuum.
Here's the kind of weekend I had....there's a black widow spider in my freezer, slowly freezing to death in a tupperware container--and that's not what I'm going to write about. Just thought it worth mentioning, in case I stop updating this, you can safely assume that it's because the ferocious little beast somehow busts through the tupperware, opens the freezer door, and bites me without me realizing it in time to completely panic. Awesome.
Anyway, the Remix and I spent a substantial portion of our weekend together...something like 100%. It was absolutely wonderful, but that's not what interested me. On four separate occasions I had revelation-type moments about myself or my relationship skills--one positive, and three correctable.
My continuing inability to see my own hang-ups is beginning to frighten me a little bit. I apparently have big, big issues with a couple of things, left over from the time I spent with my ex-wife. (Still no clever blog name...sorry.) One of them would be harder to explain, so I'm going to use the more conventional for an example, though the psychology is approximately identical.
I used to love to cook. I'm not always good at it, mind you, but I enjoy it. Pasta, grilling, breakfast, seafood--I like to experiment and occasionally even come up with something edible. I don't cook, anymore. When I was first married, I saw this as an opportunity. Who doesn't want a man who likes to cook, right? I'd stop at the grocery store on the way home from work, randomly grab things I thought might taste good together, put some music on in the kitchen and go to town. The ex hated it. She wouldn't eat anything that wasn't exactly the way mommy made it, and mommy was a shitty cook, so I was out of luck. I thought I might be trying to hard, trying to force her into liking the things I liked, so I regrouped and tried again, made her something I thought she would like. Still no dice. Too much oil, too much salt, too much garlic, and never enough like home. So I gave up. Completely. Let her make dinner, suffered through dry flavorless chicken breasts and burgers made with 98% lean ground beef. And hated it.
It wasn't until this weekend, though, that I realized how much I missed it, and how much it hurt to go unappreciated. Then I made the Remix dinner on Friday. Sure, I burned the tortillas, and she laughed at me while she fanned the smoke detector with a bath towel, but I loved it. I loved that she ate it, and liked it. I loved that she didn't think it just magically appeared on her plate. And it struck me like a out-of-control school bus just how easy it was to get through that wall, once I knew it was there. Lucky for me, we're both enjoying the benefits.
The second revelation was a simpler one, and something I had hoped for. Saturday, we went out with my entire office to a baseball game. People she's never met, only one other familiar face in the crowd, and I behaved. Like, really behaved. Maybe it's just that I'm too old to want to be falling down drunk every weekend. Maybe I've finally developed that sensitivity I so sorely lacked the first go 'round for how it feels to be the only sober one in a group of strangers. Maybe I just appreciate her enough this time that I don't even want to risk alienating her. Whatever the case, I took her out, with my friends, and didn't leave her on an island. More importantly, I didn't feel like I missed out on a damn thing, either.
The specifics of the last revelation are less important. It was about space, and time. I was wildly overprotecting myself again, delineating ways I need my space in certain situations, when she cut me off. She looked sort of sad, and she asked the simplest question. Why don't you think you could do that with me around? Let me just say this--It wasn't just that I didn't think there were girls out there who thought this way, it's that I had totally given up hope and accepted it as fact--girls want all your time, all your attention, and all the control. If you want to have a beer and watch a football game, better clear yourself some schedule or build yourself a den. If you're not ready for bed and your X-Box or online poker habit is tugging at you, tough cookies, right? And it dawned on me, as she said it, that she meant it. With the right person, sometimes it's enough to just be around. When she says she can knit while I watch the end of the Sox game, she' s not trying to make me feel guilty, she's trying to let me breathe, to let me just be me. I was so relieved, I wanted to cry. I can't explain it, really, without another 1000 words of back story. I don't know that I need to. I'm so unaccustomed to anyone considering what I might want, it's almost bewildering to be faced with anything else. If there was any one thing that I didn't know I needed to hear, this was it. If I had any lingering doubts, any self-protection left, it's gone. And it's wonderful.
Anyway, the Remix and I spent a substantial portion of our weekend together...something like 100%. It was absolutely wonderful, but that's not what interested me. On four separate occasions I had revelation-type moments about myself or my relationship skills--one positive, and three correctable.
My continuing inability to see my own hang-ups is beginning to frighten me a little bit. I apparently have big, big issues with a couple of things, left over from the time I spent with my ex-wife. (Still no clever blog name...sorry.) One of them would be harder to explain, so I'm going to use the more conventional for an example, though the psychology is approximately identical.
I used to love to cook. I'm not always good at it, mind you, but I enjoy it. Pasta, grilling, breakfast, seafood--I like to experiment and occasionally even come up with something edible. I don't cook, anymore. When I was first married, I saw this as an opportunity. Who doesn't want a man who likes to cook, right? I'd stop at the grocery store on the way home from work, randomly grab things I thought might taste good together, put some music on in the kitchen and go to town. The ex hated it. She wouldn't eat anything that wasn't exactly the way mommy made it, and mommy was a shitty cook, so I was out of luck. I thought I might be trying to hard, trying to force her into liking the things I liked, so I regrouped and tried again, made her something I thought she would like. Still no dice. Too much oil, too much salt, too much garlic, and never enough like home. So I gave up. Completely. Let her make dinner, suffered through dry flavorless chicken breasts and burgers made with 98% lean ground beef. And hated it.
It wasn't until this weekend, though, that I realized how much I missed it, and how much it hurt to go unappreciated. Then I made the Remix dinner on Friday. Sure, I burned the tortillas, and she laughed at me while she fanned the smoke detector with a bath towel, but I loved it. I loved that she ate it, and liked it. I loved that she didn't think it just magically appeared on her plate. And it struck me like a out-of-control school bus just how easy it was to get through that wall, once I knew it was there. Lucky for me, we're both enjoying the benefits.
The second revelation was a simpler one, and something I had hoped for. Saturday, we went out with my entire office to a baseball game. People she's never met, only one other familiar face in the crowd, and I behaved. Like, really behaved. Maybe it's just that I'm too old to want to be falling down drunk every weekend. Maybe I've finally developed that sensitivity I so sorely lacked the first go 'round for how it feels to be the only sober one in a group of strangers. Maybe I just appreciate her enough this time that I don't even want to risk alienating her. Whatever the case, I took her out, with my friends, and didn't leave her on an island. More importantly, I didn't feel like I missed out on a damn thing, either.
The specifics of the last revelation are less important. It was about space, and time. I was wildly overprotecting myself again, delineating ways I need my space in certain situations, when she cut me off. She looked sort of sad, and she asked the simplest question. Why don't you think you could do that with me around? Let me just say this--It wasn't just that I didn't think there were girls out there who thought this way, it's that I had totally given up hope and accepted it as fact--girls want all your time, all your attention, and all the control. If you want to have a beer and watch a football game, better clear yourself some schedule or build yourself a den. If you're not ready for bed and your X-Box or online poker habit is tugging at you, tough cookies, right? And it dawned on me, as she said it, that she meant it. With the right person, sometimes it's enough to just be around. When she says she can knit while I watch the end of the Sox game, she' s not trying to make me feel guilty, she's trying to let me breathe, to let me just be me. I was so relieved, I wanted to cry. I can't explain it, really, without another 1000 words of back story. I don't know that I need to. I'm so unaccustomed to anyone considering what I might want, it's almost bewildering to be faced with anything else. If there was any one thing that I didn't know I needed to hear, this was it. If I had any lingering doubts, any self-protection left, it's gone. And it's wonderful.
8.17.2006
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.
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.
8.12.2006
Shameless Thievery.
I totally ripped this off the Remix's blog, but like I said before--bored and lonely. Apparently this sort of thing is called meme (pronounced meem), which sound more like something that grown under your toenails than a survey, but whatever, right?
One book that changed your life: It was early, and I didn't even read it, but when I was 5 my Aunt Nancy recited The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to me while my uncles and Pops were out trying to plant grass in our clay backyard in the middle of a drought. If there'd been any doubt about my literary bent, this one sealed the deal. I wanted to make stories, stories like that one, stories that could make you laugh or cry or gasp out loud. Never did quite get it down, but I'm getting there.
One book I've read more than once: One? I read everything more than once. A Catcher in the Rye (can you imagine a less original choice?) is an old favorite. My copy has a cover that won't stay attached, stains every few pages from reading at dinner until Pops would make me put it down, and entire sections held together by scotch tape and memory.
One book I want to take on a desert island: I'm not going to cheat, like some people, and pick a dozen, so I'll bite the bullet and settle on one. It. Hear me out, now. I know it's not literary, and I know Stephen King is the proud epitome of everything wrong with the American lit scene, but I have my reasons. One, it's a hefty read, 1100 some pages, an excellent time killer and possible escape raft. Two, it's FUN. It may not be Hemingway, but you won't be bored. It's King at his very best, creepy and disturbed, trying too hard to make horror-movie fiction read like legitimate art. I love it, in spite of myself.
One book that makes me laugh: A Confederacy of Dunces. Flat out, no question, the funniest fucking book I've ever read. Legitimately good, too, Pulitzer Prize and all that. The only thing not funny about it is the fact that John Kennedy Toole killed himself before it was ever published. (Though, honestly? That sort of makes me chuckle too.) Anything by David Sedaris is a close second, here.
One book I wish I'd written: High Fidelity. It's far from being a "great" book, but it's my voice, my kind of writing, and a much clearer idea than I've ever had. Oh well.
One book I wish had never been written: Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. I've never been more annoyed with anything I had to read in a class than Frankenstein. It's not just that it's a dumb story, I've read lots of bad stories. It's not just that it's the first highly acclaimed novel by a woman, I respect that and understand the importance. It's the fact that the book is so bad. The monster learns English in a month, and then carves notes for Dr. Frankenstein INTO PIECES OF ROCK, mind you, that are both eloquent and lengthy. Is the doctor such a poor pursuer that he's unable to catch his creation during the 8 WEEKS it must take him to write these little masterpieces? Give me a fucking break...
One book that made me cry: For starters, Where the Red Fern Grows. I was eight, I wanted a dog, and this book broke my fucking heart. More recently, Schindler's List, for obvious reasons, and The Da Vinci Code, because it's almost as bad as Frankenstein, and I'm really sick of hearing about it.
Book I'm currently reading: All the Harry Potter books, I just picked them all up in paperback to reread. Good, quick, and fun to read. I just finished The Truth by Al Franken, another reread, and I've got Thank You For Smoking sitting here on the desk next to me waiting to be picked up.
One book I've been meaning to read: The World According to Garp. Never quite got to that one, don't know why. Also, I'm told I need to read some Kate Atkinson, and soon, so the Remix has someone to talk to about it. Fight Club has been on my list for a while. I need a library card, stat!
That's all for now, I'm going to go knock back three more excedrin and pray for death. Thanks for reading!
One book that changed your life: It was early, and I didn't even read it, but when I was 5 my Aunt Nancy recited The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to me while my uncles and Pops were out trying to plant grass in our clay backyard in the middle of a drought. If there'd been any doubt about my literary bent, this one sealed the deal. I wanted to make stories, stories like that one, stories that could make you laugh or cry or gasp out loud. Never did quite get it down, but I'm getting there.
One book I've read more than once: One? I read everything more than once. A Catcher in the Rye (can you imagine a less original choice?) is an old favorite. My copy has a cover that won't stay attached, stains every few pages from reading at dinner until Pops would make me put it down, and entire sections held together by scotch tape and memory.
One book I want to take on a desert island: I'm not going to cheat, like some people, and pick a dozen, so I'll bite the bullet and settle on one. It. Hear me out, now. I know it's not literary, and I know Stephen King is the proud epitome of everything wrong with the American lit scene, but I have my reasons. One, it's a hefty read, 1100 some pages, an excellent time killer and possible escape raft. Two, it's FUN. It may not be Hemingway, but you won't be bored. It's King at his very best, creepy and disturbed, trying too hard to make horror-movie fiction read like legitimate art. I love it, in spite of myself.
One book that makes me laugh: A Confederacy of Dunces. Flat out, no question, the funniest fucking book I've ever read. Legitimately good, too, Pulitzer Prize and all that. The only thing not funny about it is the fact that John Kennedy Toole killed himself before it was ever published. (Though, honestly? That sort of makes me chuckle too.) Anything by David Sedaris is a close second, here.
One book I wish I'd written: High Fidelity. It's far from being a "great" book, but it's my voice, my kind of writing, and a much clearer idea than I've ever had. Oh well.
One book I wish had never been written: Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. I've never been more annoyed with anything I had to read in a class than Frankenstein. It's not just that it's a dumb story, I've read lots of bad stories. It's not just that it's the first highly acclaimed novel by a woman, I respect that and understand the importance. It's the fact that the book is so bad. The monster learns English in a month, and then carves notes for Dr. Frankenstein INTO PIECES OF ROCK, mind you, that are both eloquent and lengthy. Is the doctor such a poor pursuer that he's unable to catch his creation during the 8 WEEKS it must take him to write these little masterpieces? Give me a fucking break...
One book that made me cry: For starters, Where the Red Fern Grows. I was eight, I wanted a dog, and this book broke my fucking heart. More recently, Schindler's List, for obvious reasons, and The Da Vinci Code, because it's almost as bad as Frankenstein, and I'm really sick of hearing about it.
Book I'm currently reading: All the Harry Potter books, I just picked them all up in paperback to reread. Good, quick, and fun to read. I just finished The Truth by Al Franken, another reread, and I've got Thank You For Smoking sitting here on the desk next to me waiting to be picked up.
One book I've been meaning to read: The World According to Garp. Never quite got to that one, don't know why. Also, I'm told I need to read some Kate Atkinson, and soon, so the Remix has someone to talk to about it. Fight Club has been on my list for a while. I need a library card, stat!
That's all for now, I'm going to go knock back three more excedrin and pray for death. Thanks for reading!
Debutantes
One more notable event that bears discussion, and then some shameless cribbing from the Remix, because I'm bored and lonely and I have nothing better to do.
Yesterday was a coming out party. Out of nowhere Thursday night, my brother came up with a startling invitation--"Why not bring the Remix to my birthday thing tomorrow?" Huh? My brother was never a Remix fan, mostly due to circumstance, but I didn't know he'd grown up this much.
I almost didn't tell her. I wanted her to come, as soon as the idea was out there, but I didn't want her to say no. I love my family, see. I was with someone for a long time who didn't, who refused to even try. The Remix always loved my family, but I was a little afraid that there wouldn't be enough there, that she'd be too battle-scarred to give that part of it a go again. I posed the question anyway, trying to make it sound like a joke, and her first reaction was exactly the one I was afraid of. WHAT? No, no, no, that does NOT sound like a good plan. I swallowed my disappointment and agreed, but as always, she surprised me. She turned back, slowly coming around, and settled right where I'd hoped. Nervous, yes, and maybe a touch on the skeptical side, but game.
So we went. Her hands were shaking, I was smoking as fast as I could light them, but we did it. And strangely enough, it was good. Really good. Pops is still boring and abrupt, Ma is still tactless and overbearing, and my brother is still crude and funny--and the Remix still fits right in. She's a keeper, this one. Thank God for second chances.
Yesterday was a coming out party. Out of nowhere Thursday night, my brother came up with a startling invitation--"Why not bring the Remix to my birthday thing tomorrow?" Huh? My brother was never a Remix fan, mostly due to circumstance, but I didn't know he'd grown up this much.
I almost didn't tell her. I wanted her to come, as soon as the idea was out there, but I didn't want her to say no. I love my family, see. I was with someone for a long time who didn't, who refused to even try. The Remix always loved my family, but I was a little afraid that there wouldn't be enough there, that she'd be too battle-scarred to give that part of it a go again. I posed the question anyway, trying to make it sound like a joke, and her first reaction was exactly the one I was afraid of. WHAT? No, no, no, that does NOT sound like a good plan. I swallowed my disappointment and agreed, but as always, she surprised me. She turned back, slowly coming around, and settled right where I'd hoped. Nervous, yes, and maybe a touch on the skeptical side, but game.
So we went. Her hands were shaking, I was smoking as fast as I could light them, but we did it. And strangely enough, it was good. Really good. Pops is still boring and abrupt, Ma is still tactless and overbearing, and my brother is still crude and funny--and the Remix still fits right in. She's a keeper, this one. Thank God for second chances.
Not lazy, just busy
Has it really been almost a month? Eesh. Apologies to the internet, I've had my hands full for the past several weeks, and I must confess to bumping this little exercise down the priority list more than a few times. Anyway, with so much time gone by, there's been plenty of topics worth writing about, so bear with me as I attempt to choose one.
Since I'm sitting here today, home sick while the Remix and her brothers splash in the wave pool at a nearby water park, I'm more than a little miserable. I woke up with a brutal headache, the kind where even a tilt of the head makes you break out in a cold sweat and waves of nausea accompany every attempt to actually walk. Lovely, right. All this when I could be zipping down water slides with a beautiful woman. Plus, I ended up on the phone half the morning trying to fix something for work. Awesome.
Regardless of my current negative disposition, the Remix and I had an interesting conversation last night, and since she hasn't had an opportunity to write about it, I'm totally beating her to the punch. The topic: Exhaustion Theory--the idea that you can wear yourself out in a relationship by giving it too much. Tangental topic: if you're worried that giving too much to the relationship is going to make it worse, is the relationship that good to begin with?
This was an easy one for me. I'm a gambler at heart--if it's worth betting on, bet as much as you can and cross your fingers. This relationship is worth betting on. I'm not going to sit back, trying to protect myself when I could be enjoying the hell out of it just by letting go. This is an easier idea to come to terms with for me than her, possibly because last time she let go I let her down. Either way, I'm determined that whatever happens with this thing, if it goes bad it's not going to be because I was trying to keep something back. If we give it everything we've got, and it sours at some point down the road, at least we know we tried--and at least the time we've got together will be maximized. If I didn't think she was worth it, I would find someone else to occupy my time. I'm sure there's plenty of reasonably nice girls out there who I don't have an eight year history with. That's not what I want, though. I want this one, with all the possibility for heartbreak, with all the navel-gazing overanalysis, with all the tiptoeing around, trying not to hurt anyone's feelings.
Case in point. A couple of nights ago, she offered her time, to come over and spend the night, and I said no. It was an overthought no, with lots of unnecessary discussion. It was hurtful, thought not because of anything I did--for once I've stumbled on a sore spot that I didn't completely cause in the first place. On my end, it was simple. I was tired, I'd been busy and anticipated being busy the rest of the week, and although I desperately wanted to see her again, I knew that by Sunday morning I'd wake up exhausted and wonder where my week went. In retrospect, it may even have been a mistake, on my part--I'm rarely as relaxed as when she's around, and I sleep better even though my first hour and a half in bed is filled with a lot more activity than when I'm alone. The important thing, the thing I realized as we were hashing out some of the hurt feelings on the phone, was that my purposeful self-defense mechanisms of a month or two ago were coming back to bite me.
Early on, I made a point of telling her that I was not going to be constantly available, that I needed my "personal time," that I was eventually going to have to say no. At the time, I was thinking that I needed to make sure I had some boundaries, that she didn't think I was desperate or lonely, that I wasn't going to be here at her convenience. When she proved to have grown up considerably over the past five years, I immediately forgot it. I don't need to defend my time from her anymore, for one, I appreciate the time we spend together much more, and two, she respects my space naturally, without me having to do anything. Problem is, she didn't know. She didn't know that I didn't mean it to begin with, and she certainly didn't know that I wasn't worried anymore.
This is the problem with trying to protect yourself too much. Without even thinking about it, you're always hedging your bets. I spent so much time, telling her I didn't ever want to get married again, that I didn't want a serious girlfriend, that I was too busy to dedicate much time to someone--and all because I didn't want it to hurt. I didn't want her to know how much I wanted to see her, because then she could withhold herself and I'd be hurt. I didn't want her to know that I do want to get married again, someday have a family, because I didn't want her to be freaked out, because I bought into all of her hedging about it. We're not 18 anymore.
I'm not trying not to be hurt anymore. In a relationship like this, self-protection can only come at an opportunity cost to the other person. No more hedging. I've never said it on here, in so many words, though she's heard it over and over again, and probably felt it long before. I've fallen in love with her, all over again. And I'm not afraid.
Since I'm sitting here today, home sick while the Remix and her brothers splash in the wave pool at a nearby water park, I'm more than a little miserable. I woke up with a brutal headache, the kind where even a tilt of the head makes you break out in a cold sweat and waves of nausea accompany every attempt to actually walk. Lovely, right. All this when I could be zipping down water slides with a beautiful woman. Plus, I ended up on the phone half the morning trying to fix something for work. Awesome.
Regardless of my current negative disposition, the Remix and I had an interesting conversation last night, and since she hasn't had an opportunity to write about it, I'm totally beating her to the punch. The topic: Exhaustion Theory--the idea that you can wear yourself out in a relationship by giving it too much. Tangental topic: if you're worried that giving too much to the relationship is going to make it worse, is the relationship that good to begin with?
This was an easy one for me. I'm a gambler at heart--if it's worth betting on, bet as much as you can and cross your fingers. This relationship is worth betting on. I'm not going to sit back, trying to protect myself when I could be enjoying the hell out of it just by letting go. This is an easier idea to come to terms with for me than her, possibly because last time she let go I let her down. Either way, I'm determined that whatever happens with this thing, if it goes bad it's not going to be because I was trying to keep something back. If we give it everything we've got, and it sours at some point down the road, at least we know we tried--and at least the time we've got together will be maximized. If I didn't think she was worth it, I would find someone else to occupy my time. I'm sure there's plenty of reasonably nice girls out there who I don't have an eight year history with. That's not what I want, though. I want this one, with all the possibility for heartbreak, with all the navel-gazing overanalysis, with all the tiptoeing around, trying not to hurt anyone's feelings.
Case in point. A couple of nights ago, she offered her time, to come over and spend the night, and I said no. It was an overthought no, with lots of unnecessary discussion. It was hurtful, thought not because of anything I did--for once I've stumbled on a sore spot that I didn't completely cause in the first place. On my end, it was simple. I was tired, I'd been busy and anticipated being busy the rest of the week, and although I desperately wanted to see her again, I knew that by Sunday morning I'd wake up exhausted and wonder where my week went. In retrospect, it may even have been a mistake, on my part--I'm rarely as relaxed as when she's around, and I sleep better even though my first hour and a half in bed is filled with a lot more activity than when I'm alone. The important thing, the thing I realized as we were hashing out some of the hurt feelings on the phone, was that my purposeful self-defense mechanisms of a month or two ago were coming back to bite me.
Early on, I made a point of telling her that I was not going to be constantly available, that I needed my "personal time," that I was eventually going to have to say no. At the time, I was thinking that I needed to make sure I had some boundaries, that she didn't think I was desperate or lonely, that I wasn't going to be here at her convenience. When she proved to have grown up considerably over the past five years, I immediately forgot it. I don't need to defend my time from her anymore, for one, I appreciate the time we spend together much more, and two, she respects my space naturally, without me having to do anything. Problem is, she didn't know. She didn't know that I didn't mean it to begin with, and she certainly didn't know that I wasn't worried anymore.
This is the problem with trying to protect yourself too much. Without even thinking about it, you're always hedging your bets. I spent so much time, telling her I didn't ever want to get married again, that I didn't want a serious girlfriend, that I was too busy to dedicate much time to someone--and all because I didn't want it to hurt. I didn't want her to know how much I wanted to see her, because then she could withhold herself and I'd be hurt. I didn't want her to know that I do want to get married again, someday have a family, because I didn't want her to be freaked out, because I bought into all of her hedging about it. We're not 18 anymore.
I'm not trying not to be hurt anymore. In a relationship like this, self-protection can only come at an opportunity cost to the other person. No more hedging. I've never said it on here, in so many words, though she's heard it over and over again, and probably felt it long before. I've fallen in love with her, all over again. And I'm not afraid.
7.22.2006
Social Awkwardness
So this morning at work I made everyone listen to my own version of the worst CD ever made. Meatloaf to ABBA, every song I hate but can't turn off. (This will end up being several volumes when I'm done....I'm a glutton for punishment, music-wise.) Anyway, this sparked a discussion I've had several times the last few months--namely, why am I retarded when it comes to music?
I've worked it out into a very simple theory--I am a movie snob, I am a literature snob, and I'm a tremendous sports fan. There's just no room in my head to follow which bands the lead guitar from Audioslave has been in before or who the early influences of Widespread Panic are. I barely know who either of those bands are, for that matter. And I'm happy this way.
The backbone of my theory is this: There are four main areas of potential snobbery for people in my age group--people between college and parenthood. Everyone I know is interested in one of these four things: sports, movies, music, or {other}(I'll explain, promise.). What's more, there's various levels of snobbery -- the more of your energy you focus on any one of these, the less snobbish you will be about the others, unless you possess a supernatural capacity for information retention and only require 2 hours of sleep a night.
Sports: The sports snob is almost always male. I don't mean to suggest that girls cannot be interested in sports, or shouldn't be. However, in my humble experience, the vast majority are not. So. The pinnacle of sports snobbery is that guy everyone knows who follows baseball and professional table tennis with equal interest, just because they're both sports. "Fan" is not descriptive enough for people at the top of their game in this particular region. Sports snobs are occupying their precious mental space with meaningless statistics and well-formed opinions on everything from the starting fullback for their local high school to Superbowl conspiracy theories.
Movies: My personal favorite. Movie snobs don't just watch movies, they devour them. They talk in great detail about camera placements and script to screen transitions as if anyone might actually care. They can list the entire oeuvre of even the least significant bit player and instantly rank for you theri favorite Western bad guy or Englishman-doing-American accents. The other related path for movie snobs is the People magazine/US Weekly/E! Network celebrity cult, the people who know who's sleeping with who before the condom's even dry.
Music: My least favorite, because these people can consistently make me feel slightly stupid. Popular music is almost certainly bad in the mind of the music snob, as a general rule the validity of someone's work is directly inverse to the number of people who have actually heard it. Underground rock bands, basement DJ parties, concert bootlegs--the music snob doesn't just listen, they listen. Ten seconds of any song, they'll give you five bands who influenced the sound. Twenty seconds, and they'll tell you what brand the cymbals are.
{other}: Other is not a throwaway category. Other can be a number of things, but it is important to note that ascending to a high level of snobbery in {other} will limit you to only being able to converse with someone of a similar level--no one else cares. Be it politics or basket-weaving, other is the category that makes us unique, as long as it's held in check. You can dabble in a million things on this category, but you automatically sacrifice accessibility, because you've limited your potential for common ground. The other category is always that oddball friend you have who refuses to care even a little bit about any of the pop culture stuff we all bask in, but will have excruciating conversations about wine or philosophy. Want an example? Two words for you: Evangelical Christian.
Pick two, pick three, you're going to be able to talk to just about anyone. Pick 4, and you're going to be in over your head in any conversation. Pick 1, and you needn't worry about conversations, they'll be few and far between, and most likely at conventions of similarly awkward people.
Oh, and don't worry if you're feeling below-average in any of these. Look around at anyone over thirty who has any kind of life, and you'll realize that once you have kids, a spouse, responsibilities, and a career, it's a little more difficult to care about meaningless bullshit like this. Lucky for you, too bad for the rest of us. Welcome to being an almost-grown-up.
I've worked it out into a very simple theory--I am a movie snob, I am a literature snob, and I'm a tremendous sports fan. There's just no room in my head to follow which bands the lead guitar from Audioslave has been in before or who the early influences of Widespread Panic are. I barely know who either of those bands are, for that matter. And I'm happy this way.
The backbone of my theory is this: There are four main areas of potential snobbery for people in my age group--people between college and parenthood. Everyone I know is interested in one of these four things: sports, movies, music, or {other}(I'll explain, promise.). What's more, there's various levels of snobbery -- the more of your energy you focus on any one of these, the less snobbish you will be about the others, unless you possess a supernatural capacity for information retention and only require 2 hours of sleep a night.
Sports: The sports snob is almost always male. I don't mean to suggest that girls cannot be interested in sports, or shouldn't be. However, in my humble experience, the vast majority are not. So. The pinnacle of sports snobbery is that guy everyone knows who follows baseball and professional table tennis with equal interest, just because they're both sports. "Fan" is not descriptive enough for people at the top of their game in this particular region. Sports snobs are occupying their precious mental space with meaningless statistics and well-formed opinions on everything from the starting fullback for their local high school to Superbowl conspiracy theories.
Movies: My personal favorite. Movie snobs don't just watch movies, they devour them. They talk in great detail about camera placements and script to screen transitions as if anyone might actually care. They can list the entire oeuvre of even the least significant bit player and instantly rank for you theri favorite Western bad guy or Englishman-doing-American accents. The other related path for movie snobs is the People magazine/US Weekly/E! Network celebrity cult, the people who know who's sleeping with who before the condom's even dry.
Music: My least favorite, because these people can consistently make me feel slightly stupid. Popular music is almost certainly bad in the mind of the music snob, as a general rule the validity of someone's work is directly inverse to the number of people who have actually heard it. Underground rock bands, basement DJ parties, concert bootlegs--the music snob doesn't just listen, they listen. Ten seconds of any song, they'll give you five bands who influenced the sound. Twenty seconds, and they'll tell you what brand the cymbals are.
{other}: Other is not a throwaway category. Other can be a number of things, but it is important to note that ascending to a high level of snobbery in {other} will limit you to only being able to converse with someone of a similar level--no one else cares. Be it politics or basket-weaving, other is the category that makes us unique, as long as it's held in check. You can dabble in a million things on this category, but you automatically sacrifice accessibility, because you've limited your potential for common ground. The other category is always that oddball friend you have who refuses to care even a little bit about any of the pop culture stuff we all bask in, but will have excruciating conversations about wine or philosophy. Want an example? Two words for you: Evangelical Christian.
Pick two, pick three, you're going to be able to talk to just about anyone. Pick 4, and you're going to be in over your head in any conversation. Pick 1, and you needn't worry about conversations, they'll be few and far between, and most likely at conventions of similarly awkward people.
Oh, and don't worry if you're feeling below-average in any of these. Look around at anyone over thirty who has any kind of life, and you'll realize that once you have kids, a spouse, responsibilities, and a career, it's a little more difficult to care about meaningless bullshit like this. Lucky for you, too bad for the rest of us. Welcome to being an almost-grown-up.
Same old song, but with a different beat since you've been gone.
So the Remix and I were mutually daydreaming last night, rolling along with ideas for beach vacations and hotel room sex, and we stumbled over a thought. She asked one of those questions, the ones she knows she shouldn't ask and I know she can't resist. Did you go there with {ex-wife}?
It raises an interesting thought. The town I grew up in is full of places I made memories with the Remix on the original release--places I avoided like the plague with {ex-wife}. The town we both went to college in was full of ghosts, restaurants and bars that belonged to us, not to whomever we were with at the time. By the same token, the places we went with other people are never going to be ours again.
Songs, books, movies, vacation spots--these are the biggest things you lose when you move on to someone else. Whether consciously or unconsciously, if I took the Remix to Cabo San Lucas, I'd be trying to live up to my honeymoon. (Or trying not to, if you knew anything about my honeymoon. next week, I'll fill you in.) The ex would never hear To Make You Feel My Love the same way as I do, because that one is always going to make me think Remix, whether she's around or not. Harvey the Wonder Hamster will never be quite as meaningful with anyone else as it was with the girl I dated when I was 15.
As per the norm, I don't really have a point. It's another little way to protect myself, to make sure I keep my favorite things unattributed, so that I'm never stuck associating Anchorman to an ex-girlfriend or having Confederacy of Dunces become someone else's favorite book.
I guess that settles it--the Remix will have to live with the fact that Predator is just never going to be "our" movie. While it hurts me to think how disappointed she'll be, I just have to keep some things for myself.
It raises an interesting thought. The town I grew up in is full of places I made memories with the Remix on the original release--places I avoided like the plague with {ex-wife}. The town we both went to college in was full of ghosts, restaurants and bars that belonged to us, not to whomever we were with at the time. By the same token, the places we went with other people are never going to be ours again.
Songs, books, movies, vacation spots--these are the biggest things you lose when you move on to someone else. Whether consciously or unconsciously, if I took the Remix to Cabo San Lucas, I'd be trying to live up to my honeymoon. (Or trying not to, if you knew anything about my honeymoon. next week, I'll fill you in.) The ex would never hear To Make You Feel My Love the same way as I do, because that one is always going to make me think Remix, whether she's around or not. Harvey the Wonder Hamster will never be quite as meaningful with anyone else as it was with the girl I dated when I was 15.
As per the norm, I don't really have a point. It's another little way to protect myself, to make sure I keep my favorite things unattributed, so that I'm never stuck associating Anchorman to an ex-girlfriend or having Confederacy of Dunces become someone else's favorite book.
I guess that settles it--the Remix will have to live with the fact that Predator is just never going to be "our" movie. While it hurts me to think how disappointed she'll be, I just have to keep some things for myself.
7.21.2006
Lord have mercy on the working man....
So I read this week that George Bush exercised his veto power on a bill that a majority of America supports, namely federal funding for stem cell research. I can deal with this, just barely. Then I read a quote from someone in the administration's badly overworked public relations department, Spokesman Tony Snow, where he referred to stem cell research as "murder."
Now I'm pissed.
How is it possible that an entire country stands by while our fearless leader hijacks important medical research on the basis of an antiquated and ludicrous religious belief that even a fertilized egg in a cup has a "soul?" Are religious types so desperate to be right that they will defend their unfounded beliefs to the death even in the face of clear logical evidence to the contrary?
I will not deny the existence of a soul. I believe that every individual on the planet has one. I don't believe it's a divine gift, however--its' merely the psychological summation of everything a person believes about themself and their place in the world. Soul is a gimmick, a metaphor, a word to describe something that there's no words to describe. Embryos have a potential for life, no more or less.
This fanatical devotion to a fictional character does more than simply disturb me. It angers me, especially when I see it in relatively intelligent people. I have a family full of smart, thoughtful people who are regularly offended by homosexuals, premarital sex, democrats, and embryo killers. Most hardship in my life has been met with the distinctly unsatisying "We're praying for you." Thanks for praying, why not throw some pennies in a wishing well, so long as we're pretending some unseen and unproven force is going to save us from our troubles?
There's no point to this, just flipping through news articles from this week and getting riled up for no reason. Oh well. Apologies all around. Pray for me.
Now I'm pissed.
How is it possible that an entire country stands by while our fearless leader hijacks important medical research on the basis of an antiquated and ludicrous religious belief that even a fertilized egg in a cup has a "soul?" Are religious types so desperate to be right that they will defend their unfounded beliefs to the death even in the face of clear logical evidence to the contrary?
I will not deny the existence of a soul. I believe that every individual on the planet has one. I don't believe it's a divine gift, however--its' merely the psychological summation of everything a person believes about themself and their place in the world. Soul is a gimmick, a metaphor, a word to describe something that there's no words to describe. Embryos have a potential for life, no more or less.
This fanatical devotion to a fictional character does more than simply disturb me. It angers me, especially when I see it in relatively intelligent people. I have a family full of smart, thoughtful people who are regularly offended by homosexuals, premarital sex, democrats, and embryo killers. Most hardship in my life has been met with the distinctly unsatisying "We're praying for you." Thanks for praying, why not throw some pennies in a wishing well, so long as we're pretending some unseen and unproven force is going to save us from our troubles?
There's no point to this, just flipping through news articles from this week and getting riled up for no reason. Oh well. Apologies all around. Pray for me.
7.17.2006
Lists
Things she likes more than I do: dresses, yoga, knitting, running, baking bread, trying on shoes, whatever color her hair happens to be, vintage clothing, shopping, her sister, chick flicks, underground music.
Things I like more than she does: video games, football, Ultimate Fighting, keg beer, chicken wings, heavy weights, basketball, poker, involuntary muscle twitches, Westerns, baseball, my cats, '80s metal.
Things we both like: Blue Moon, coffee, Raymond Carver, A Confederacy of Dunces, adventurous restaurant choices, things that happen on top of paisley sheets, garter belts, blogs and other voyeuristic sources of information, great burgers, Chicago, John Cusack movies, sleeping while touching/not touching, sushi, 100 Years of Solitude, writing, kissing, Scrabble, musicals, politics, each other.
I imagine this will be updated at some point, but somewhere in here I'm pretty sure there's a reason why this works.
Things I like more than she does: video games, football, Ultimate Fighting, keg beer, chicken wings, heavy weights, basketball, poker, involuntary muscle twitches, Westerns, baseball, my cats, '80s metal.
Things we both like: Blue Moon, coffee, Raymond Carver, A Confederacy of Dunces, adventurous restaurant choices, things that happen on top of paisley sheets, garter belts, blogs and other voyeuristic sources of information, great burgers, Chicago, John Cusack movies, sleeping while touching/not touching, sushi, 100 Years of Solitude, writing, kissing, Scrabble, musicals, politics, each other.
I imagine this will be updated at some point, but somewhere in here I'm pretty sure there's a reason why this works.
7.16.2006
Sweating like a whore in church.
It's hot. Really, really fucking hot. I was all geared up for a scathing entry, ripping apart my ex and her family for a moment of ignorance and cruelty I've never forgiven, laying the framework for a more measured response in short story form. It'll have to wait, though. It's too hot to be negative.
I spent the day with my family, again, and I'm feeling inclined to write about them for the first time on this particular outlet. I'm lucky. I know this. My parents are loving and supportive, no matter how many bad decisions I make. My brother looks up to me with that fanatical devotion that only little brothers can generate. I love it.
My mom is nuts. She's a full on, bible-thumping, evangelizing Christian, but no one's perfect. Although she's blind in her faith and stubbornly follows the church even when she knows in her heart it's wrong, I hold no ill-will towards her spirituality. Yes, she tries to convert me every chance she gets, yes she refuses to acknowledge my cousin's lesbian relationship even as it enters it's 10th year, yes she votes Republican across the board in an effort to rid the world of gays and abortionists. The thing is, she lives it out. Every day, every thing she does, she does with the Christian ideal in mind. While I tend to believe Christian politics are medieval, and Christian rules a little too restrictive with not enough logic, I can certainly think of worse moral codes to dedicate your life to. She's compassionate, loving, kind, and selfless. She's everything I'm not, and she doesn't hate me for it. That's a rare combination, and she's a special woman.
My pops is quite the opposite. I'm more like him than I want to admit, usually. Stern, unequivocal, intelligent, and firm. He knows everything, and it's rare that we catch him out on something, all too frequently a little argument and a little research proves him nothing but correct. He's also fiercely loyal, decisive under pressure, and he would unhesitatingly kill or be killed to defend his family. He left my mom, once, for a short time in the grand scheme of things. I've almost forgiven him, if not for leaving my mom than for not taking me with him. I'll never forgive him for forcing me to become the man of the house, for forcing me to over power him, to throw him out bodily in a moment of desperation. He loves me, though, and I love him. Mom has forgiven him, though I can't understand how, and the four of us are a stronger family unit for the experience.
Then there's my brother. Unfairly cast as the dumb one, the troublemaker, he was getting lectured on the phone about almost missing his curfew while my friends and I got high in the backyard every time my parents went out of town. He's brilliant with electronics, terrible at test-taking. Anyone who hasn't known us for years would be convinced he's the smart one, taking apart computers and improving them on reassembly since he was 13 years old while I flunked out of college five years after I started. He's got a wickedly sharp wit, able to make me laugh whenever he wants. More than that, he never fell into the trap laid by my father's outward stoicism, he wears his every emotion on his sleeve, ashamed of nothing. While pops and I hide everything, cover every sign of potential weakness with a sharp word or a commanding look, my brother overwhelms everyone with his acute sense of justice and his wide open feelings. He has a quick temper, and a quicker apology. He almost worships me, but he's not afraid to tell me when I'm an asshole. He's everything I could ask for in a brother, and one of my best friends.
As you can see, I'm a lucky man. My family bugs me, stifles me, smothers me, overprotects me. They also made me who I am, and they love me anyway.
I spent the day with my family, again, and I'm feeling inclined to write about them for the first time on this particular outlet. I'm lucky. I know this. My parents are loving and supportive, no matter how many bad decisions I make. My brother looks up to me with that fanatical devotion that only little brothers can generate. I love it.
My mom is nuts. She's a full on, bible-thumping, evangelizing Christian, but no one's perfect. Although she's blind in her faith and stubbornly follows the church even when she knows in her heart it's wrong, I hold no ill-will towards her spirituality. Yes, she tries to convert me every chance she gets, yes she refuses to acknowledge my cousin's lesbian relationship even as it enters it's 10th year, yes she votes Republican across the board in an effort to rid the world of gays and abortionists. The thing is, she lives it out. Every day, every thing she does, she does with the Christian ideal in mind. While I tend to believe Christian politics are medieval, and Christian rules a little too restrictive with not enough logic, I can certainly think of worse moral codes to dedicate your life to. She's compassionate, loving, kind, and selfless. She's everything I'm not, and she doesn't hate me for it. That's a rare combination, and she's a special woman.
My pops is quite the opposite. I'm more like him than I want to admit, usually. Stern, unequivocal, intelligent, and firm. He knows everything, and it's rare that we catch him out on something, all too frequently a little argument and a little research proves him nothing but correct. He's also fiercely loyal, decisive under pressure, and he would unhesitatingly kill or be killed to defend his family. He left my mom, once, for a short time in the grand scheme of things. I've almost forgiven him, if not for leaving my mom than for not taking me with him. I'll never forgive him for forcing me to become the man of the house, for forcing me to over power him, to throw him out bodily in a moment of desperation. He loves me, though, and I love him. Mom has forgiven him, though I can't understand how, and the four of us are a stronger family unit for the experience.
Then there's my brother. Unfairly cast as the dumb one, the troublemaker, he was getting lectured on the phone about almost missing his curfew while my friends and I got high in the backyard every time my parents went out of town. He's brilliant with electronics, terrible at test-taking. Anyone who hasn't known us for years would be convinced he's the smart one, taking apart computers and improving them on reassembly since he was 13 years old while I flunked out of college five years after I started. He's got a wickedly sharp wit, able to make me laugh whenever he wants. More than that, he never fell into the trap laid by my father's outward stoicism, he wears his every emotion on his sleeve, ashamed of nothing. While pops and I hide everything, cover every sign of potential weakness with a sharp word or a commanding look, my brother overwhelms everyone with his acute sense of justice and his wide open feelings. He has a quick temper, and a quicker apology. He almost worships me, but he's not afraid to tell me when I'm an asshole. He's everything I could ask for in a brother, and one of my best friends.
As you can see, I'm a lucky man. My family bugs me, stifles me, smothers me, overprotects me. They also made me who I am, and they love me anyway.
7.13.2006
Too tired to be tired.
Some days, I am tired. Occasionally for good reason, all too frequently for no reason I can discern without far too much introspection for a weekday. By tired, I don't mean sleepy, or insufficiently rested. I mean exhausted, wiped out, totally demolished. Today seems to be one of those days.
Maybe this is stress related. This time of year, problems are so commonplace at work as to become run of the mill. Yesterday, I agreed to take on a new responsibility at work, the kind of additional project that comes without title or increased salary. The kind of project that carries enormous potential for success with little reward. I work too much, most likely. I take work too seriously. I love my job. I cling to it, devouring every bit of praise, no matter how minor; reeling from every criticism, no matter how well deserved. I take no satisfation in a job well done--my satisfaction and my relaxation are bound firm to being the best. Not perfect, but closer too perfect than anyone else. There is no form of obligation so taxing as a constant commitment to one's self.
I stress very little, about other things. I am happy with the Remix. I am happy with my apartment, my cats, my finances, my life. Bills don't concern me, much. I do what I want, when I want, and I answer only to the people I choose to. And yet, I find myself worn out.
Don't get me wrong. I am not a zombie, I am not clinging to my sanity, I am not falling asleep at the wheel of my car. I am merely complaining. Sometimes the best thing for me is just a good bad mood.
Maybe this is stress related. This time of year, problems are so commonplace at work as to become run of the mill. Yesterday, I agreed to take on a new responsibility at work, the kind of additional project that comes without title or increased salary. The kind of project that carries enormous potential for success with little reward. I work too much, most likely. I take work too seriously. I love my job. I cling to it, devouring every bit of praise, no matter how minor; reeling from every criticism, no matter how well deserved. I take no satisfation in a job well done--my satisfaction and my relaxation are bound firm to being the best. Not perfect, but closer too perfect than anyone else. There is no form of obligation so taxing as a constant commitment to one's self.
I stress very little, about other things. I am happy with the Remix. I am happy with my apartment, my cats, my finances, my life. Bills don't concern me, much. I do what I want, when I want, and I answer only to the people I choose to. And yet, I find myself worn out.
Don't get me wrong. I am not a zombie, I am not clinging to my sanity, I am not falling asleep at the wheel of my car. I am merely complaining. Sometimes the best thing for me is just a good bad mood.
7.12.2006
KFC always smells good.
Of course, yet again, the title of this bit has nothing to do with what I'm writing about, just thought it was an important thought to share with the world.
It's hard, sometimes, to be the butt of the joke. I've always been self-deprecating, for a couple reasons. One, it's funny. I love to be funny, and I'm not so conceited as to hold myself above mockery. Two, it doesn't hurt anyone. I can, and have been, cruel. I always find a way to overstep that invisible line with others, the line that separates what's ok to laugh at and what really hurts. Three, it sets people at ease with me. I have a tendency to be a little gruff, and a little self-taunting smooths out the edges a bit.
All that said, and what I always forget until it's too late, is that once you open yourself up, you've erased your own line in the sand, and you can't go back. It would be horribly confusing to everyone around if suddenly, I was easily offended. Problem is, sometimes you just don't feel like being the punching bag. More frequently, someone you don't think ought to be punching throws a shot in just where you don't want it.
I can take the punishment, that's not really the problem. What I have trouble with is the soft spots. I can't tell people what things are acceptable and what things piss me off, I've opened the floodgates already, and I don't intend to change the way I am just because it's occasionally uncomfortable. There's a list, though....
Remix? Mock away, even we think it's a little bit funny most of the time. You can't start dating your ex and expect your friends to let you go unscathed.
Divorce? Yeah, I brought this one on myself, but maybe we could let it die already? Believe it or not, even with all the jokes, it wasn't all that pleasant. I can joke, it makes me feel better. When other people joke, it makes me feel like putting a knife in someone's eye.
Weight? No problem, baby. I got enough going for me to ignore the fat jokes. I'll lose the weight, on my own terms, and probably slowly, but this one never bothers me. If it did, I'd probably have pulled a Jared from Subway by now.
Work Ethic? Fuck you. The best friend is the main perpetrator here, mostly because his own obvious insecurities are a little much for him to handle; the combination of my being the boss and my being the best is enough to set him completely off his rocker. I work my ass off, and until someone else can match my numbers, my hours, and my dedication, anyone who wants to give me shit for letting the phone ring can bite my left nut.
Haircut? Yeah, it's bad. What can I expect for $12.99?
The bigger thing is always the who, not so much the what. Do I want the nasty bitch across the way or the brainless pair of breasts who sits in the far corner to feel comfortable taking shots at me in any circumstance? Fuck no. Do I think the best friend could afford to shut his mouth and show a little loyalty now and again? Hell yes. Can my brother say things to me that my new employee can't? Of course.
Why this has come up today, totally beyond me. Oh well.
It's hard, sometimes, to be the butt of the joke. I've always been self-deprecating, for a couple reasons. One, it's funny. I love to be funny, and I'm not so conceited as to hold myself above mockery. Two, it doesn't hurt anyone. I can, and have been, cruel. I always find a way to overstep that invisible line with others, the line that separates what's ok to laugh at and what really hurts. Three, it sets people at ease with me. I have a tendency to be a little gruff, and a little self-taunting smooths out the edges a bit.
All that said, and what I always forget until it's too late, is that once you open yourself up, you've erased your own line in the sand, and you can't go back. It would be horribly confusing to everyone around if suddenly, I was easily offended. Problem is, sometimes you just don't feel like being the punching bag. More frequently, someone you don't think ought to be punching throws a shot in just where you don't want it.
I can take the punishment, that's not really the problem. What I have trouble with is the soft spots. I can't tell people what things are acceptable and what things piss me off, I've opened the floodgates already, and I don't intend to change the way I am just because it's occasionally uncomfortable. There's a list, though....
Remix? Mock away, even we think it's a little bit funny most of the time. You can't start dating your ex and expect your friends to let you go unscathed.
Divorce? Yeah, I brought this one on myself, but maybe we could let it die already? Believe it or not, even with all the jokes, it wasn't all that pleasant. I can joke, it makes me feel better. When other people joke, it makes me feel like putting a knife in someone's eye.
Weight? No problem, baby. I got enough going for me to ignore the fat jokes. I'll lose the weight, on my own terms, and probably slowly, but this one never bothers me. If it did, I'd probably have pulled a Jared from Subway by now.
Work Ethic? Fuck you. The best friend is the main perpetrator here, mostly because his own obvious insecurities are a little much for him to handle; the combination of my being the boss and my being the best is enough to set him completely off his rocker. I work my ass off, and until someone else can match my numbers, my hours, and my dedication, anyone who wants to give me shit for letting the phone ring can bite my left nut.
Haircut? Yeah, it's bad. What can I expect for $12.99?
The bigger thing is always the who, not so much the what. Do I want the nasty bitch across the way or the brainless pair of breasts who sits in the far corner to feel comfortable taking shots at me in any circumstance? Fuck no. Do I think the best friend could afford to shut his mouth and show a little loyalty now and again? Hell yes. Can my brother say things to me that my new employee can't? Of course.
Why this has come up today, totally beyond me. Oh well.
7.11.2006
Setting yourself up for failure.
Ok. Lame title. I don't have the time, the energy, or the dedication to excellence to care. The Remix and I were talking about set-ups and blind dates yesterday, and I decided it was worth writing about. I've got mixed feelings on set-ups, really. The not-yet-cleverly-named ex and I set up her cousin with a co-worker of mine, and damn near ended up with a date rape case. That was a bad one. On the other hand, the Remix and I set up the best friend and BFGF to go to prom a million years ago, and now they share an apartment and a relatively similar worldview. Apparently, it's a toss up. Regardless, the story I want to tell is about an awful set-up, and hopefully a cautionary tale for all you aspiring cupids out there.
The BFGF worries about me. I'm sure the best friend doesn't help, what with his constant defensive posturing and tendency for belittlement, but she's not totally off the mark, either. Anyone who lives with two cats and an X-Box 360 for company at 26 years old and isn't at least partially open to the idea of a set up has problems I don't even want to think about. Her intentions were good, anyway, and I don't blame her for the abortion that unfolded, we all should have known better.
So BFGF picks out a girl from her bevy of friends, one she believes to be smart, funny, pretty, all the sort of things she believes I'd like. Since she believes me to be smart, funny, and good-looking, she believed that we'd get along. This is how it came to be that I'd be introduced to Lawnchair. (Do I need to point out that this is not her real name? Occasionally I wonder about the general intellgence level out there, so if you find this sentence insulting and pointless, please skip to the next paragraph.)
There are several things wrong with this plan, right from the start. First of all, Lawnchair does not know there is a set-up afoot, and I do. This leads us to rule number one in the set-up Bible: Thou shalt not introduce your friends with matchmaking intentions unless the terms of the arrangement have been described in equal terms to both parties involved. Second problem--the best friend and BFGF have decided for no apparent reason that I would be more comfortable in this situation with a homecourt advantage, so they decide this melding of the hearts should take place in the bar next to my apartment. This would be good if Lawnchair was into lonely drunks belting out karaoke from 9-2, like I am, but not exactly conducive to conversation. So rule number two: Thou shalt not bring your friends together in any environment where drunk girls might be incoherently howling along with "I Touch Myself."
So the best friend and I get there first, post up at the bar, and immediately begin drinking heavily. (This is so obvious, it doesn't even get a rule.) When BFGF and Lawnchair arrive, our eyes met, and sparks immediately flew. Most of the sparks were the angry kind, directed at BFGF from Lawnchair, but that's beside the point. So far, this is going swimmingly. Now, something you should know about the best friend: he's unable to keep his mouth shut. Period. He talks, regardless of who's listening, and the more uncomfortable he gets, the more he talks. So, put the best friend in the middle of a group that consists of one uncomfortable male, one angry female, and one slightly bewildered girlfriend, and imagine how charming this could potentially get. Within two minutes, any one of us would have gladly shot him.
I'm going to take the high road here, because I'm the author and no one can stop me, and place all of the blame for this catastrophe on Lawnchair. Rule number three: Thou shalt not introduce your boyfriend's beer swilling, sarcastic, overweight, and occasionally a wee bit obnoxious best friend to your overexercised, humorless, bitchy, and frightfully thickskulled acquaintances with any romantic intentions whatsoever. (Alright, that's sort of case-specific, but I think you get the idea.) Anyway, Lawnchair is immediately horrified and seeking an escape route, and I'm unsure on the next step. For BFGF's sake, and the knowledge that one can't masturbate forever, I decide to step up to the plate and give it my best shot, in spite of the fact I'm already batting with one hand tied behind my back. Let's turn it over to the play by play guy.....
Two out, no one on, and the batter steps in. First pitch...So, what's your favorite lunchmeat? *Author's note--no, this is not my idea of small talk, all thanks to the best friend for this conversational gem. I don't know, corned beef? .... God, that's so disgusting, I don't even eat lunchmeat! STRIKE ONE! SHE BLOWS THE FASTBALL BY HIM, NEVER EVEN SAW IT COMING!!! He taps the dust off his cleats, adjusts his hat, and steps back in. Here's the pitch... So what do you do for fun? *Ok, this one is me...I'm no Shakespeare either. I ride my bike, for, like, 50 miles a day. He's going to swing, here comes a joke! Gee, that's exciting, don't you do anything that's actually, you know, fun?....
Believe it or not, folks, it got worse from there. Bald black guy, huge muscles and a cheap watch, and he actually got away with feeding her a line about being a gynecologist. (I told you she was thickskulled.) I pointed out that she didn't seem to like anything about me, a potentially awkward social move made ten times worse by the fact I did it drunk, and in the middle of the karaoke song I was singing. BFGF and Lawnchair eventually left, leaving only me and the best friend to drink away the failure, and I could only think of one thing to say in summation of the evening.
"You know, man, I'd have been nicer to her if she was the fat one." The sad thing is, it's true.
The BFGF worries about me. I'm sure the best friend doesn't help, what with his constant defensive posturing and tendency for belittlement, but she's not totally off the mark, either. Anyone who lives with two cats and an X-Box 360 for company at 26 years old and isn't at least partially open to the idea of a set up has problems I don't even want to think about. Her intentions were good, anyway, and I don't blame her for the abortion that unfolded, we all should have known better.
So BFGF picks out a girl from her bevy of friends, one she believes to be smart, funny, pretty, all the sort of things she believes I'd like. Since she believes me to be smart, funny, and good-looking, she believed that we'd get along. This is how it came to be that I'd be introduced to Lawnchair. (Do I need to point out that this is not her real name? Occasionally I wonder about the general intellgence level out there, so if you find this sentence insulting and pointless, please skip to the next paragraph.)
There are several things wrong with this plan, right from the start. First of all, Lawnchair does not know there is a set-up afoot, and I do. This leads us to rule number one in the set-up Bible: Thou shalt not introduce your friends with matchmaking intentions unless the terms of the arrangement have been described in equal terms to both parties involved. Second problem--the best friend and BFGF have decided for no apparent reason that I would be more comfortable in this situation with a homecourt advantage, so they decide this melding of the hearts should take place in the bar next to my apartment. This would be good if Lawnchair was into lonely drunks belting out karaoke from 9-2, like I am, but not exactly conducive to conversation. So rule number two: Thou shalt not bring your friends together in any environment where drunk girls might be incoherently howling along with "I Touch Myself."
So the best friend and I get there first, post up at the bar, and immediately begin drinking heavily. (This is so obvious, it doesn't even get a rule.) When BFGF and Lawnchair arrive, our eyes met, and sparks immediately flew. Most of the sparks were the angry kind, directed at BFGF from Lawnchair, but that's beside the point. So far, this is going swimmingly. Now, something you should know about the best friend: he's unable to keep his mouth shut. Period. He talks, regardless of who's listening, and the more uncomfortable he gets, the more he talks. So, put the best friend in the middle of a group that consists of one uncomfortable male, one angry female, and one slightly bewildered girlfriend, and imagine how charming this could potentially get. Within two minutes, any one of us would have gladly shot him.
I'm going to take the high road here, because I'm the author and no one can stop me, and place all of the blame for this catastrophe on Lawnchair. Rule number three: Thou shalt not introduce your boyfriend's beer swilling, sarcastic, overweight, and occasionally a wee bit obnoxious best friend to your overexercised, humorless, bitchy, and frightfully thickskulled acquaintances with any romantic intentions whatsoever. (Alright, that's sort of case-specific, but I think you get the idea.) Anyway, Lawnchair is immediately horrified and seeking an escape route, and I'm unsure on the next step. For BFGF's sake, and the knowledge that one can't masturbate forever, I decide to step up to the plate and give it my best shot, in spite of the fact I'm already batting with one hand tied behind my back. Let's turn it over to the play by play guy.....
Two out, no one on, and the batter steps in. First pitch...So, what's your favorite lunchmeat? *Author's note--no, this is not my idea of small talk, all thanks to the best friend for this conversational gem. I don't know, corned beef? .... God, that's so disgusting, I don't even eat lunchmeat! STRIKE ONE! SHE BLOWS THE FASTBALL BY HIM, NEVER EVEN SAW IT COMING!!! He taps the dust off his cleats, adjusts his hat, and steps back in. Here's the pitch... So what do you do for fun? *Ok, this one is me...I'm no Shakespeare either. I ride my bike, for, like, 50 miles a day. He's going to swing, here comes a joke! Gee, that's exciting, don't you do anything that's actually, you know, fun?....
Believe it or not, folks, it got worse from there. Bald black guy, huge muscles and a cheap watch, and he actually got away with feeding her a line about being a gynecologist. (I told you she was thickskulled.) I pointed out that she didn't seem to like anything about me, a potentially awkward social move made ten times worse by the fact I did it drunk, and in the middle of the karaoke song I was singing. BFGF and Lawnchair eventually left, leaving only me and the best friend to drink away the failure, and I could only think of one thing to say in summation of the evening.
"You know, man, I'd have been nicer to her if she was the fat one." The sad thing is, it's true.
7.10.2006
Home is where your ass is....
Much has been made of the general lack of decoration in my apartment, mostly by the best friend's girlfriend. She finds it depressing, I'm told. Since the best friend's girlfriend (BFGF) is also one of The Remix's best friends, I get double the insight into her disapproval of my home situation.
Let me enlighten you, then, on what exactly Casa de DJ looks like. I live out in the Chicago suburbs, a safe distance away from the irregular din of the city, but close enough I can still go out for a nine dollar beer if the urge takes me. (Which it rarely if ever does.) I live in a building that's about thirty years old, in an apartment with picture rail and pale yellow walls. I don't do much in the way of furniture, the ex-wife took care of that with her amazing propensity to buy low-quality, overpriced couches and end table on a regular basis. (Side note, the ex still needs a clever yet anonymous blog name, management is working on it.)
The furniture I do have is atrocious. An ancient, burnt orange sofa with matching lazy-boy, both older than I am and recently rescued from my grandpa's basement. Apparently the people were considerably shorter thirty years ago, because the seat cushions are mere inches from floor level. The lazy boy is full of deceptive crevices, where quarters and cigarette lighters vanish into oblivion.
I have two cats, something of an anomaly for a straight male, fuck you if you have a problem with that. I like my cats, even if they cover the furniture in blonde and black fur, scratch up the armrests, and occasionally bite unprovoked. I also have two coffee tables. They do less biting, but offer nothing in the way of companionship.
One of the coffee tables is just an enormous slab of heavily varnished driftwood perched on four sections of tree trunk. It is the kind of coffee table you could park a truck on. Unfortunately, it is also the single ugliest piece of furniture i have ever seen. I love it. The coffee table that I actually use, more for a place to set the ashtray than anything coffee-related, is not as ugly. Worn out, flimsy, and horribly stained, but functional.
The focal point of the apartment is clearly the TV. The only thing organized in my entire living space is my immaculately alphabetized collection of DVDs and video games. I don't know what that says about me as a person, and I don't particularly care. My bills are strewn all over my desk, usually paid. I have boxes and boxes of books, open but not on display, which I also love. I don't have a bookshelf, which is why I've yet to unpack.
The bedroom is similarly spartan. No pictures on the walls, anywhere in the apartment. Strange, paisley sheets, broken blinds, a reading lamp with two-thirds of the bulbs out. Dirty laundry in one corner, clean in the other.
It's not much. It's not home, by a long shot. It is a place to sleep, to get away from everyone else. It's my place. And I love it.
Let me enlighten you, then, on what exactly Casa de DJ looks like. I live out in the Chicago suburbs, a safe distance away from the irregular din of the city, but close enough I can still go out for a nine dollar beer if the urge takes me. (Which it rarely if ever does.) I live in a building that's about thirty years old, in an apartment with picture rail and pale yellow walls. I don't do much in the way of furniture, the ex-wife took care of that with her amazing propensity to buy low-quality, overpriced couches and end table on a regular basis. (Side note, the ex still needs a clever yet anonymous blog name, management is working on it.)
The furniture I do have is atrocious. An ancient, burnt orange sofa with matching lazy-boy, both older than I am and recently rescued from my grandpa's basement. Apparently the people were considerably shorter thirty years ago, because the seat cushions are mere inches from floor level. The lazy boy is full of deceptive crevices, where quarters and cigarette lighters vanish into oblivion.
I have two cats, something of an anomaly for a straight male, fuck you if you have a problem with that. I like my cats, even if they cover the furniture in blonde and black fur, scratch up the armrests, and occasionally bite unprovoked. I also have two coffee tables. They do less biting, but offer nothing in the way of companionship.
One of the coffee tables is just an enormous slab of heavily varnished driftwood perched on four sections of tree trunk. It is the kind of coffee table you could park a truck on. Unfortunately, it is also the single ugliest piece of furniture i have ever seen. I love it. The coffee table that I actually use, more for a place to set the ashtray than anything coffee-related, is not as ugly. Worn out, flimsy, and horribly stained, but functional.
The focal point of the apartment is clearly the TV. The only thing organized in my entire living space is my immaculately alphabetized collection of DVDs and video games. I don't know what that says about me as a person, and I don't particularly care. My bills are strewn all over my desk, usually paid. I have boxes and boxes of books, open but not on display, which I also love. I don't have a bookshelf, which is why I've yet to unpack.
The bedroom is similarly spartan. No pictures on the walls, anywhere in the apartment. Strange, paisley sheets, broken blinds, a reading lamp with two-thirds of the bulbs out. Dirty laundry in one corner, clean in the other.
It's not much. It's not home, by a long shot. It is a place to sleep, to get away from everyone else. It's my place. And I love it.
7.08.2006
Meta-meta-analysis
So, I'm frankly in a little bit of heaven here. Got laid this morning in spectacular fashion, then got on the laptop and got some work done. Taking my parents to the movies this afternoon, then catching a UFC pay-per-view with my little brother. All around good day shaping up. I'm pleased.
The Remix is nervous again. This thing is too literal, from time to time. For defensive reasons, both of us keep hedging our bets when it comes to the details. Pretending that things mean less than they do, or qualifying even a simple statement just enough so it doesn't look incriminating later on. This whole blog exercise is a perfect example. I'll say about 99% of what I think, open and unabashed. There's always something, though, always some little throw-in so that when I read this later, I can tell myself I knew what was coming. (This last sentence? Perfect fucking example.)
We're afraid to hope for too much. We've got something of a routine down, now, which would be more unsettling if we didn't both enjoy it so much. I'm sitting here, watching cigarette smoke curl around the monitor, daring to hope and simultaneously making excuses in my head. I don't even know what I'm hoping for exactly, beyond the hope that things continue being this good.
And then there's always the parent issue. They won't approve. This is a given. The best friend barely approves, he's another one who's constantly hedging the bet. The parents are different, though. I could make them see, probably. Not without changing what we've got, though, and I won't do that for anyone. I could tell them she doesn't need me as much, that she makes me so happy, that we've grown out of so much of the bad stuff. I can sell anyone anything. That's what I do. Problem is, to do it right, to make my parents comfortable, I'd have to trade so much of what we like about this. The weight of their expectations would obliterate everything we have going. To be fair to mom and pop, it's not all their fault. We were very, very bad to each other when we let go the last time. For the first, and last time, I'm going to justify this on paper. This is what I would say, if I was going to say anything at all:
We were just kids. We were so in love, then, the way kids tend to be. I wanted to change her world, and she wanted to believe in me so badly. We set ourselves up to fail, trying to so hard to be things for each other that no one should have to be. It was a failure to her every time she wasn't perfect. It was a failure to me every time I couldn't help, couldn't fix it. It was wrong, though. She never had to be perfect, she was more than I could reasonably ask for. I was unreasonable then. I didn't have to fix everything, I gave her everything I could and probably a little more. She asked for too much. Five years have passed now. We've been around the block a couple times, and now we know. That's our dirty little secret. She knows what it's like to really not be perfect. I know what it's like to really try too hard. And we both know what it's like when it's not as good as it could be. We've got something good. This time, we both know how good. That, regardless of what happens, makes this worth another shot. We wouldn't be here, without all that history. We had to blow up, had to go our own way, had to find out what we wanted from life independent of what we wanted from each other. Now we know. Now we're making the relationship fit ourselves, not the other way around. Now we know.
The Remix is nervous again. This thing is too literal, from time to time. For defensive reasons, both of us keep hedging our bets when it comes to the details. Pretending that things mean less than they do, or qualifying even a simple statement just enough so it doesn't look incriminating later on. This whole blog exercise is a perfect example. I'll say about 99% of what I think, open and unabashed. There's always something, though, always some little throw-in so that when I read this later, I can tell myself I knew what was coming. (This last sentence? Perfect fucking example.)
We're afraid to hope for too much. We've got something of a routine down, now, which would be more unsettling if we didn't both enjoy it so much. I'm sitting here, watching cigarette smoke curl around the monitor, daring to hope and simultaneously making excuses in my head. I don't even know what I'm hoping for exactly, beyond the hope that things continue being this good.
And then there's always the parent issue. They won't approve. This is a given. The best friend barely approves, he's another one who's constantly hedging the bet. The parents are different, though. I could make them see, probably. Not without changing what we've got, though, and I won't do that for anyone. I could tell them she doesn't need me as much, that she makes me so happy, that we've grown out of so much of the bad stuff. I can sell anyone anything. That's what I do. Problem is, to do it right, to make my parents comfortable, I'd have to trade so much of what we like about this. The weight of their expectations would obliterate everything we have going. To be fair to mom and pop, it's not all their fault. We were very, very bad to each other when we let go the last time. For the first, and last time, I'm going to justify this on paper. This is what I would say, if I was going to say anything at all:
We were just kids. We were so in love, then, the way kids tend to be. I wanted to change her world, and she wanted to believe in me so badly. We set ourselves up to fail, trying to so hard to be things for each other that no one should have to be. It was a failure to her every time she wasn't perfect. It was a failure to me every time I couldn't help, couldn't fix it. It was wrong, though. She never had to be perfect, she was more than I could reasonably ask for. I was unreasonable then. I didn't have to fix everything, I gave her everything I could and probably a little more. She asked for too much. Five years have passed now. We've been around the block a couple times, and now we know. That's our dirty little secret. She knows what it's like to really not be perfect. I know what it's like to really try too hard. And we both know what it's like when it's not as good as it could be. We've got something good. This time, we both know how good. That, regardless of what happens, makes this worth another shot. We wouldn't be here, without all that history. We had to blow up, had to go our own way, had to find out what we wanted from life independent of what we wanted from each other. Now we know. Now we're making the relationship fit ourselves, not the other way around. Now we know.
7.07.2006
I'm sorry, do you have reservations?
It's almost comical. We're going out of our way, desperately trying to keep from making too many assumptions, get too comfortable, enjoy ourselves too much. Don't make reservations for dinner she says. I don't want you to do something out of the ordinary and resent it later. The worst of it is, she's got the justification of history on her side. She thinks I've resented things this pointless in the past, and punished her for it. How do you tell someone you're all grown up while trying to hide the X-Box 360 controller under the couch?
I'm not afraid of the same things she is. I'm trying to watch myself for new mistakes, not redundancies. A friend at work has dubbed her Girlfriend: The Remix. I like it, it makes me laugh. I'm hoping it's prohetic, though. Same beat, same hook, but a totally different sound. Not a sequel. A remix.
We laugh more now. That's a big plus. We can't keep our hands off each other, another big plus. We still love to talk. The best part, that. She's interesting, I'm not just tolerating the conversation until it's time to go to bed like so many of my contemporaries, I'm actually enjoying the motherfucker.
There's all kinds of downside to dating with someone with this much history. It's a proven failure, your friends give you more crap, every sentence has the weight of five years of memories behind it. There's a huge upside, though. There's no bullshit--We know each other too well, and we know what we want. We can't read each other's minds, but there's none of the deliberate shyness that most early relationships suffer through. Listen, if I don't want to talk anymore, I'll just tell you. Life is much simpler this way.
All that said, she's wrong on one count. I never resented doing things for her, going the extra mile, trying to make it special. That's one of the fun parts of dating. I resented being expected to do so, and as long this stuff still surprises her, I've got no reservations at all.
I'm not afraid of the same things she is. I'm trying to watch myself for new mistakes, not redundancies. A friend at work has dubbed her Girlfriend: The Remix. I like it, it makes me laugh. I'm hoping it's prohetic, though. Same beat, same hook, but a totally different sound. Not a sequel. A remix.
We laugh more now. That's a big plus. We can't keep our hands off each other, another big plus. We still love to talk. The best part, that. She's interesting, I'm not just tolerating the conversation until it's time to go to bed like so many of my contemporaries, I'm actually enjoying the motherfucker.
There's all kinds of downside to dating with someone with this much history. It's a proven failure, your friends give you more crap, every sentence has the weight of five years of memories behind it. There's a huge upside, though. There's no bullshit--We know each other too well, and we know what we want. We can't read each other's minds, but there's none of the deliberate shyness that most early relationships suffer through. Listen, if I don't want to talk anymore, I'll just tell you. Life is much simpler this way.
All that said, she's wrong on one count. I never resented doing things for her, going the extra mile, trying to make it special. That's one of the fun parts of dating. I resented being expected to do so, and as long this stuff still surprises her, I've got no reservations at all.
7.06.2006
Timing is everything....
Biology can be a real kick in the nuts. Thank God she's a trouper.
The really amazing part, though, is that it doesn't matter. I'm happy. For the first time in a long time, I'm happy with someone, even when it's just dinner and a movie. Funny. I honestly think this might be ok. It shouldn't be a surprise, necessarily. I just never, not in a million years, would have seen it coming.
The really amazing part, though, is that it doesn't matter. I'm happy. For the first time in a long time, I'm happy with someone, even when it's just dinner and a movie. Funny. I honestly think this might be ok. It shouldn't be a surprise, necessarily. I just never, not in a million years, would have seen it coming.
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