Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Silent Nothings

Ambient noise is golden. I know, it doesn’t have the same ring as the whole “Silence is Golden” thing but whenever I’m in a room that is really truly silent (and it does not ever really happen in Atlanta), the silence hurts my ears. I can’t fall asleep at my mom and dad’s house usually because it’s too quiet without traffic noise and their oddly silent ceiling fans. I need something with white noise because the silence actually feels stifling. It’s heavy and I start to feel claustrophobic even though their house is bigger than mine and their nearest neighbor is over an acre away. In perfect silence, the air is thicker and time actually slows down – I am convinced of this.

But, even with ambient noise, silence still makes it hard to breathe sometimes. Mr. Damn has been silent for over two weeks now. Every day he is silent I find it harder to breathe. I’m never really sure if his silences are his way of punishing me when he’s angry or if he’s pondering how he feels or what but the longer he’s silent the more my chest aches as I struggle to continue to pretend life is normal.

I can’t interpret his silence. I know he’s mad but I have no method by which to offer any proof and so the only choices are for him to choose to believe me, to choose not to believe me but get over it, or to choose not to believe me and not get over it. I fear that prolonged silence indicates that he’s not getting over it. And in the silence I cannot defend myself or appeal to his sense of logic. In silence I cannot express my own frustrations. In silence I cannot know that he’s well or tell him that he is still loved despite the silence or quell my own anxiety.

Instead I sit in my purgatory of silence. I wonder where he is. I wonder if he is okay. I wonder if he knows how many times a day I think of him. I wonder if he knows how much this silence is crushing me – keeping me awake at night and making the air too thick to breathe.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

When the going is tough - the tough go shoe shopping

Well, it’s no secret that I’ve been a little down as of late. My method of dealing with these feelings is no secret either. When the going gets tough, the downtrodden go find something new to trod around in – preferably with a high heel and on sale. At least if I’m going to trod around with a long face my shoes will say “fabulous!” So, I made a pilgrimage to the Mecca of inner healing, DSW Shoe Warehouse. Don’t get me wrong, I love designer labels with hefty price tags that put me back a car payment but when I’m looking to fill empty holes in my heart, it’s quantity, not quality that counts. We all know that the rebound guy is never supposed to be the one you love forever and it’s the same with the “make me feel beautiful again” shoes. If you can get three for the price of one, well then that’s three days of decent reasons to get out of bed without the risk of resorting to ramen noodles for the rest of the month. So, my closet loses more space to shoes and I spent a lot of the weekend trying to figure out what to wear with that red and white patterned number I bought (instead of reasons why I’m not happy). I’m sure I’ll come up with something they’ll compliment. And don’t think all this shoe shopping was a picnic either – I am still healing from foot surgery so I could only try on left shoes. I even have to wait another two to three weeks before my foot is healed enough to wear my newest additions. But sometimes you just need something to look forward to – even if it is just putting on a new pair of shoes.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

The Sith take revenge on my left ear...

Apparently, I keep my sense of humor in my left ear. This is why I’m so pissy and un-funny when my allergies are really bad and I have Darth Vader Ear (you know what I’m talking about – Darth Vader Ear is where you can hear yourself breathing in your ear even though you know that whatever physiological road map inside your body that connects your ear to your lung has to be really long and twisty and so you can’t possibly figure out how it’s THAT LOUD). Darth Vader Ear doubles as my funny-bone inhibitor…or if you consider the fact that I’m a smart-ass, there’s some joke about constipation in there somewhere, but I’m too tired and impacted to get to it right now. Anyway, so I have always been prone to attacks of Darth Vader Ear and momentary lapses in the ability to amuse myself (and the other 4 people on earth that find me funny) however my Darth Vader Ear has become a constant phenomena as of late. Allegra used to clear it for 12 hours at a time. As it became less and less effective, I supplemented with random decongestants. However, at this point, all have failed me and I’m one “Luke, I am your father,” away from a black cape and some questionable choices in fashion head-wear.

So…today I consulted with a physician. Now, when I say I consulted with a physician, I mean, I called my “friend” as in a guy I went out with a couple times but we stay in touch and occasionally catch up over dinner or drinks. However, he’s totally qualified! He happens to be an ear, nose, and throat doctor so this is RIGHT up his alley…er…down his canal? I’m not sure how he’d feel about that analogy but you know what I mean. Anyway, and by “consult” I mean I called him and it turns out he was sitting by a pool at a hotel in Florida at a medical conference. So, it’s not like he looked at me or ran any tests or anything remotely scientific and stuff but he is qualified to make expert guesses over the phone. Anyway, he told me a few more decongestants to try over the next few days but he scolded me for letting this go on for so long and told me that depending on the results of the tests he IS going to run on my ear when he gets back, if medication won’t make my ears drain then I would be a candidate for surgery to have tubes put in. Ok, ok, ok…first of all, why do they say “candidate?” It’s not like the surgeons are standing there in pre-op electing which one of us “lucky” ailing patients gets to pay for their kid to go to Harvard or fund their new boat. I don’t have to prepare a speech to explain why I should be selected for today’s OR time. And if I did, what would I say?

“Look, I need these tubes, without them, I’m going to have to go light saber shopping because I can’t wear this cape and helmet and not have a light saber and do you really want a pissy girl with a constipated sense of humor on Atlanta’s highways wielding a light saber at rush hour? It’s really for the public health and safety that I ask you for this opportunity to be severed…er…I mean served.”

And secondly, this is a surgery they do on kindergarteners, not on someone that’s less than two months from turning 30. What’s going on? Kids need these things because their little ear tubs are too small and when they grow up these surgically implanted tubes just fall out because their little ear tubes grew and their bodies finally started working properly. What’s going on here, did my body just suddenly forget what its doing or am I going in reverse? Because if things on my body are going to start shrinking, I have some nominations for pieces that are great candidates but they don’t include my ear tubes. We can start with my ass and my thighs and go from there but leave the ears alone.

Anyway, I could be overreacting. It could be fixable with a different decongestant or something. But I ask you to keep your fingers crossed for my ear tubes because I’ve had a lot of surgery in the last 9 years. And I’m not talking all walk-in-the-park kind of surgeries. I have woken up from surgery in intensive care. I have had emergency blood transfusions. I have spent more than a month in the hospital at a time. I have had holes drilled in my spine. I have had large portions of internal organs removed so I just don’t have happy feelings about hospitals. So, if I could avoid exposing my head to any sort of cutting utensil, I’d like to do that.

And before I wrap up my left-ear issues, I’ll close by saying this. I could probably pull a little humor out of my other ear in my left-ear emergency status but I just haven’t felt up to it this past week. Mr. Damn is mad right now and hasn’t spoken to me in over a week. It’s easy for me to poke fun at us when we’re struggling to find the same page but when I’m afraid he’s closing (or closed) the book, I can’t find any levity – my heart is just too heavy. So apologies to any loyal readers (I know, I’m stretching…my ego) looking for updates but hopefully I’ll have more for you soon. In the mean time maybe I’ll get my ear un-impacted and find some other things to blog about.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Dear Mr. Damn,

I have one episode of Scrubs permenantly recorded in my DVR never to be erased no matter how full the memory is. It's not even my favorite episode, but the last scene hits so close to home for me that I can't watch it without being reduced to tears.

I don't know how to fix the things that are wrong. I can't understand it.

So, I watched my recorded-forever episode of Scrubs last night because I imagine every day what life would be like with you. And right now, I feel like you're slipping away forever. Even if I don't know how to fix what's wrong, I am sure if this: If you slip away, I'll always believe that it should have been me.

Friday, July 11, 2008

I wish I could "Tell You a Hug"

There are very few subjects that I will not poke fun at with my twisted view of the world and the people in it in order to amuse strangers. I can find a light note in practically any situation – that’s the beauty of sarcasm – when the humor is a little dark, it’s easier to find humor in the dark. However, today I feel the need to share this because this blog is my personal catharsis (that’s my excuse, why are you here?). However, I cannot throw this one around lightly.

Mr. Damn should be here tonight. We’ve both been looking forward to spending the evening together. And let me tell ya, spending the evening together is a huge event even if it just means we flip channels and eat microwave popcorn. Quality time with Mr. Damn is kind of like a solar eclipse. It happens now and then but you have to be in the right place to see it at the right time and it all depends on the weather. So, we were both really looking forward to whatever tonight turned out to be.

But, Mr. Damn is not here, and he is not on his way here. When he called I knew something was wrong.

Mr. Damn is on his way home – as in home to the town where he grew up. Mr. Damn’s father has suddenly become extremely ill. The empathy I felt for him overwhelmed any disappointment over not seeing him. Now I just feel helpless that I can’t do anything for him and frustrated that the English language isn’t advanced enough to convey the support, love, and comfort that I want to “say”. Sometimes there’s just nothing that can say it more succinctly than a hug. And there’s just no good way to “tell someone a hug.”

I’m sending all of my love and prayers tonight. If you’re reading this, I hope you’ll take a minute to send a prayer too.

An Open Letter to My Feline Terrorist

My bed is a queen-size bed so if you are the size of a standard house cat, you have a lot of options for bed entry points. Since only one human sleeps in the bed, and she has been known to awake violently and toss you off the bed when you really startle her, one would think you would typically choose an entry point on the opposite side of the bed to avoid landing on her and possibly suffering a “toss off”.

One has obviously overestimated your intelligence or has overlooked the fact that you are a closet masochist. In fact, perhaps you are actually an evil genius and you planned the early morning attack scouting out locations from which to achieve maximum trajectory and impact to reach your target. Perhaps you conducted reconnaissance throughout the night as I slept to locate the appendage beneath the covers so you knew where to land. Perhaps you timed it so that I’d slept as long as possible before the alarm went off to ensure that the last pain pill I took at midnight had long ago worn off. And when it was time – you orchestrated it beautifully: a flying leap from the top of the armoire to the bed landing squarely with all four paws down on the foot I had operated on 2 days ago.

Was that supposed to be payback for the vet incident last week? Seriously, the punishment was extreme for the crime and I gave you your most favorite thing in the world when we got home: cheese. After I stopped rocking back and forth crying and chanting “OW, OW, OW, OW, OW!” not a single one of my favorite things were waiting for me. No Tiffany & Co. blue box? No Jimmys, Manolos, or Ferragamos? No bottle of whiskey (to numb the pain until the pain pill kicks in – okay, that might be a bad idea)?

Anyway – I just want to make sure this is really clear: you so much as glance in the general direction of my foot and you won’t have to worry about bed entry points because you’ll be busy trying to figure out some far more basic entry points – like the ones to get into the house.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Mr. Damn-Good-Job

I have to preface this by saying that I’ve been under anesthesia. I signed paperwork stating that I would not change my will today, I would not drive a vehicle today, I would not operate heavy machinery today, and I would not enter into any legally binding agreements. However, I signed nothing stating that said I would not use the computer to express my opinions which means I am free to make as big of a public ass of myself as I wish – that is assuming this blog has an “audience” which I admit, is a little egotistical and perhaps a bit of wishful thinking.

My point is that I’m free to make an ass of myself to the four of you reading this and the hundreds of millions of you that might inadvertently stumble upon it and skim it out of boredom or morbid curiosity.

Anyway, I didn’t want to put this off until I’ve shaken the cobwebs of anesthesia and pain medication from my head. This is partly because I like the feeling and partly because I plan to continue to take the pain medication in an attempt to avoid pain and that returning sense of reality that can be such a downer. However, the main reason is because I don’t want to delay praise where praise is due in case Mr. Damn ever happens to be one of the lucky ones to find this page (no, to the best of my knowledge, he does not know this blog exists). He deserves for me to tell all of you that he did something really right today and made me really happy.

I’ve been dreading this surgery for a while even though it had to be done. It’s minor surgery and I’ve had it before and it’s just on my foot but I’ve had some really really horrible experiences in hospital operating rooms so walking into the pre-op area and finding myself surrounded by all those smells and sights and sounds brings that anxiety rushing back. I’d rather they come outside and knock me unconscious in the parking lot and THEN wheel me into the hospital but I’ve never managed to get a doctor to agree to it. However, they are well aware of my anxiety and had the syringe of happy drugs waiting for me so all they had to do was ask the main questions, find a vein and off to feeling drunk I went until they were ready for me. But the build-up over the last couple days was kind of brutal. I just hate operating rooms.

Well, as discussed in previous blog posts, Mr. Damn has been out of pocket and so I assumed that since I hadn’t heard from him when I went to bed last night that I wasn’t going to hear from him prior to going under the knife. I accepted this as just one of those things I cannot change and something I was not going to be upset about but if I really admitted it to myself, I really wanted him to call me to tell me he was thinking about me. However, most of the time, it’s not that he doesn’t want to call, it’s that location or time zones or job description prevents it (what, you mean my blackberry doesn’t work in every single corner of the globe????). I put myself to bed and tried to sleep but I dreamed some crazy dreams and woke up about 4:45am and lay awake staring at the clock and at 4:58, my cell phone rang.

Mr. Damn came through for me. He was finally in a location where he could phone me and he did remember and I was so relieved and elated to hear his voice even at that absurd hour (and I didn’t even have to lie about him not waking me – go figure). So I just wanted you guys to know that even though I tend to blog about things I’m angry or frustrated about, it’s the moments like this when he comes through for me that are the reason he still has my heart.

So, Kudos today to Mr. Damn for making it a lot easier to walk into that hospital this morning knowing he was thinking about me.

And Kudos to the Anesthesiologist for giving me this nice buzz, I have a soft spot in my heart for you too. And whoever shot up my foot with so much local anesthetic that I can’t feel a damn thing, kudos to you too. You did this last time and let me enjoy anesthesia day to the fullest. I know tomorrow I’ll be in a world of hurt but thanks for helping me enjoy my mind-trip.

Signing-off --- this may be the only day I’ve ever kind of wished I had the NASA channel so I could just watch the stars. I’m sure I can find an appropriate mindless substitute on daytime TV.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Word Econom....Ooohh, Shiny Thing!

You might have noticed that I haven’t spoken of Mr. Damn in the past few days. This is because there’s nothing to speak of as he is currently only accessible by email. It’s funny how I have a lot less to complain about when I can’t really contact him. Well, I can send him email but I’ve learned that he needs word economy in an email. If an email doesn’t have a clearly defined point with information that was vital for him to know then he gets bored around the third or fourth sentence and you lose him to whatever shiny object happens to be lying near the computer.

I am not good at word economy. To further exacerbate the problem, I tend to write when I have something to get off my chest, like feelings and stuff. He doesn’t know why I need to share these things, but if I must absolutely tell him how I feel, he cannot understand how I can turn, “I’m frustrated” into a three page essay. He doesn’t see how understanding each little nuance of my day will bring us closer together instead he thinks I’m just trying to frustrate him too by eating away at time he could be spending playing with the shiny things around his desk…er…working.

Having a conversation with him isn’t that much different really. He has adult ADD so if he’s gone a little skimpy on his medication lately, you could lose him mid-sentence to a fork. I’m not kidding, it’s happened. Don’t think I haven’t been tempted to reach across the table and take away all of his silverware until I’ve finished saying what I needed to say. Often you can see that before you’re finished speaking he’s already on a different subject in his head and you just have to make a mental note to come back to this one later. It’s kind of like that game Perfection where you try to get all the pieces in before the timer goes off and throws them all over the room.

I rarely send him email anymore (or wear flashy jewelry when I see him). If I do send him an email, I have to keep it as brief as possible and put all the important stuff in the first couple lines and just keep my fingers crossed that there’s nothing shiny too close to his computer.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

It all started with a box of Tampons...

There was an “incident” at the grocery store several weeks ago that my friends still find every available opportunity to exploit for their amusement. It occurred when an influx of hormones aligned with my overzealous pitching arm too close to the shopping basket of an attractive male and resulted in a tragically errant box of tampons. In short, I was lobbing a box of tampons into my cart when it skidded across the top of a bag of cat litter, bounced off the paper towels, and landed squarely in someone else’s cart. The someone else happened to be a rather good looking guy who at the moment happened to be bent over engrossed in the dental hygiene products so he didn’t notice my blunder. I had a panic attack wondering how to dislodge my tampons from between his pasta and soda. I was running through the possible scenarios in my head and decided reaching into his cart was bound to attract his attention. I automatically nixed the idea of mentioning to him that I’d thrown my tampons in his cart because how do I exactly word that to the hot grocery shopper? “Hey, excuse me, I’m kind of moody, bloated, and obviously not a good pitcher so can you pass me the tampons over there by the rigatoni?” I’m sure he’ll ask for my number right away. However, before I came up with an idea for handling the situation, he selected his product of choice, smiled at me and walked away – with my tampons in his cart. I was far too befuddled to chase him down for a box of tampons so I abandoned the rest of my list, grabbed a new box, and headed straight to check out.

I did post an apology to him on Craigslist under Missed Connections which received a ton of responses. I was amazed at how many men were willing to ask out a girl that just admitted in print that she’s moody and bloated just because she has a sense of humor. In addition, this has been the butt of many jokes in my circle of friends. One friend asked me for some business cards to stick to boxes of feminine products so he could hurl them into the carts of guys he thought might be good matches for me next time he was at the store. Another guy suggested that I just throw tampons in random guys’ carts and then approach them and ask, “are you single or are those for me?” (Ok, so we were into the liquor when we came up with these.)

Well, today I was at the same grocery store to get some prescription refills and as I wandered through the greeting card aisle I looked up and found myself face-to-face with the tampon guy. I almost choked. He definitely noticed the shock on my face so there was no recovering or covering it up. I had to come up with some explanation for my behavior because he looked concerned that perhaps he had something hanging out of his nose or something. I didn’t have nearly enough time to think and before I could turn on the filter between my brain and my mouth I heard myself say, “I dropped tampons in your cart.” OH MY GAWD – NO I DID NOT. I did. Uugh. He looked so confused because at the moment – he had no cart, just one of those baskets you hand carry. “No.. I mean.. I did… not today… before… you walked off and… but I was embarrassed…so I didn’t stop you…I just got another box…” Is this what it feels like to drown in quicksand? He looked more concerned now than he did when he thought he might have something hanging out of his nose.

Deep breath – start over.

So, I started at the beginning attempting to use complete sentences and vocabulary that indicates that I have an education that extends beyond first grade. By the time I got to the end of the story, he was…laughing…and I wasn’t sure if I should turn and run out of the store or laugh along with him. Since I actually needed the prescriptions I was having filled, I was kind of stuck.

He admitted that he found them when he went to check out but he was too embarrassed to give them to the checkout girl and tell her that they weren’t his so he stuffed them in the candy bin. We had a good laugh but shockingly, he didn’t ask for my number. I don’t know why, I didn’t attempt to put any feminine products in his basket this time.

So, if you’re reading this and you were just too shy, I’ll meet you in the feminine products same time next week?

Saturday, July 5, 2008


I had a clear plan of how things were going to go this morning. I was going to get up, make myself look cute, take my cat to her appointment at the vet, and the proceed with my day. The cat had a different plan.

I started off wrong, I overslept. I had to go for “presentable” instead of cute. I could still make the appointment on time except I was thwarted by claws in the Berber carpet and the cat went one direction and the carrier went the other and I found myself sitting alone in the living room with brand new pin stripes in my left shin. Fresh blood is a good look. No time to sit and bleed, must locate beast and wrestle into carrier. I found her – she’s finally located the one piece of furniture she can hide behind and I have no chance of reaching her: the washing machine. I tried to chase her out with a broom and just managed to give myself a splinter. I located the vacuum and chased her out with the hose and managed to grab her but the damage was done, I was bleeding, she was shedding, and we were late.

In the car I decided to forgive her for the war wounds she inflicted. She decided to puke in the carrier.

There I am waiting for the vet and by now “presentable” has descended into something …well…less than presentable. My hair is disheveled. My white shirt has enough fur on it to build another cat and has a smear of cat puke on the bottom of it. My leg has a claw mark from knee to ankle which has mostly ceased bleeding. And I have a cat clinging to me like Velcro.

In walks the vet. Now, I haven’t seen the regular vet in a while because they sent her to a different vet for a skin problem so this is the first time we’ve been there in a while. He’s unbelievably hot – how did I not remember this? I’ve never had a fantasy that involved a cold stainless steel table and a diagram of feline anatomy in the background but the bad 70’s porno music was already playing in my head by the time he said, “Hi.” Then I remembered that I kind of looked like a wounded homeless lady with a cat growing out of her chest. So, while I was dubbing him, “Porno-vet”, I have a feeling that instead of giving me a sexy nickname, he was probably making a mental note to tell the receptionist to make sure I pay before I leave in case I gave a false address.

I guess even if I’d looked like an adequate leading lady for Porno-Vet it would have raised eyebrows at 9:30am. I mean, a clean shirt, a leg without a flesh wound, and some makeup could have gone a long way but who knows if I’m even his type. However, if I ever run into Porno-Vet out somewhere and I don’t have a cat hanging from my chest, I’m going for it.

Friday, July 4, 2008

Back in the game...kicking and screaming

I decided a couple months ago that since Mr. Damn has had a year to realize that I’m the perfect woman and has yet to show up at my door on a white steed with a rock the size of a grapefruit begging me to be his forever (ok, that’s extreme – I’d really just like my previous position as ‘girlfriend’ and maybe flowers now and then) then it was time to start getting back into the game and start dating again.

It seemed simple enough except for one small hiccup (assuming we’re overlooking the fact that my heart is still all tangled up around Mr. Damn): I HATE “the game.”

I am a good sport though and so I put myself out there. I have to figure out where exactly I harbor the freaks and weirdos magnet and have that surgically removed but I did meet one guy that had some potential. He was able to carry on intelligent conversation. He was good looking. He was employed. He was well groomed and neatly dressed. He did not appear to have his head stuck up his ass. I had a friend verify that he did not appear gay (I was born without gay-dar). So, we chatted and he asked for my contact info and he asked me to lunch. Maybe I’m not as bad at “the game” as I thought I was!

I later tried to analyze what it was that attracted him to me so I could do it again. Maybe it was my witty banter. Maybe it was my intelligent conversation. Maybe it was my new dress. Maybe it was my smile. It was most likely that he was intrigued at the idea that an engineer (read: dork) could effortlessly walk in five inch heels. Note to self: shop for more five inch heels.

The thing is that he emailed me to ask me to lunch. Email? Is that fear of vocal rejection? Or is that trying to keep a certain level of impersonal going on so as to ensure that this is “hanging out” and not a date? And when does “hanging out” become a date? But the most important question that I have is: when do you offer to pay your half and when do you assume he’s paying? I’ve heard guys say that they’re offended when a girl assumes he’s paying for her. I’ve also heard guys say they’re offended when a girl tries to pay for her half. So, I can’t win. I go by the wording of the invite. If he uses the phrases, “I’d like to take you out,” I let him pay. If he uses phrases like, “Let’s meet for…” or “We should have lunch/dinner/coffee,” or says “get together,” instead of “go out,” I pull out my wallet to pay and give him the chance to say that he’s got it. If he doesn’t stop me, I pay my half. I really don’t know how else to handle it. See now why I hate the game?

Anyway, I meet the guy for lunch and he kicks off the conversation okay but when he asks about my family vacation and then tells me that the location my parents picked is "a step above white trash", I almost pointed out that he was a "step above asshole." Dude, it's my entire family including cousins, we're not going to jet off to an exotic island, we get a beach house - it's not "a step above white trash" it's what families that like each other do - location mandated by geography and gas prices. Not everyone in my family has a job as lucrative as mine - and I've already been to Dubai, Puerto Rico, Vegas and Mexico this year so I can handle a week at a "trashy east coast beach" (as he so elequently put it) with the family. But I thought, "maybe he wasn't trying to offend, maybe he's trying to be funny, even if I'm not amused." So, the conversation moves to the weekend plans. I told him I was planning on going to see the fireworks with a friend and her kids. He acted like I was voluntarily exposing myself to the boubonic plague. When I asked if he didn't like kids, he said, "not other people's." I'm going to take that as a "no" since you don't actually have kids then. Strike two. I mean, I don't expect you to want to go play with the kids, but these two I'm pretty attached to so don't act like I'm sending myself to the gallows because I like them. He also let me pay for my half - I really don't care at this point. And we put the final nail in the coffin with a firm handshake goodbye. Yeah, I’m classifying this as: Not a date.

I’ve also met some other pretty amusing guys in my “getting back out there” attempt (ok, half-hearted attempt). There was the lovely guy that watched the oversized TV behind me through dinner. That was nice because at least it gave me time to check out all the other men in the restaurant, make a grocery list in my head, and think about some ways to address those code violations for my big project in Dubai. Then there was the guy that complained to the waitress about the temperature and asked that it be adjusted; asked that they turn down the music because it was too loud; asked that they bring him a different bread plate that didn’t have water spots and a new knife that didn’t have “whatever this gunk is”; complained that his chicken was too dry and his vegetables were too salty; and finished it off by telling me he thought the waitress looked sloppy – you just convinced me that I will probably never make you happy either. There will be a movie about the woman stupid enough to marry you. Julia Roberts will star in it and she will shoot you at the end. Oh wait – they already made that movie.

So, it’s a weekend and Mr. Damn isn’t around (to the best of my knowledge anyway) and so I really should go put on those five inch heels or something and get out there and make some new friends but I have to admit – I HATE THE GAME. And my heart isn’t into it. My heart wants Mr. Damn to call me and tell me that he’s thinking about me too this morning. My heart wants Mr. Damn to realize that I’m worth the effort of a relationship so I don’t have to play the game. My heart knows he’s running out of time – I’ve felt neglected and unloved for so long that its just a matter of time before someone else comes along to fill the void and then…it’ll be too late.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Not really news-worthy...

Today was a bad day…

It wasn’t a crushing kind of bad day. I’ve had plenty of those. But it was one of those days where everyone I talked to seemed to give me bad news. And, it’s not that this doesn’t happen now and then but let’s face it, most of the time you see bad news coming. Today everyone was a bad-news sniper. I didn’t know what was happening until I was sitting there with my new unfavorable knowledge all over me.

Sometimes you get bad news in waves but it sticks to a particular category, like work or friends. Today it came from all angles so there was no safe haven. I got it from the roommates, the friends, the office, and even the veterinarian. Note, that I do not see a veterinarian but I am rather attached to my fur-ball feline and she does. She’s a moody cat and she has this look on her face like if she could say something it would be really sarcastic and when I’m really busy and stressed out, she walks on the computer keyboard erasing documents and typing in foreign tongues that haven’t even been discovered yet. She knows how to find the “blue screen of death.” She and I have cohabitated for many years now and I’m used to her so the first one to make some comment about how stupid it is being upset about a cat will be ignored (or blasted with profanity depending on what kind of mood I’m in). Anyway, so my point was (before the cat tangent) that I was like the air traffic control tower for bad news today.

Now I haven’t talked to Mr. Damn since we ironed out that Myspace incident thing. And, my feelings are still a little hurt that he set his page to private so I can’t see it but whatever. All I’ve gleaned from that is the knowledge that life was definitely a hell of a lot less complicated prior to the internet. I told him via text I was having a horrendous day and he did ask what was wrong. It took a few texts to explain but I have learned that if he doesn’t call, he won’t answer the phone because he’s in a meeting or something so text message it is. And I asked for his help with something. Now, I know it’s a long shot and that he is probably scheduled to do something really important that day like rack up another 20,000 frequent flier miles or blog about his research which I’m sure is fascinating to people that understand it. And, I hate asking for help…from anyone…but especially from him because I know how busy he is. But I asked all my friends that are local…and after a year and a half, he qualifies as one of those. But after the text asking me what was wrong, there’s been complete “radio silence” all day. It drives me insane that I ask him a question and he won’t answer it. Just say no if you can’t do it! Don’t leave me sitting here wondering if you even got the text.

Not only that, but it was a bad day. And yes, Mr. Damn has contributed (usually unknowingly) to plenty of bad days but on those bad days that don’t have anything to do with him like today (well, other than the frustration at him not answering me), hearing his voice – even just for a minute – brightens the entire day. Then he always manages to wait until I have a drink in my mouth to pull out some inappropriate one-liner that makes me spit my drink out through my nose and let me tell ya, Mountain Dew in the sinus cavities will make you forget about a diabetic cat and botched raise paperwork and drama at the office while you wait for the carbonation to stop burning the back of your eyeballs. But even if he doesn’t turn my nostrils into soda fountains, it just makes me happy when I hear from him. And not happy in any sort of healthy way…happy in a completely manic, giddy, high-school girl with a crush, euphoric kind of way that is completely inappropriate for a woman about to turn 30. One time, I actually caught myself skipping down the hall after talking to him. Do you remember the last guy that made you skip? I didn’t think so. I get so excited when he calls that I still blush. So, he’s like a drug for me and today I needed a hit. But…I got nuthin’. My nostrils aren’t burning, I have no urge to skip, and the cat is headed for the keyboard. I think she just wants to say:


And there you have it…straight from her …uh…paws…

Sunday, June 29, 2008

It's all interpretation

Everyone loved the fictional Carrie Bradshaw because…we’ve all been there. As women, we’ve all had a Mr. Big – the one for whom we will bend over backwards, turn ourselves inside out, lie to our friends, burn down our own houses, vandalize government property, and possibly even kick a puppy if we believe it will work out ‘this time’. The only one we will feel guilty about is kicking the puppy.

I have one. For the sake of anonymity we will call him Mr. Damn. I call him this because I met him online and I thought, “Damn, he’s funny.” I talked to him on the phone and I thought, “Damn, he has a deep voice.” I met him in person and I when he kissed me on that first date the only word I was coherent enough to utter was, “Damn.” And, now that we’ve dated, broken up and been doing the on-again-off-again game for over a year a la Carrie and Mr. Big, I spend lots of time stomping my foot and yelling, “Damn!” while tears stream down my face or sitting on the floor of my shower sobbing, “Damn him,” or holding a ridiculous pair of heels that I don’t need going, “These will be my ‘Damn-him-to-hell’ shoes.” At this point, I have an entire wing of my closet dedicated to ‘damn-him-to-hell’.

The really stupid part of this whole scenario is that we COULD work (I live in a neighborhood called 'Denial'). The only hiccup in the formula is that he can’t seem to get it into his head that I think differently than he does. If I could just find a way to get past his ears into his head that his interpretation of my actions is so far off base then we might actually have a chance of finding that common ground that could maybe be the first step to a working relationship (shut up mom - my blog, my opinion, my rose-colored glasses). Now granted, we have a few more steps than just this one to work thorough (I mean 'few more steps' in the same way there are a 'few steps' to get to the top of Mout Etna) but if we never get this one figured out, we’re fundamentally doomed. I don’t need him to think LIKE me, just get that I think differently than him.

Case in point: today he got mad at me. He got mad at me for looking at his myspace page and commenting (not on his myspace page but to him personally – via text message) on his new “interesting” friend. Now, when I say interesting, I’m not talking about interesting as in, “Hey, who’s this new girl?” interesting. I’m talking interesting as in, “Hey, who’s the chick with the raven black hair, leather corset, mini-skirt so short I can tell you what color her thong is, fishnets, and thigh high lace-up boots” interesting. And for everyone’s edification, I didn’t approach the subject in defensive “girlfriend mode”…after all, I am not his girlfriend. Right now, I’m the ex-girlfriend with benefits which comes with a lot more insecurity and no right to any of that extra insecurity. I said, “Hey, interesting new friend, I was going to wear that outfit today, but I thought I’d raise eyebrows at the supermarket.” This was his invitation to laugh and explain what I’d already conjured up in my head which was that she’d sent the friends request which he’d accepted because her profile was private and with that main picture he was curious to see the rest of them. I can chalk that up to male hormones and try to ignore the fact that her “location” is way too close for comfort and go about being oblivious. However, the response did not go as I’d planned. Instead he commented on the fact that I’d located his “new friend” within five minutes and what kind of stalker am I? Well…since I hadn’t been sitting on his page all day, I didn’t know it was a new development so that was just a lucky fluke on my part and secondly…whoa…that defensive posture tells me not only did I piss you off but I just pushed myself into paranoia overdrive and now I’m not allowed to ask anymore questions. Damn I hate ex-girlfriend status. I have to play this one carefully. Ignore it? Act hurt? Act pissed? Nah, We need snide with a hint of exasperation - it's imperative to portray that he's seriously over-reacting here. Snide is definitely the way to go. So, I tell him that everything I say lately pisses him off and I’m sorry that I asked – I didn’t realize he’d just done it since I didn’t sit on his page all day. And then I held my breath. It appears to have worked, my phone rang within 2 minutes.

Anyway, as it sits now, all is fine. He apologized, I apologized (for being snide - not for looking at his page) and he even explained who the new “friend” is and it’s even more benign than my “conjured up” story. But here’s the deal:

Why do I check his myspace page? Because I miss you dumbass! I’m not trying to keep tabs on your or stalk you or see who you’re conversing with but when the new friend’s picture is the biggest damn one on the page and she’s dressed like a hooker, it’s bound to catch my eye. You’re on the road 99% of the time and I haven’t seen you in almost two months and I wanted to lay my eyes on your mug. Now you may not miss me and looking at my picture may not satiate you in any such way when you do miss me but if it’s my way of dealing with the hardship of you being gone all the freaking time can you just cut me a little slack. I already feel so damn disconnected from you all the time that on the rare days when I do feel so inclined to look at your page and I see that you’re online or have logged in that day I have this (maybe silly) feeling of being a little more connected to you that day.

But you made your point, that is assuming your point was that you don’t want me to go feeling that silly little moment of happiness on occasion – because in your quest to ensure that I don’t go jumping to conclusions (ahem…at least one of us asked what was up) you made your page private and blocked me - thereby just adding one more layer to the disconnect between us.

I don’t expect you to think like me – just remember that I think differently than you do which means that you probably suck at interpreting my motivations.
My Zimbio
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