Tonight's candidates for the Oh My God, You Totally Have To Be Fucking Kidding Me Awards:
1. Mom.
Normally, in the grand scheme, I call Mom at about 6:50. Gives me time to feed the cats, open the mail, and pee. Everything else can wait.
Tonight: 6:45. I open the door. Feed the cats. Pee. Call mom. "bzz-bzz-bzz" Okay. Mom is talking to...someone.
7:00. I sit down at the desk with my fresh cocktail. Dial Mom: "bzz-bzz-bzz" Damn, Mom; get off the phone, eh?
7:15. 7:20. 7:25. Mom: "bzz-bzz-bzz". Oh. Um, Mom? Get off the phone. Seriously.
7:30. Call across-the-street neighbor, friend of mom's. "Hey, Mr. E. This is Mom's daughter Gladys. Could you do me a favor?" Mr. E tells me to call back in 10 min.
7:41. "Hi, Mr. E?" Mr E tells me that he and Cop Across The Street have stood on chairs and peered into windows. He and CATS don't want to break in, though. "Well, there's a key in the...." I tell Mr. E where key is stored. "Would you want me to go in and check?" he asks? "I would MUCH appreciate it," I tell him. "Call back in 10", he says. "Wait," I say. "Is her car there?" "Yep," says Mr. E.
7:50:59. "Hi, Mr. E?" I have already begun to frame my explanation for why I won't be in to work for the rest of the week. "Well," he says. "You might wanna hide that key somewhere else," he says. Which, yeah, okay, but NOT SO VERY IMPORTANT RIGHT JUST AT THE MOMENT, HM? "Me and CATS went through the whole place," he said. "It's a good thing CATS is a cop, because he knew all where to look--in the shower, down the basement, etc. She's not there." "If you see her," I say, "before I talk to her? Would you please tell her that she is in SO MUCH TROUBLE????"
I am serious. I am going to kick my mother's ass. Because O---M---F---G! How do you LEAVE THE PHONE OFF THE HOOK, Dingbat? And NOT CALL and NOT TELL your kid that you're going out?? And you're 79 YEARS OLD????
I am soooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooo pissed. She is going to get some SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEErious shit from me.
(GAWD. These ELDERS today. You gotta watch out for them EVERY DAMN MINUTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
I STILL do not know where she is. I STILL have no idea whether everything's okay. I assume, based on a lack of evidence to the contrary, that she's fine. But OHHHHHHHHHman, she is in SO. MUCH. TROUBLE.
Update--11:30--she's fine. Playing poker with her friendses, as a matter of fact. She lost--just what she deserved. I told her so. I also told her she is grounded for the REST of the WEEK and that's ALL THERE IS TO IT, YOUNG LADY. Also, do NOT raise your voice to me--or are you aiming for a NOTHER week in your room?
In further news: still, disgustingly and OHSOVERY dishearteningly. still MADLY in love with CR. (I am IDIOT, hear me ROAR.))
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Happy Things
Okay. Since I am personally now BORED by my own ranty-panty-pissy-pity-party, I shall move on to Many Happier Things. Because--believe it or not?--they're STILL THERE.
But first of all, in fairness, I owe Firefly an apology.
From that last post, one would think that all she does is bitch me out for my bad choices, which could not in a billion years be further from the truth. I mean that. We are the Head Bitches In Charge Of Picking Up Each Other's Pieces, and for me to characterize her the way that last post came off was...just not cool. I think I was going by how hard I would beat HER ass under the same circumstances, and it's always a mistake to ascribe your OWN deficiencies to someone ELSE. So, FF--I'm sorry, monster. That came out WAYYYY worse than I meant for it to do.
Moving right along to happyland:
Item One, Happy Report.
My computer?? Is ALIVE!!! Is HEALTHY!!!!! Totally FAILED to cost me the $300-odd dollars I had braced myself to pay!!!! Cost me only $60--including installation!--to repair my frizzle-frazzled power supply. I seriously almost did the Happy Wiggle-Dance in front of the Firedog guy at Circuit City. But I was afraid it would turn him on, so I forbore.
But for SERIOUS--$60 instead of $300? is CAUSE for the wiggle-dance. I could simply NOT be any more happy about the outcome of that whole debacle.
Item Two, Happy Report:
This neighborhood I've moved into?
Is THA SHIZZ. No kidding. I knew it was all artsy and progressive and stuff, but: there is the Place-Where-I-Live-Now Art Center. And yes, I'm late to the party, and yes, I could have been doing this for MONTHS now, but I wasn't even introduced to the Maroonland Art Center til the beginning of summer. Their summer session? Looked promising, but didn't grab me enough to make me plunk down cash and drag my butt out of work early to get to a class on time.
Their FALL session?
Practically sexual in nature.
So Indecisive-Little-Ol-Me is now faced with the choice of the following--and this is pared down only to the stuff that INTERESTS me at the moment:
Abstract Painting/Drawing--Acrylic Painting--Beginning Drawing--Beginning Painting--Ceramic Tiles--Intro to Printmaking--Knitting--Mosaics--Photography I--Quick Quilting--Silkscreen.
First: NOT COOL. Too many choices makes Gladys go Wocka-Wocka-Wocka.
Second: OMFG SOOOOOOO EFFING COOL! Because what I don't do in the fall? I can do in the spring. And what I don't do in the spring? I can do NEXT fall. Which is so very OMFG as to require smelling-salts.
To say the very very least, I am looking forward to the fall.
Item Three: Happy Report--
No word from CR.
Yes, I know, that's a Happy and a Sad all boiled up together. Don't care. He's...I don't really have words for what he is, just now. "A mommy-fixated infant" comes about as close to the meat of things as I care to go. I'd just so very much forgotten: a) how many things about him I actually LIKED, once; and b)how very, utterly toxic and hateful and soul-draining he could be. So, yeah, I still have feelings for him; but no, that's not something that will ever come to fruition. I've learned--even since just this last time, I've learned--but still I'm pissed at myself for letting it go even THAT far. I feel played, actually. I was lucky to escape as easily as I have, but I still feel ashamed of myself. (And on some level, I'm afraid he may instigate some more chaos, so to speak--waiting for the other shoe to drop, the way it always did in the past. We shall see what happens there.)
I am just TIRED unto the edges of the universe of feeling SORRY. For myself, for others, for mistakes I've made; for who I am and what I believe. I think sometimes--god help me--but if my mom wasn't around? That I'd be able to be ME with much more energy and valor than I've ever yet been able to do, with eleven months' exception. I want to wear long foofy dresses and get a tattoo and piercings and a girlfriend, and wear my hair LONG LONG LONG. And the only reason I DON'T is because of the constant stream of criticism that would ensue. And don't think for a red moment that that means I don't love my mother--I do, very much, and I will miss her when she's gone--but I wish she didn't need for me to be so much a carbon copy of her, or some validation of her choices, or whatever-it-is I am to her. I'm certainly not an individual, or a person, or a separate human being. (The other day she said something about "we never had such technology when -I- was growing up!" As if, at nearly-40, I'm still "growing up". There are some things that I just can't get around, you know? I'll be 39 next birthday and in some ways I still--because my mother does too--see myself as "a kid". How do you go about making a separate, sensible, functioning life for yourself when you still, subconsciously, see yourself as a twelve-year-old?? Debbi and I have talked about that at length, but with no conclusions.)
I am not sad. I am not -very- sad, anyway. My life is a great thing, if I look at it from MY OWN standpoint. If I stop judging by "what should have been" or "what I -should have- done" or "what was expected"--I have had an incredible, colorful, adventurous life. Punctuated by tragedy and the occasional hardship, sure--but what amazing life HASN'T been strewn with wreckage? I'd rather have MORE wreckage, than less--if only I didn't have to EXPLAIN it to anyone. If only I could just say "You know what? Yeah, I did that. It is what it is. It's MINE, is what it is, and unless you're me--which you are TOTALLY not--you're in no position to make value judgements."
If anything? My life would have MORE excitement, not less. I don't know what that says about me, other than: a) I'm alive; and b) at some sad, pathetic core level, I am every bit as subjected to one person's judgements, as CR is to another's. Maybe THAT's why we always got along so well--because in one way or another, each of us was forever being controlled by that shady, behind-the-scenes female puppeteer, each polling our strings and trying, for her own ends, to control us--even if it was done with love, even if it was done with the understanding of "what was best" for each of us. Maybe that's why he and I are, emotionally at least, tangled together, even though each of us recognizes how very, very STUPID that entanglement really is.
I don't know. What I know: I'm happy, really; and there is spaghetti on the stove with my name on it, and everything in my life, when you subtract the STOOPID shit, is really well-and-truly better than it has been in a long, long while.
So...um....yeah. That's it. :)
But first of all, in fairness, I owe Firefly an apology.
From that last post, one would think that all she does is bitch me out for my bad choices, which could not in a billion years be further from the truth. I mean that. We are the Head Bitches In Charge Of Picking Up Each Other's Pieces, and for me to characterize her the way that last post came off was...just not cool. I think I was going by how hard I would beat HER ass under the same circumstances, and it's always a mistake to ascribe your OWN deficiencies to someone ELSE. So, FF--I'm sorry, monster. That came out WAYYYY worse than I meant for it to do.
Moving right along to happyland:
Item One, Happy Report.
My computer?? Is ALIVE!!! Is HEALTHY!!!!! Totally FAILED to cost me the $300-odd dollars I had braced myself to pay!!!! Cost me only $60--including installation!--to repair my frizzle-frazzled power supply. I seriously almost did the Happy Wiggle-Dance in front of the Firedog guy at Circuit City. But I was afraid it would turn him on, so I forbore.
But for SERIOUS--$60 instead of $300? is CAUSE for the wiggle-dance. I could simply NOT be any more happy about the outcome of that whole debacle.
Item Two, Happy Report:
This neighborhood I've moved into?
Is THA SHIZZ. No kidding. I knew it was all artsy and progressive and stuff, but: there is the Place-Where-I-Live-Now Art Center. And yes, I'm late to the party, and yes, I could have been doing this for MONTHS now, but I wasn't even introduced to the Maroonland Art Center til the beginning of summer. Their summer session? Looked promising, but didn't grab me enough to make me plunk down cash and drag my butt out of work early to get to a class on time.
Their FALL session?
Practically sexual in nature.
So Indecisive-Little-Ol-Me is now faced with the choice of the following--and this is pared down only to the stuff that INTERESTS me at the moment:
Abstract Painting/Drawing--Acrylic Painting--Beginning Drawing--Beginning Painting--Ceramic Tiles--Intro to Printmaking--Knitting--Mosaics--Photography I--Quick Quilting--Silkscreen.
First: NOT COOL. Too many choices makes Gladys go Wocka-Wocka-Wocka.
Second: OMFG SOOOOOOO EFFING COOL! Because what I don't do in the fall? I can do in the spring. And what I don't do in the spring? I can do NEXT fall. Which is so very OMFG as to require smelling-salts.
To say the very very least, I am looking forward to the fall.
Item Three: Happy Report--
No word from CR.
Yes, I know, that's a Happy and a Sad all boiled up together. Don't care. He's...I don't really have words for what he is, just now. "A mommy-fixated infant" comes about as close to the meat of things as I care to go. I'd just so very much forgotten: a) how many things about him I actually LIKED, once; and b)how very, utterly toxic and hateful and soul-draining he could be. So, yeah, I still have feelings for him; but no, that's not something that will ever come to fruition. I've learned--even since just this last time, I've learned--but still I'm pissed at myself for letting it go even THAT far. I feel played, actually. I was lucky to escape as easily as I have, but I still feel ashamed of myself. (And on some level, I'm afraid he may instigate some more chaos, so to speak--waiting for the other shoe to drop, the way it always did in the past. We shall see what happens there.)
I am just TIRED unto the edges of the universe of feeling SORRY. For myself, for others, for mistakes I've made; for who I am and what I believe. I think sometimes--god help me--but if my mom wasn't around? That I'd be able to be ME with much more energy and valor than I've ever yet been able to do, with eleven months' exception. I want to wear long foofy dresses and get a tattoo and piercings and a girlfriend, and wear my hair LONG LONG LONG. And the only reason I DON'T is because of the constant stream of criticism that would ensue. And don't think for a red moment that that means I don't love my mother--I do, very much, and I will miss her when she's gone--but I wish she didn't need for me to be so much a carbon copy of her, or some validation of her choices, or whatever-it-is I am to her. I'm certainly not an individual, or a person, or a separate human being. (The other day she said something about "we never had such technology when -I- was growing up!" As if, at nearly-40, I'm still "growing up". There are some things that I just can't get around, you know? I'll be 39 next birthday and in some ways I still--because my mother does too--see myself as "a kid". How do you go about making a separate, sensible, functioning life for yourself when you still, subconsciously, see yourself as a twelve-year-old?? Debbi and I have talked about that at length, but with no conclusions.)
I am not sad. I am not -very- sad, anyway. My life is a great thing, if I look at it from MY OWN standpoint. If I stop judging by "what should have been" or "what I -should have- done" or "what was expected"--I have had an incredible, colorful, adventurous life. Punctuated by tragedy and the occasional hardship, sure--but what amazing life HASN'T been strewn with wreckage? I'd rather have MORE wreckage, than less--if only I didn't have to EXPLAIN it to anyone. If only I could just say "You know what? Yeah, I did that. It is what it is. It's MINE, is what it is, and unless you're me--which you are TOTALLY not--you're in no position to make value judgements."
If anything? My life would have MORE excitement, not less. I don't know what that says about me, other than: a) I'm alive; and b) at some sad, pathetic core level, I am every bit as subjected to one person's judgements, as CR is to another's. Maybe THAT's why we always got along so well--because in one way or another, each of us was forever being controlled by that shady, behind-the-scenes female puppeteer, each polling our strings and trying, for her own ends, to control us--even if it was done with love, even if it was done with the understanding of "what was best" for each of us. Maybe that's why he and I are, emotionally at least, tangled together, even though each of us recognizes how very, very STUPID that entanglement really is.
I don't know. What I know: I'm happy, really; and there is spaghetti on the stove with my name on it, and everything in my life, when you subtract the STOOPID shit, is really well-and-truly better than it has been in a long, long while.
So...um....yeah. That's it. :)
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Well THIS Certainly Seems Familiar...
After posting this late last night, then taking it down because I felt guilty for all my self-pity, I'm putting it back up. Because...why not, you know?
You know, the fun of hoping someone has changed?
Is in hoping that they've REALLY changed.
CR? Not so much. (Anyone for an "I told you so"? Because I'm open to them.)
So the other day...
(Firefly, sweetie, could you go read something else for a few minutes? B/c I RILLYRILLYRILLY don't need the asskick that I know is forthcoming...)
anyhoo.
the other day, me and Mr. Smirnoff got close. Very close. Close enough to affect my normal recalcitrance/quietude/reluctance to say anything to anybody about anything.
so mr S. led me to be extraordinarily honest with mr CR's e-mail account.
as in, "i still have feelings for u" and the whole rest of the stoopid.
(Firefly, seriously. If you give me shit about this we will have a problem. I know, I KNOW. I was STOOPID. I don't need a :::swat:::. I''ve done plenty of :::swat:::ing on myself. MERCY is what's called for here.)
anyway.
this revelation was greeted with...
...a week of silence.
followed by...
...nothing.
Today I noticed that he'd taken me off his MySpace "friends" list.
Which? FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.
anyway.
what i can piece together:
she read his e-mail.
or his cell-phone bill.
or...whatthefuckever.
don't care.
in my confessional e-mail i said:
i need to see u stand up and be a man.
i need to see u finish your journalism coursework.
and to come to chicago again.
and to find an apartment for yourself.
ALL for yourself.
no woman to help you.
i need to see u stand on your own two feet.
to be honest.
to say: this is mine; i have done this. i have brought this about.
i have done it alone.
That's what I told him.
He can't do it.
That's why I said it, largely.
Because I knew it was impossible.
And I was right.
Still, it stings.
Do I still care about him??
You guess.
Of COURSE i still care about him.
Despite my perfectly-good common sense, I want to see someone save themselves.
I want to see someone redeem their miserable life and make it something worth living.
That was always, always my hope for him.
You'll hsve to believe me on this one: there's a very amazing human being underneath all that rot and corruption and misery.
I know that's hard to accept, but I've witnessed it.
Apparently, though, I'm not the one who can draw it out.
I envy the woman who can. Somewhere in the universe there is a woman who knows how to tame that self-destruction, that anger, that self-loathing.
I am apparently not that woman, though.
I wanted to believe that--as he claimed--he'd changed.
That he was sorry.
That he still loved me.
(What lonely, obese, cat-owning, nearly-40 sorta-widowed-but-not-so-anyone-believes-it woman, with NO social skills and NO partners ANYWHERE on the radar, would want to believe differently? SERIOUSLY. I am like, the stereotype of Woman Who Will Die Alone. Normally I'm okay with that...til someone throws a lifeline into the lake. Even if it's only a spider-silk thread, from where I am it looks (at first) like SOMETHING. The disillusionment comes later.)
So YEAH, I wanted to believe.
Let's just for a moment look back, hm?
Since CR:
Bob. Nice guy, couldn't handle me. No chemistry, too much intellectual, not enough below the waist. Sorry to be so blunt, but...nope.
LJ. Plenty, INITIALLY, in the "sex" column; never anything in the "brain" column. Eventually even quit on the "sex" end of things. Gee, THAT didn't undermine me at all...no, not even a LITTLE bit.
And then. Two years of TOTAL SILENCE. I'm in my mid-late 30's; that's like, TORTURE. And it's been accompanied by enough harsh words/gestures from any and all of the men mentioned above (and some not mentioned), that the notion of even TRYING to be sexy seems to be a futile effort. (I have forgotten how to kiss. When the Really Hot Guy came down to Chicago, he mentioned "I don't know, though, why you didn't kiss me." Because I'm SCARED, you idiot; because it's been a HUNDRED MILLION YEARS since a man kissed me and MEANT it. And the fact that you LEFT a few days later without even bothering to say "goodbye" til you were well and truly gone??? Does NOT help matters, you FUCK. Do you not get it, that I was hoping for something more?? )
So.
After three years of celibacy broken by one instant of terrified, not-good-enough sex, I'm somehow supposed to be okay with the universe.
I'm somehow supposed to ACCEPT that this is my lot in life--that for 18 months, when I was 24 or 25 years old, that THAT was what I get of happiness. That I'm supposed to be OKAY with that...that the one man on earth who was willing to be reasonably honest with me, who was reasonably willing to find me beautiful, was also someone I could only be with for a minute--and that the rest of my life would be populated by people who found me hideous, or who saw me as a pawn for their own entertainment, or...whatever...
I try not to see my life in terms of "entitled", you know?
But I think sometimes that EVERYONE is ENTITLED to be loved for WHO THEY ARE.
And I don't think anyone ever made an exception for any one individual; I don't imagine there's a codicil that says "...EXCEPT for Gladys J Cortez, who--UNLIKE the rest of the universe--can only feel happiness for one infinitesimal moment, and who will be required to live on THAT memory for the rest of her life on Earth."
Do you ever wonder who you pissed off?
Do you ever wonder what, EXACTLY, you did wrong?
Or who you can apologize to, to make it right?
I feel like, some lives ago, I must have fucked-over somebody REALLY important, to be dealing with rejection upon rejection upon rejection.
(I know--JP's death isn't a "rejection". Can I tell you that it sometimes feels that way? That after nights and nights of dreams where he leaves me behind, it gets a little hard to believe that he ever loved me in the first place--no matter what I "know"?
It wears me out, trying to be "strong". It wears me out, trying to paste on a smile. I mean, there are things that make me happy, sure...but at the end of the day I still have to go home.
"YOU SHOULD GO MEET someone."
Yeah--you're right, I should. If only I wasn't so completely, intolerably hideous, that might happen.
"But looks don't...."
Don't even FINISH that sentence. I swear to GOD, I will slap the next person who tries to tell me it's what's on the INSIDE that matters. Maybe that was true ONCE. A LONG time ago. Like, when JP was alive. I have not met one single solitary man since October 30, 1995, that thinks differently. Somehow around that time, the whole world changed and now ALL that matters is that women are HOT. Fuck whether or not we're amazing on the INSIDE_-which I know for a FACT I totally am--THAT doesn't matter anymore. I don't know when the change happened, but I know that I was on the WRONG side of it. LOOKS MATTER. More than anything else, looks MATTER.
"Well, you could do a little..."
Again--are you SURE you want to finish that sentence? I don't really think so.
"That's just the way things are, though."\
Yep. Sure is. I don't remember signing off on anything that says I have to LIKE it, though. Or ACCEPT it. Why do I have to change just to be accepted? Because the status quo is ridiculous? Because misogyny is the way of the world? Because HAWT chicks are the best breeders?
I sometimes wonder why I keep going, you know?
I would really, REALLY like to say that I don't give a shit about CR's rejection.
I would really, REALLY like to say a LOT of things that aren't true, about how "perfectly all right" and "great" and "wonderful" I'm feeling.
I'm not.
I'm really, really not.
And I don't need any lectures about how it's my fault for trusting him, or believing him, or...
I'm well aware of what-all I've done wrong.
What I don't understand, after six years of doing RIGHT, is why I'm still completely and utterly alone.
I'm TRYING.
I get up every morning and I paste a smile on my face and I put on my best "I love the world" look.
And every single solitary night, I go to bed alone.
Something is wrong here.
I have to assume--because other people seem to be okay in this world--that the "something" is ME.
That's not easy to live with, and lately it's getting more and more difficult to accept.
And again, I wonder....what, exactly, was the thing I did that brought this all about? Because I don't think that the world is a RANDOM place--something must have led here, you know? So what did I do? What went wrong? Where was my mistake?? And can I fix it? Is there any way to make amends?
Because frankly, the thought of letting this go on for another 30-40-50-60 years? Is not something I can handle.
You know, the fun of hoping someone has changed?
Is in hoping that they've REALLY changed.
CR? Not so much. (Anyone for an "I told you so"? Because I'm open to them.)
So the other day...
(Firefly, sweetie, could you go read something else for a few minutes? B/c I RILLYRILLYRILLY don't need the asskick that I know is forthcoming...)
anyhoo.
the other day, me and Mr. Smirnoff got close. Very close. Close enough to affect my normal recalcitrance/quietude/reluctance to say anything to anybody about anything.
so mr S. led me to be extraordinarily honest with mr CR's e-mail account.
as in, "i still have feelings for u" and the whole rest of the stoopid.
(Firefly, seriously. If you give me shit about this we will have a problem. I know, I KNOW. I was STOOPID. I don't need a :::swat:::. I''ve done plenty of :::swat:::ing on myself. MERCY is what's called for here.)
anyway.
this revelation was greeted with...
...a week of silence.
followed by...
...nothing.
Today I noticed that he'd taken me off his MySpace "friends" list.
Which? FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.
anyway.
what i can piece together:
she read his e-mail.
or his cell-phone bill.
or...whatthefuckever.
don't care.
in my confessional e-mail i said:
i need to see u stand up and be a man.
i need to see u finish your journalism coursework.
and to come to chicago again.
and to find an apartment for yourself.
ALL for yourself.
no woman to help you.
i need to see u stand on your own two feet.
to be honest.
to say: this is mine; i have done this. i have brought this about.
i have done it alone.
That's what I told him.
He can't do it.
That's why I said it, largely.
Because I knew it was impossible.
And I was right.
Still, it stings.
Do I still care about him??
You guess.
Of COURSE i still care about him.
Despite my perfectly-good common sense, I want to see someone save themselves.
I want to see someone redeem their miserable life and make it something worth living.
That was always, always my hope for him.
You'll hsve to believe me on this one: there's a very amazing human being underneath all that rot and corruption and misery.
I know that's hard to accept, but I've witnessed it.
Apparently, though, I'm not the one who can draw it out.
I envy the woman who can. Somewhere in the universe there is a woman who knows how to tame that self-destruction, that anger, that self-loathing.
I am apparently not that woman, though.
I wanted to believe that--as he claimed--he'd changed.
That he was sorry.
That he still loved me.
(What lonely, obese, cat-owning, nearly-40 sorta-widowed-but-not-so-anyone-believes-it woman, with NO social skills and NO partners ANYWHERE on the radar, would want to believe differently? SERIOUSLY. I am like, the stereotype of Woman Who Will Die Alone. Normally I'm okay with that...til someone throws a lifeline into the lake. Even if it's only a spider-silk thread, from where I am it looks (at first) like SOMETHING. The disillusionment comes later.)
So YEAH, I wanted to believe.
Let's just for a moment look back, hm?
Since CR:
Bob. Nice guy, couldn't handle me. No chemistry, too much intellectual, not enough below the waist. Sorry to be so blunt, but...nope.
LJ. Plenty, INITIALLY, in the "sex" column; never anything in the "brain" column. Eventually even quit on the "sex" end of things. Gee, THAT didn't undermine me at all...no, not even a LITTLE bit.
And then. Two years of TOTAL SILENCE. I'm in my mid-late 30's; that's like, TORTURE. And it's been accompanied by enough harsh words/gestures from any and all of the men mentioned above (and some not mentioned), that the notion of even TRYING to be sexy seems to be a futile effort. (I have forgotten how to kiss. When the Really Hot Guy came down to Chicago, he mentioned "I don't know, though, why you didn't kiss me." Because I'm SCARED, you idiot; because it's been a HUNDRED MILLION YEARS since a man kissed me and MEANT it. And the fact that you LEFT a few days later without even bothering to say "goodbye" til you were well and truly gone??? Does NOT help matters, you FUCK. Do you not get it, that I was hoping for something more?? )
So.
After three years of celibacy broken by one instant of terrified, not-good-enough sex, I'm somehow supposed to be okay with the universe.
I'm somehow supposed to ACCEPT that this is my lot in life--that for 18 months, when I was 24 or 25 years old, that THAT was what I get of happiness. That I'm supposed to be OKAY with that...that the one man on earth who was willing to be reasonably honest with me, who was reasonably willing to find me beautiful, was also someone I could only be with for a minute--and that the rest of my life would be populated by people who found me hideous, or who saw me as a pawn for their own entertainment, or...whatever...
I try not to see my life in terms of "entitled", you know?
But I think sometimes that EVERYONE is ENTITLED to be loved for WHO THEY ARE.
And I don't think anyone ever made an exception for any one individual; I don't imagine there's a codicil that says "...EXCEPT for Gladys J Cortez, who--UNLIKE the rest of the universe--can only feel happiness for one infinitesimal moment, and who will be required to live on THAT memory for the rest of her life on Earth."
Do you ever wonder who you pissed off?
Do you ever wonder what, EXACTLY, you did wrong?
Or who you can apologize to, to make it right?
I feel like, some lives ago, I must have fucked-over somebody REALLY important, to be dealing with rejection upon rejection upon rejection.
(I know--JP's death isn't a "rejection". Can I tell you that it sometimes feels that way? That after nights and nights of dreams where he leaves me behind, it gets a little hard to believe that he ever loved me in the first place--no matter what I "know"?
It wears me out, trying to be "strong". It wears me out, trying to paste on a smile. I mean, there are things that make me happy, sure...but at the end of the day I still have to go home.
"YOU SHOULD GO MEET someone."
Yeah--you're right, I should. If only I wasn't so completely, intolerably hideous, that might happen.
"But looks don't...."
Don't even FINISH that sentence. I swear to GOD, I will slap the next person who tries to tell me it's what's on the INSIDE that matters. Maybe that was true ONCE. A LONG time ago. Like, when JP was alive. I have not met one single solitary man since October 30, 1995, that thinks differently. Somehow around that time, the whole world changed and now ALL that matters is that women are HOT. Fuck whether or not we're amazing on the INSIDE_-which I know for a FACT I totally am--THAT doesn't matter anymore. I don't know when the change happened, but I know that I was on the WRONG side of it. LOOKS MATTER. More than anything else, looks MATTER.
"Well, you could do a little..."
Again--are you SURE you want to finish that sentence? I don't really think so.
"That's just the way things are, though."\
Yep. Sure is. I don't remember signing off on anything that says I have to LIKE it, though. Or ACCEPT it. Why do I have to change just to be accepted? Because the status quo is ridiculous? Because misogyny is the way of the world? Because HAWT chicks are the best breeders?
I sometimes wonder why I keep going, you know?
I would really, REALLY like to say that I don't give a shit about CR's rejection.
I would really, REALLY like to say a LOT of things that aren't true, about how "perfectly all right" and "great" and "wonderful" I'm feeling.
I'm not.
I'm really, really not.
And I don't need any lectures about how it's my fault for trusting him, or believing him, or...
I'm well aware of what-all I've done wrong.
What I don't understand, after six years of doing RIGHT, is why I'm still completely and utterly alone.
I'm TRYING.
I get up every morning and I paste a smile on my face and I put on my best "I love the world" look.
And every single solitary night, I go to bed alone.
Something is wrong here.
I have to assume--because other people seem to be okay in this world--that the "something" is ME.
That's not easy to live with, and lately it's getting more and more difficult to accept.
And again, I wonder....what, exactly, was the thing I did that brought this all about? Because I don't think that the world is a RANDOM place--something must have led here, you know? So what did I do? What went wrong? Where was my mistake?? And can I fix it? Is there any way to make amends?
Because frankly, the thought of letting this go on for another 30-40-50-60 years? Is not something I can handle.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
You Know The Economy Is In The Crapper
...when a good 25% of my incoming links are variants on the phrase "my boss is an asshole".
(Mine, incidentally, is still SORT-of an asshole. But he's at least a FORGIVABLE asshole, unlike the late, unlamented Beverly, of Two Jobs Ago fame. The longer I work at Job I Love, the more I realize how insane it really WAS back there. Even the most egregious asshattery at this place is about eleventythree degrees of HAAAAATE below an average day at Two Jobs Ago.)
I really am blessed, you know.
(Mine, incidentally, is still SORT-of an asshole. But he's at least a FORGIVABLE asshole, unlike the late, unlamented Beverly, of Two Jobs Ago fame. The longer I work at Job I Love, the more I realize how insane it really WAS back there. Even the most egregious asshattery at this place is about eleventythree degrees of HAAAAATE below an average day at Two Jobs Ago.)
I really am blessed, you know.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Neener.
To all of you who foresaw Tim moving into my apartment--bag, baggage, and cat--for a long stay, I say unto thee: Neener. Neener neener neener, as a matter of fact.
He stayed on the floor for two nights, then early Tuesday afternoon I was wakened by a tug on my foot. "Hey," he said. "I'm heading out...."
And he did. Basically he just needed a place to go for a couple of days after their fight; no big deal. I have no problem with that.
As for CR, the nice thing about THAT situation is that he's safely several hundred miles away, with no wish whatsoever to come back here. (I will say, though, that despite myself, I'm impressed with what he's accomplished since he left--he's been working steadily, went back to school--he's done a lot. Despite that, though, I am absolutely certain that the old CR is lurking beneath the surface...apparently the one sticking-point in getting his degree is the math credit. Math is not his thing. I can understand THAT--but what I CAN'T understand is how, exactly, he managed to piss off EVERY SINGLE TUTOR in the department. Except yes, I can; it's CR, after all.)
I think the thing with CR is going to best be summed up with the following statement: Just because I don't hate him, that doesn't mean I have to fuck him. And no matter what, I always gave him credit for one thing--he was always fun to talk to.
So: no unwanted new roomies, no intruding exes; basically, it's all good. And now if I can just get my real computer fixed, I could show you all what I've been doing while not blogging.
He stayed on the floor for two nights, then early Tuesday afternoon I was wakened by a tug on my foot. "Hey," he said. "I'm heading out...."
And he did. Basically he just needed a place to go for a couple of days after their fight; no big deal. I have no problem with that.
As for CR, the nice thing about THAT situation is that he's safely several hundred miles away, with no wish whatsoever to come back here. (I will say, though, that despite myself, I'm impressed with what he's accomplished since he left--he's been working steadily, went back to school--he's done a lot. Despite that, though, I am absolutely certain that the old CR is lurking beneath the surface...apparently the one sticking-point in getting his degree is the math credit. Math is not his thing. I can understand THAT--but what I CAN'T understand is how, exactly, he managed to piss off EVERY SINGLE TUTOR in the department. Except yes, I can; it's CR, after all.)
I think the thing with CR is going to best be summed up with the following statement: Just because I don't hate him, that doesn't mean I have to fuck him. And no matter what, I always gave him credit for one thing--he was always fun to talk to.
So: no unwanted new roomies, no intruding exes; basically, it's all good. And now if I can just get my real computer fixed, I could show you all what I've been doing while not blogging.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
"Oy," Also "Vey".
2 PM, voice mail left on my cell phone:
"Hey, G, it's me. Listen, call me when you get this message because I've been having a REALLY BAD past couple of days and I know it's not your problem but I really need somebody to speak to."
4 PM, same:
"G..." (to someone in background: "Shut the fuck up,") "Hey, G, call me as soon as you get this message, okay?"
Now, Tim knows what my cell-phone situation is, so it was my measured opinion that if it was REALLY important, he would call the HOUSE phone. But the second message, with its background argument, made me curious enough to call him.
He answered on the fourth ring: "G--hey. Listen, I'm on my way up there," he told me, "because I can't be around this crazy motherfucker ANY MORE." And then there ensued about fifteen minutes of that I'm-talking-to-the-person-on-the-phone-but-really-I'm-talking-to-the-person-in-the-room-with-me-who-is-the-real-target-of-what-I'm-saying kind of thing. In fact--once the practical outcome of the conversation had been achieved--I just took my ear away from the phone. He wasn't telling me anything I didn't know already (Squeaky's dad is a semi-crazy, extremely-lazy, parasitical welfare-cheat) and frankly, I wasn't that interested. As I said, the main outcome had been arrived at; Tim's on his way over and will most likely be spending a couple of days--at least--on my floor.
This is going to be interesting.
Curiously, I'm not complaining. I'm learning things about myself, these past few months, and one of the things I've learned is: the neat and quiet life isn't all it's cracked up to be. I need a little messiness, a little (okay, a LOT) of stuff going on; not so much cleaning up after everyone around me, but at least having all their stuff play out in my vicinity. Otherwise I get lonely and bored and BORED and depressed, and grossly uncreative. (Speaking of which--I'm taking my REAL computer in this week, and once it's fixed I'm going to scan in a crapload of my artwork. I've been doing a lot of work in colored pencils, pastels, and conte crayons; I wouldn't call it groundbreaking, by any stretch, but it's surely fun, and some of it is quite pretty. In fact, my next step is to buy some mat-board and start decorating.)
I don't necessarily like this new development--and the minute Tim starts with "Squeaky has no place to stay," my attitude will change 180 degrees, to "And Out You Go Too!!"--but for the moment, hey, what the hell--I'll take care of the world for a while longer.
I mean, SOMEBODY's got to, right?
"Hey, G, it's me. Listen, call me when you get this message because I've been having a REALLY BAD past couple of days and I know it's not your problem but I really need somebody to speak to."
4 PM, same:
"G..." (to someone in background: "Shut the fuck up,") "Hey, G, call me as soon as you get this message, okay?"
Now, Tim knows what my cell-phone situation is, so it was my measured opinion that if it was REALLY important, he would call the HOUSE phone. But the second message, with its background argument, made me curious enough to call him.
He answered on the fourth ring: "G--hey. Listen, I'm on my way up there," he told me, "because I can't be around this crazy motherfucker ANY MORE." And then there ensued about fifteen minutes of that I'm-talking-to-the-person-on-the-phone-but-really-I'm-talking-to-the-person-in-the-room-with-me-who-is-the-real-target-of-what-I'm-saying kind of thing. In fact--once the practical outcome of the conversation had been achieved--I just took my ear away from the phone. He wasn't telling me anything I didn't know already (Squeaky's dad is a semi-crazy, extremely-lazy, parasitical welfare-cheat) and frankly, I wasn't that interested. As I said, the main outcome had been arrived at; Tim's on his way over and will most likely be spending a couple of days--at least--on my floor.
This is going to be interesting.
Curiously, I'm not complaining. I'm learning things about myself, these past few months, and one of the things I've learned is: the neat and quiet life isn't all it's cracked up to be. I need a little messiness, a little (okay, a LOT) of stuff going on; not so much cleaning up after everyone around me, but at least having all their stuff play out in my vicinity. Otherwise I get lonely and bored and BORED and depressed, and grossly uncreative. (Speaking of which--I'm taking my REAL computer in this week, and once it's fixed I'm going to scan in a crapload of my artwork. I've been doing a lot of work in colored pencils, pastels, and conte crayons; I wouldn't call it groundbreaking, by any stretch, but it's surely fun, and some of it is quite pretty. In fact, my next step is to buy some mat-board and start decorating.)
I don't necessarily like this new development--and the minute Tim starts with "Squeaky has no place to stay," my attitude will change 180 degrees, to "And Out You Go Too!!"--but for the moment, hey, what the hell--I'll take care of the world for a while longer.
I mean, SOMEBODY's got to, right?
Saturday, August 16, 2008
End of (Yet Another) Error
I just saw LJ for what I'm pretty sure will be the last time.
I called to tell him the title on the truck had arrived; he told me he was at his mom's house, and he'd just come by to get it. We talked for ten minutes or so, mostly about his court case, while I filled out the title.
And then he signed it, and told me he'd be in touch next week to let me know what happened, and he was gone.
It's strange that I don't feel anything; then again, it's hard to miss someone who was never really there.
And so I close another chapter, finally, and move along; this closure is much less-painful than most of the other ones I've experienced in the last twelve months, and so I won't shed any tears. There was never any room, really, for what might have been.
And now, if you'll all excuse me, I have some spaghetti-sauce I'm working on....
I called to tell him the title on the truck had arrived; he told me he was at his mom's house, and he'd just come by to get it. We talked for ten minutes or so, mostly about his court case, while I filled out the title.
And then he signed it, and told me he'd be in touch next week to let me know what happened, and he was gone.
It's strange that I don't feel anything; then again, it's hard to miss someone who was never really there.
And so I close another chapter, finally, and move along; this closure is much less-painful than most of the other ones I've experienced in the last twelve months, and so I won't shed any tears. There was never any room, really, for what might have been.
And now, if you'll all excuse me, I have some spaghetti-sauce I'm working on....
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