Debbie Harry, you were right. It is a pain in the ass. This week my dating score is 0 for 2, and for the purpose of this post scoring doesn't mean "scoring" in the home run/through the uprights sort of way. Not even close. Shit, I would give points to it not being hell. Am I really asking too much?
Two blind dates. One was a huge turtleneck with feet and the other was nice, smart, even fun to talk to, but was so far from attractive I left feeling like a horrible human being. It's not that I need beauty, but there has to be chemistry. I have to be able to look at the person and feel something (hopefully many things). I feel vital these days and I am not ready to give that up.
Here's the thing. I feel like I keep having the same things thrown my way, over and over, and although intellectually I think it means nothing, at some level I wonder if it's a sign.
My mother once told me a joke. it goes something like this:
There was a terrible flood. A very religious man waited on his roof and prayed for divine intervention. A boat came toward his house.
"Get in," shouted the boater. "We'll save you."
"No", cried the man, "G-d will save me."
The scene was repeated twice more, before a helicopter finally arrived and hovered over him. Once again, the man refused help on the same grounds ... G-d would save him.
The man drowned
When he arrived in heaven he looked at G-d with obvious confusion.
"I placed my faith in you and you let me drown," he complained.
"Let you drown?", exclaimed God. "I sent three boats and a helicopter!"
My mother finished it off with the moral of the story: "G-d helps those who help themselves".
It seems that every guy that comes my way is "great" in a number of ways, yet fails to meet my expectations in at least one major palpable way. In all fairness to myself, I am a firm believer that the things you can "put your finger on" are only a fraction of the story - the tip of the iceberg. If that one thing really bothers me, chances are there is more to it than that. Both last night and the night before are perfect examples. I didn't like either of them, mostly because they didn't meet my physical requirements, which is shallow, makes me feel terrible, sends my mother into her, "give him a chance" diatribe with the insinuation that the moral of my story is that I am going to be alone for the rest of my life.
I don't thing I will be alone forever but the guilt I feel is coated in a fear. What if they were my boats, my helicopters?
What if I just missed my ride?
Thursday, March 16, 2006
turn and face the strange changes
When I was little, I used to be enthralled with Connie Chung
Last night I slept without my nightlight by accident
Nothing happened
No one came into my apartment to kill me
Or steal everything I own
Things change
Change is like ocean waves
It keeps coming at you with it’s swollen momentum
It rushes in and draws out
Last night I slept without my nightlight by accident
Nothing happened
No one came into my apartment to kill me
Or steal everything I own
Things change
Change is like ocean waves
It keeps coming at you with it’s swollen momentum
It rushes in and draws out
Monday, March 13, 2006
of oz
Count on me to never expose your flaws
To never draw back the curtain
I don’t want to know that there’s no wizard
I'll surely look the other way
I have seen one too many
Trying to pass as wizards
I grew up surrounded by men
Who took my pity
And sparked my resentment
To never draw back the curtain
I don’t want to know that there’s no wizard
I'll surely look the other way
I have seen one too many
Trying to pass as wizards
I grew up surrounded by men
Who took my pity
And sparked my resentment
Sunday, March 12, 2006
DTs
Back to Sunday. It seems it is always Sunday. And lately I am hungover every Sunday, wishing I could start the weekend from scratch. What is different though, is that this Sunday is going to be a balmy 16 degrees Celsius (probably about 64 degrees Fahrenheit). I was recently taught a simple conversion equation (thanks FEF). I am so excited to get outside. This morning I woke up to find I have just been bumped from first place in my hockey pool and that I have FIVE injuries. That sucks. I loved that I was pissing off every guy in the pool. It was killing them that I had the lead. I’m still in second, though. Second still wins a prize, so I’ll take it.
Last night was “girls night” There were seven of us. Sheer volume always brings on “shooters on the house” and other forms of complimentary drinks. Girls totally fall for that shit.
In other news I can do 5 "man" push-ups. Just wanted to share. It was only 4 weeks ago that I couldn’t even do one. You may or may not find that piece of information interesting or impressive, but it (very) loosely leads me to my next point of discussion. Remember Ben, the guy I dated for a while before I went away in December (AKA Arty)? We spent a great deal of quality time together at my apartment over our time together and I got comfortable enough that, when I was wearing something, I wore my favourite pajama bottoms. They are t-shirt material leopard print. What is it that guys hate about animal prints? I think it’s kind of funny. It’s my sense of humour in pants, really. It’s not like I am wearing silk leopard stirrup pants with stilettos. It’s not serious. They're t-shirt material! Cute, no? Well, Ben hated them. They also had a small (read moderate) sized hole in the ass, which seemed to actually make him slightly angry, but in the face of that, and maybe a little because of that, I insisted I would not throw them out and in fact, maybe wore them more often then I might have had he not mentioned them. My point in all of this is I am doing some spring cleaning and wearing these pajama bottoms. The hole now basically encompasses my entire ass and I no longer have to keep them as a symbol of my strength, but now I feel attached to them in much the same way as my parent’s old couch. What's wrong with me (aside from the delirium tremens)?
Last night was “girls night” There were seven of us. Sheer volume always brings on “shooters on the house” and other forms of complimentary drinks. Girls totally fall for that shit.
In other news I can do 5 "man" push-ups. Just wanted to share. It was only 4 weeks ago that I couldn’t even do one. You may or may not find that piece of information interesting or impressive, but it (very) loosely leads me to my next point of discussion. Remember Ben, the guy I dated for a while before I went away in December (AKA Arty)? We spent a great deal of quality time together at my apartment over our time together and I got comfortable enough that, when I was wearing something, I wore my favourite pajama bottoms. They are t-shirt material leopard print. What is it that guys hate about animal prints? I think it’s kind of funny. It’s my sense of humour in pants, really. It’s not like I am wearing silk leopard stirrup pants with stilettos. It’s not serious. They're t-shirt material! Cute, no? Well, Ben hated them. They also had a small (read moderate) sized hole in the ass, which seemed to actually make him slightly angry, but in the face of that, and maybe a little because of that, I insisted I would not throw them out and in fact, maybe wore them more often then I might have had he not mentioned them. My point in all of this is I am doing some spring cleaning and wearing these pajama bottoms. The hole now basically encompasses my entire ass and I no longer have to keep them as a symbol of my strength, but now I feel attached to them in much the same way as my parent’s old couch. What's wrong with me (aside from the delirium tremens)?
Thursday, March 09, 2006
home economics
It was the first day of grade ten science class. My first day of high school. There was a shortage of classrooms so ours was being held in the home economics room. We sat in tables of three and four. There was a nervous quiet in the room as we waited for the class to begin.
The door opened and he walked in. A wallet chain hanging from his pocket jangled with every step. He wore a jean jacket over a plaid shirt, and and old pair of combat boots. His hair was sharp spikes of orange. I knew of him from the neighborhood, but not well. He was older than I was.
He dropped his bag on the floor in the space next to me. "Stiff Little Fingers" was written across the front of the bag in thick black marker. He looked at me and smiled. My heart picked up.
“Hey. How’s it going?”, he asked, all eyes in the room on our exchange.
“Good, thanks. And you?”
He shrugged and sat down, still smiling at me. He seemed amused. He tapped the table with his hands. After a moment he turned away and scanned the room, back toward the classroom kitchens. When he spotted the fridge he got up, walked over and opened it up as if he was at home. Next he looked in the cupboards. He pulled out a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, started opening and closing drawers until he found a knife, and then he opened the fridge again and took out a jar of jam. He made himself a sandwich, oblivious to the surprised onlookers. He returned to the table and was about to take the first bite when he caught me staring. He held the sandwich out to me.
“Bite?”
“Ah…no, no thanks. But thanks anyway”, I stammered, feeling my face get warm. I hadn’t realized I was watching so closely.
Just then the teacher walked in and class began.
I could hear him next to me as he ate his sandwich, enjoying every bite. I don’t think I looked at him again the whole class.
I also don’t think I missed another science class that semester...until we started to miss them together.
Monday, March 06, 2006
namaste
Recently I went to my first yoga class. The instructor began by teaching us how to give ourselves a rest.
"Breath deeply and let your bodies settle into the mat."
I listened to my own breathing. I melted flat as wax.
Then the oddest thing happened. My eyes kept filling with tears.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’, I asked myself. ‘Are you insane? Stop it!’
But you know what it is? It's the beginning and the ending. The laying flat and breathing. It took me by surprise that first time. For me the in between only serves to build up your thirst for the end. Every muscle in my body shakes with fatigue. It's like a glass of chocolate milk after a peanut butter sandwich.
How crazy is that? I could lay flat and breath almost anywhere, but I don't I guess. I do lots of other things. Read, write, watch Law & Order, wash dishes, search for a needle in the Jdate haystack, clean up, think about what to wear tomorrow, pack my lunch, invent recipes, burn CDs, look things up, cook, think, think, think, shower, take a bath, wash the floor, talk on the phone, make lists, masturbate, sleep, worry, ruminate (ok that's just more thinking)...
Sometimes it is the simplest thing that is closest to perfect. It's even greater to be able to recognize it when it comes. Yoga gives me more than a good excuse to wear Lululemon. And trust me, I didn't need one.
"Breath deeply and let your bodies settle into the mat."
I listened to my own breathing. I melted flat as wax.
Then the oddest thing happened. My eyes kept filling with tears.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’, I asked myself. ‘Are you insane? Stop it!’
But you know what it is? It's the beginning and the ending. The laying flat and breathing. It took me by surprise that first time. For me the in between only serves to build up your thirst for the end. Every muscle in my body shakes with fatigue. It's like a glass of chocolate milk after a peanut butter sandwich.
How crazy is that? I could lay flat and breath almost anywhere, but I don't I guess. I do lots of other things. Read, write, watch Law & Order, wash dishes, search for a needle in the Jdate haystack, clean up, think about what to wear tomorrow, pack my lunch, invent recipes, burn CDs, look things up, cook, think, think, think, shower, take a bath, wash the floor, talk on the phone, make lists, masturbate, sleep, worry, ruminate (ok that's just more thinking)...
Sometimes it is the simplest thing that is closest to perfect. It's even greater to be able to recognize it when it comes. Yoga gives me more than a good excuse to wear Lululemon. And trust me, I didn't need one.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
four
Standing in the front hall in my nightgown, I shift back and forth, one foot to the other. The slate tiles gather and retain the cold coming through the opaque glass panels flanking the front door. I watch my father put on his rubber shoe liners, maintaining his balance with a hand on the door frame. Reaching into the closet, he slides aside coat after coat, searching. He sighs, sets his jaw, and his face reddens. He finds the one he's looking for, pulls it from the hanger, pushes his arms through, and heaves it over his shoulders with a shrug. I watch his fingers maneuver the oblong wooden buttons through the leather loops. Reaching up, I grasp the forearm of his coat and the lines on his forehead deepen. Relenting, the lines smooth out.
“OK hon, give me a kiss. Daddy has to go.”
“No, please”, my voices starts to quiver, “Don’t go.”
I feel the grasp of his strong hands lifting me from under my arms, my stomach rising with a lurch. I sail through the air, trying to temper the smile that has involuntarily begun to spread across my face. I circle my arms tightly around his neck. He smells of soap and his hair is soft, the edges newly trimmed. He kisses my face.
With a cold piercing burst I find my feet back on the floor. With that he is gone, the door pulling shut behind him. I rush to the window at the side of the door, but I can't see through the thick lined glass, no matter how hard I try, cupping my hands around my eyes. I run as fast as I can up the wood stairs, into the living room. I jump onto the couch, the thick corduroy upholstery pressing into my knees. Leaning against the back of the couch, at the centre of the bay window, I cannot see my father but I can hear the sound of his car picking up speed, shifting gears. I strain forward, the knot in my four year old stomach settling heavy with the fading sound. I press my face against the glass trying to catch a last glimpse. Then there is nothing.
Turning from the window, I let my body slide into a sitting position. I shift to the edge of the couch, trying to focus through my tears, on the green glass grapes on the coffee table. I slide to the floor and settle cross-legged, pulling my nightgown down from where it has gathered around my waist, and fold my arms on the table. I lean my chin in line with the grapes. Blinking hard to clear the blur from my eyes I stare into the depths of the rich green glass. They look like they would taste brilliantly sweet and sour, like the suckers I get at the doctor’s office but I do not try to taste them because I already know that they taste like nothing. Carefully, I reach out and touch one of the grapes, let it nestle in my palm. It is cold, heavy, and perfectly smooth in my hand.
“OK hon, give me a kiss. Daddy has to go.”
“No, please”, my voices starts to quiver, “Don’t go.”
I feel the grasp of his strong hands lifting me from under my arms, my stomach rising with a lurch. I sail through the air, trying to temper the smile that has involuntarily begun to spread across my face. I circle my arms tightly around his neck. He smells of soap and his hair is soft, the edges newly trimmed. He kisses my face.
With a cold piercing burst I find my feet back on the floor. With that he is gone, the door pulling shut behind him. I rush to the window at the side of the door, but I can't see through the thick lined glass, no matter how hard I try, cupping my hands around my eyes. I run as fast as I can up the wood stairs, into the living room. I jump onto the couch, the thick corduroy upholstery pressing into my knees. Leaning against the back of the couch, at the centre of the bay window, I cannot see my father but I can hear the sound of his car picking up speed, shifting gears. I strain forward, the knot in my four year old stomach settling heavy with the fading sound. I press my face against the glass trying to catch a last glimpse. Then there is nothing.
Turning from the window, I let my body slide into a sitting position. I shift to the edge of the couch, trying to focus through my tears, on the green glass grapes on the coffee table. I slide to the floor and settle cross-legged, pulling my nightgown down from where it has gathered around my waist, and fold my arms on the table. I lean my chin in line with the grapes. Blinking hard to clear the blur from my eyes I stare into the depths of the rich green glass. They look like they would taste brilliantly sweet and sour, like the suckers I get at the doctor’s office but I do not try to taste them because I already know that they taste like nothing. Carefully, I reach out and touch one of the grapes, let it nestle in my palm. It is cold, heavy, and perfectly smooth in my hand.
radio
Slightly drunk and home on Saturday night at 1:49 AM. Doing what the police told me to do to deter burglars after my break-in, I left my radio on while I was out. I got home and my radio continued to play while I undressed. But then it cut out and I was afraid. When I was little someone told me that if there was a nuclear explosion somewhere in the world, everything would just stop. Televisions, telephones, cars in the street. Everything. The cars were the most powerful image for some reason. I couldn't get that vision out of my head.
So tonight the radio cut out and I thought I should try the television, but I was afraid to find it wouldn't work. Thirty seconds passed and the radio came back to life with Intergalactic - Beastie Boys, which seemed like a good sign.
So tonight the radio cut out and I thought I should try the television, but I was afraid to find it wouldn't work. Thirty seconds passed and the radio came back to life with Intergalactic - Beastie Boys, which seemed like a good sign.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
sunny saturday
It really pisses me off when people take my schedule and my life for granted. I may not have a husband and I may not have any children, but I do have my own things to do. It may be my fault because I do believe that, to some extent, you teach people how to treat you and I have often been too easy to concede. Yesterday I made plans to meet up with a friend of mine, sacrificing the gym. I left my gym bag at home, so when she called mid-afternoon to cancel, I was left without plans and without my gym stuff. Instead I went home. OK, so that is not such a bad thing, but the plans were moved to brunch this morning. I cut my gym trip short this AM to rush back, skipped buying my latte because I figured I would have one at brunch, declined an invitation to meet up with another friend at Starbucks and got home only to find a message to say this friend had finished at her gym early and decided to eat at home. What the fuck? How is that ok? Why do I go through a million scheduling contortions to make space for people? In this case the rationale is that I love her and because she has had a tough three years, but I can always find a reason.
It is a sunny sunday. I have the most delicious multi-grain bread from a bakery, toasted with peanut butter, a coffee, and a green apple and the paper. Now I am going to sit and read through my newspaper. Every single page. There will be no rushing to go anywhere or do anything. I am not going to feel bad for being bitchy about it and I am not going to overcompensate by changing my plans this afternoon. I just won't.
It is a sunny sunday. I have the most delicious multi-grain bread from a bakery, toasted with peanut butter, a coffee, and a green apple and the paper. Now I am going to sit and read through my newspaper. Every single page. There will be no rushing to go anywhere or do anything. I am not going to feel bad for being bitchy about it and I am not going to overcompensate by changing my plans this afternoon. I just won't.
Friday, March 03, 2006
law and order
Cold air
Radiates in from the spaces around the air conditioner
Left in from the summer
Waiting for the summer
Home early on a Friday night
In late February
Watching Law and Order: SVU
Ovulating
And eating chocolate chips
How kind the psychiatrist’s eyes are
The same eyes that were evil in Oz
Radiates in from the spaces around the air conditioner
Left in from the summer
Waiting for the summer
Home early on a Friday night
In late February
Watching Law and Order: SVU
Ovulating
And eating chocolate chips
How kind the psychiatrist’s eyes are
The same eyes that were evil in Oz
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
miss
I missed you this weekend, figment of my imagination. I wish I could wipe the spit from your face, pick you up and carry you home.
I miss my hands in the raw and open wounds of others. I used to think I could get in there and clean, dress and heal those wounds but I traded that in for a desk when it got to be too much. Sometimes I want it all back.
And you. I barely missed you at all. I had wheels. I could fly. I wasn’t pinned down by anyone. I was me and me alone, even if it was for just one night.
I miss my hands in the raw and open wounds of others. I used to think I could get in there and clean, dress and heal those wounds but I traded that in for a desk when it got to be too much. Sometimes I want it all back.
And you. I barely missed you at all. I had wheels. I could fly. I wasn’t pinned down by anyone. I was me and me alone, even if it was for just one night.
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