whatdoyouseenow:
answer: no. This blog is a buffet; take what you want and leave the rest for someone else. Does it bother me that you comment? no. Comments make me think about what I’ve written in a new light. Sometimes, it’s like finding a door open that I thought previously locked. Or coming back to a puzzle I thought unsolvable and having an answer highlighted for me by some itinerant soul.
I once told my sister that I’m the mirror to her candle. I’ve been told that these posts are the same – reflecting things that some are not ready or able to communicate. So I’ll say what I always say when someone tells me things like that, with more sincerity than short words and short sentences can illustrate: “I’m glad I could help.”

---

There’s yet another investigation at work. I know, I’m not s’posed to talk about it, but who knows what I’m talking about anyway, yeah?
It’s fascinating what people will tell you when you ask them straightforward questions.
The woman is a “forensic interviewer.”
Imagine making a living out of distrust and suspicion; getting paid to have people lie to you. What would happen to a person like me if I had to put myself in her shoes? I don’t think I’d be very good at it with my gullible and trusting nature. That job would destroy Me.
She reads people well. She traps you with telling you what they suspect as factual; that they have evidence, collusion from your peers, etc. And then she lets you dig your own grave with a confession borne of honesty. Yes, you may have done something similar to that, but the reason it appeared that way is ________. That kind of prevarication doesn’t work.
Deny everything.
And for fuck’s sake, don’t write anything down or sign anything.
Many people, not having the background in literature that I do, underestimate the power of words. You can make things true, bring them into existence, just by saying it. The pause of silence while you think of what to (not) say is so much less damning than to open your mouth and practically beg for a ticket to hell.
[I know I say I have no verbal filter. That doesn't mean I'm completely without forethought.]
It was odd to get a call from work switching my schedule last minute. They usually don’t pull that kind of shit with me because I’m not tied to my phone (read: I don’t answer my phone unless I want to, you pricks.). But that’s how I found myself walking into the store and then being accosted by furtive whispers from my staff telling me what had been going on during my day off. There’s a person from Asset Protection in the office right now. She’s talking to everyone in the store. We’ve lost two people already – technically they’re “suspended” but no one ever comes back from being “suspended.” She’s tough and she tells you they’ve got everything on camera. They asked me about so-and-so. They asked me about that guy who used to work here. They asked me the same thing over and over. I told them nothing. I told them nothing. I told them nothing.
At first I was alarmed. Because of all the time I’ve spent in mental hospitals, I really, really hate it when something disrupts my routine. This was a big disruption.
We worked for an hour. Then the General Manager – my direct supervisor – called me into the office. Everyone turned to me and I schooled my face into a blank mask of cool disinterest, cocking an eyebrow reassuringly and teasing them for being worried. Their shoulders relaxed a little and they went back to discussing the projects I’d assigned.
I perched on the remaining chair. The GM introduced me as his “other dictator.” I replied “I’m not a dictator…. I like to think of myself as a benevolent monarch.”
I approached the situation as a contest of verbal power. She had the training to corner me if she wanted, but I wasn’t going to give her an inch of ground and I think she understood that. For every question that she asked, I foresaw where they could lead and headed it off abruptly with a combination of studied innocence and innocent defensiveness. Stressing a few verbs by repeating them, emphasizing certain adjectives and diminishing others with vocal italics and strikethroughs, I made it clear that my staff looked to me for leadership and my ethics and morals were important to me, which they respected, because that respect would be reflected, so what she asked of me was not only not part of my job description but inherently impossible because of the nature of social dynamics in the store, but I already did more than what was required because it was needed and necessary, and because of that, surely I was more than what my job title made me out to be, I have a promising career in this company, why would I jeopardize that when I could be your boss some day?
She concluded with “We just wanted to touch base with you, keep you in the loop seeing as how you’re part of the management team here, and I understand it’s going to be a rough week or so since you’ve lost a few people” and she wouldn’t take up too much more of our time.

I just wish they’d be more honest with what they’re really trying to accomplish with this “investigation.”

Dear Mickey,

I miss you, you know. The strangest things will remind me of you. The word Cessna. An old, mismatched pair of socks. That stretch of road between the airport and Downtown San Jose. Sometimes, I get a strong urge to call you and ask how you are. That’s when I imagine what your life is like now. If we ever talk again, remind me to tell you some of the scenarios you’ve featured in. They’re quite amusing – at least, most of them are – and sometimes they feature clowns and softball-water-dunking carnival games. Other times, we share cotton candy. But my favorite involves beagles.

Anyway, I haven’t seen you pop up on my xanga tracker in a long time so I’ll go ahead and say it. I miss your friendship. I miss hanging out with you. I miss how you could make me laugh until I wanted to punch you in the face. I even miss how stupid you could make me feel.

I wonder if you’ll even pick up if I call. Or if you’ve changed your phone number yet…. I wonder if you have mine and if you ever get the urge to call me. I doubt it. I’m prolly relegated to some classification like “friend of old ex-friend.”

Most likely, you don’t have my number anymore, and the world keeps turning.

Always,
Sarah

“Life doesn’t give you limitless opportunities.

Friday night.
As I swung the car into the spot, I nearly ran him over. He stepped back abruptly, a scowl on his face until he recognized who it was. We walked to the restaurant, amiably trading pleasantries about the past work week, and it was awkward for about fifteen minutes as we waited for Tonks to show up. He kept exclaiming how weird – in a good way! – it was to be hanging out with me, an ex-employee who he’s never seen outside of the store. I smirked, chagrinned and wondering what he thought of my after-hours outfit. Then Tonks showed up and I watched them eat beautiful arrangements of raw fish and crinkly greens.
Molly’s was already pretty swinging by the time we arrived after dinner. I found Mr. Big and gulped down half a long island iced tea while he regaled me with his lovely caricatures of tonight’s featured dancers and pointed out some worthwhile dramas that were sure to unfold. I was tickled to see The Nipple Toucher already smarming on the dance floor, and as the sake and tea had already formed a pleasant blanket of haze over what little inhibition I have, I shrugged out of my jacket and sashayed over to where he was doing his utmost of self-Nipple Touching.
You see, he’s quite a regular there, but we’ve never seen anyone dance with him, and I was feeling bad that his bravery (of dancing by himself) was being unrewarded. I’d vowed that if I got drunk enough, I’d dance with him, and that’s how I ended up having my breasts goggled at while he swung his hips in what would probably be a most alluring manner had I been ten years older.
The rest of the night, he thought he owned me, and kept backing me into a corner with his striped chest and easy smile. At least he kept his hands to himself.
As an escape, and because I felt bad for them too, I made it a point to dance with each guy in a group of interns who had just flown in from South America to work for a local internet company. That they were adorable nerds made the job not unpleasant.
But that guy was there – you know, that cute tall guy with brown hair and sharkskin eyes who smelled like candy and made that joke about werewolf sex. That guy I once gave my number to and who had texted a couple of times. That guy who thinks I’m cute and my glasses are cute, and could we please get together at some point this weekend?
“I’m free Saturday night.”
He wasn’t. But he said he’d call me the next day and we’ll hammer out a definite time.
He called twice when I was crawling between my covers and since it was 2:30 in the morning and I had to get up in three hours, I wasn’t about to answer it. Kinda wish I had, since it turns out something must have shorted out in my phone overnight while it was charging, and the next morning, none of the buttons would work.

Saturday.
“Oh good lord……. try another text.”
Nothing.
“Ok, another one.”
Still Nothing.
We’d been standing over my phone for ten minutes, trying to resuscitate it, but it remained unresponsive. I’m freaking out at this point. My lunch break comes around and I race to the phone store. I run in and slam my phone on the counter.
“My phone…. I think…. I think it’s dead,” I manage to gasp out.
The guy behind the counter – Eric, his tag proclaims – flips it open and tries to work some magic.
“Yeah, I think it’s not something we can fix since the on-off switch still works, but none of the others do,” he finally tells me. “What did you do to it?”
“I took it clubbing last night and it was working fine!”
“You must have spilled a cocktail on it then,” he jokes.
“No, it was in my back pocket the entire time.”
“Maybe…. you sat on it?”
I’m thinking in my head that sitting on a phone shouldn’t cause it to malfunction this way, but he’s supposed to know what he’s talking about, and maybe he’s joking anyway, so I say “Yeah, maybe…..Is there anything you can do?”
“……………..”
“You don’t understand how cute this guy is!” I exclaim, slamming my palm on the counter in emphasis. The customers all turn to glance at me.
“Well, it says here your next phone upgrade is in March….”
“Wha……? My sister usually takes care of this stuff……….. I don’t care about ‘upgrades’ or anything like that. I’m just……… he’s going to call me or text me after noon………… he’s so cute and he smells so good……”
The phone store employees and the customers around me chuckle.
“Then, did you want to get a new phone?” Eric asks.
“Yes, a new phone. Any phone. The exact same phone.” And that’s how I ended up paying about $150 for a replacement phone – well, the new version of the phone I used to have.
“And…. and you can switch over the contacts no problem?” I ask, my voice wavering with hope.
He disappears into the back room and comes out about 7 minutes later. I scroll through the numbers and cute guy’s phone number isn’t in there. I scream.
“Do something! Fix it! You don’t understand how cute this guy is!” I exclaim for the hundredth time.
He disappears into the back room again and he’s gone twice as long, but he comes back out with a completely restored memory. I proclaim him my Hero for the Day and run out the door, leaving a store full of laughing people.

The cute guy calls to tell me he’s fallen ill, but he would love to see me Monday.

“I don’t understand this…..Is this a rejection?” I ask, mostly to myself, but my friend hears and answers anyway.
“No, it’s called ‘Getting Sick’.”

Sunday.
I saw my first ever drive in movie.

Monday Night.
I should have known something was off when he insisted that I come over to his place to hang out rather than the usual date thing. After all, we met at a bar and it’s not like we know each other to merit a cozy “hanging out” session. But maybe he’s just shy, I tell myself.
So as a precaution, I write his name and address down on a piece of paper for my sister in case I turn up missing. And I give Tonks the guy’s info also, just in case. And I told Mr. Big to give me a call at 11 that night to make sure I hadn’t been drugged and tied up or anything.
I drive over to Milpitas, and yes, he’s already eaten dinner so I swing by McDonald’s and pick up a #9. I’m thinking that even if he’s saving up to buy a house, or he’s just really cheap, he could have just told me and I wouldn’t be annoyed half as much.
He doesn’t even leave the overhang of his apartment building to hold an umbrella for me as I walk across the parking lot to the entrance. Hmmm…..
His apartment is Spartan – it looks like a dorm room complete with models of Star Wars ships – which would be really endearing if he didn’t dismiss them as insignificant in hopes of currying a higher opinion of himself.
He’s awkward and insincere, reasonably intelligent but overcompensating for something in his past. He’s defensive and somewhat arrogant with no reason to be. And try as I might to put him at ease, I think the fact that I’m so open and accepting makes him suspicious. Go figure.
To top it off, I’m analyzing him and can glean that he has a low opinion of women and of relationships as a whole.
Whereas I’ve many friends who have been hurt in the past or who have come from less than ideal backgrounds and have been made stronger from their crucibles, this man was bitter, cynical, and sadly, unreceptive to any redemption I could offer.

So this weekend was full of revelations for me, more than what I’ve been able to write here since I’m still feeling sick, but at least I got a new phone out of it.

“So I’m dating someone….” I say as I light my cigarette. Mom pauses and turns the hose away so she can hear me. “He’s not…. he’s not the type of guy I usually date.”
She moves to the next plant on the patio and answers, “My friend told me I’m not supposed to over-water these orchids. She said they should dry out between waterings.”
“Yeah, you should prolly listen to her.” because I’ve told you the same thing a couple of times now, I finish in my head.
“I don’t think so.” And because I’m her daughter and I think because I even expected this answer from her, I know she’s talking about the man I’m dating and not the advice about the orchids.
“He’s not book smart, I know….. He didn’t …… he didn’t grow up here – didn’t have the same opportunities.” And even to myself my voice sounds quivery and the argument is weak.
She has that look on her face now. That tightly controlled exasperation, the slight anger, the barest hint of disappointment.
“Then he’s not enough for you.”
“He has a Good Heart. He’s a counselor – a rehab counselor.”
She turns the hose off and kneels beside a hydrangea bush which I’ve told her before needs to be moved to a shadier location, its delicate leaves burning to a rich blood red and yet it still stubbornly blooms with a profusion of hot pink flowers.
“It doesn’t matter if he has a Good Heart,” she mutters, but the clipped consonants sting me. She tries to avoid my gaze, but I can tell she’s watching me when I turn away and I can’t help but feel small and green and young as I whither under her scrutiny. It doesn’t help that I’m wearing my froggy pajamas under the peacoat with a scarf wrapped all the way to my lips.
I don’t know how to answer and I’m reminded of Austen’s Persuasion and how if I think about it, that story had a happy ending…. didn’t it?
“It doesn’t matter if he has a good heart,” she repeats, “Or that he didn’t have the same opportunities because you did. You’ve invested so much in your life……. ” We’ve invested so much in your life “and now you’re too busy looking for something you think you need, when what you need is to aim higher.”
I’m quietly smoking, the cigarette ashes falling into the crown of a succulent between my feet as she continues to say and not say the reasons there’s always a tension between us.
“You need a partner that can support you – “
“You’re saying I can’t support myself?!” I ask with indignation that’s only half-mocking. Of course she doesn’t think I can support myself – her Dreamy Child, her Helpless Warrior, her Boundless Soul.
“I’m saying …..” and here I can see she’s choosing her words carefully, “I’m saying what if you get laid off, what if you get injured?” what if you can’t continue pretending to be normal and the rug gets pulled out from under you by people who don’t understand, can’t understand, won’t understand?
“Not everything is about money,” I whisper.
She puts down the hose and turns to face me. “I want you to look for a better job.”
I gawk at her. Of course I knew she would get around to this eventually.
“I like my job,” I protest, and I’m ashamed of the weak mewling of my voice. Really, I don’t want to cry in front of her.
“Take advantage of the time you have now and look for a better job with a better salary,” and I remember that I’m supposed to be making at least twice as much as what I’m earning now, since I’ve got a degree and everything but still….
She must see some defiance in the way I set my mouth, because her tone softens when she offers “Or go back to school. If what you have is not enough….”
I mentally calculate expenses and tuition before realizing that she’s talking about taking on a different degree or pursuing my doctorate rather than money. And I have to agree with her. What I have – if I’m indeed expected to support myself in the way she wants me to – is not enough. Not nearly enough. But how can I tell her that the problem is me, within me, and most likely something that further education could not augment.
Because I excel at languages but lack the attention to detail that would make a successful programmer. I have the talent but not the strength of will to make a formidable writer. And I have the desire but not the mathematical intuition that would lead to a career in the sciences.
I am lost.
So I did what I always do when I find myself facing the obstacle of a purgatorial oblivion. I said:
“I shall try.”

Me: “I don’t prefer to use chopsticks because I’m not Asian!”
Tonks: “Yeah, but you have some Chinese in you.”
Me: “……. It’s been a while since I’ve had some Chinese in me……….”

---

It was a conversation at the dinner table that made me realize how shamefully superficial I can be about the people I associate with. For all the talk about how I don’t care what people look like or how much money they have, it seems that I can’t prevent my own heavy-handed judgement regarding something else that could possibly be beyond one’s control. At what point in time did I reserve special feelings and worth for only the Smartest and most Intelligent people? When did I value ruthless ambition and cunning? Why do I now equate a good salary with a person’s worthiness as a human being? Why is it ok for someone who is ignorant or poor to be beneath my notice or my mercy?

The realization saddened me. And even though I make excuses such as “I’m sure he’s smart in other areas like…. he could be ‘street smart’ or….. he could know a lot about cars,” why do I even have to justify it with statements like that?

It has something to do with the people whose company I currently enjoy. My family and friends – they like to roll up their sleeves and get into messy discussions about politics, current events in science and technology, breakthrough research, Milton, Derrida, Foucault. Unbidden, a thought of what a current beau would have said into the lull of a conversation had me red-faced in embarrassment. Me! Embarrassed about what someone could say to reveal how ignorant he is of this world of college-graduates and pseudo-philosophers. What the fuck is wrong with that? While we were compartmentalizing and programming our brains with thinking and rethinking scientific methods, he was struggling with his own demons on a much more physical and spiritual journey. While we were writing out term papers on the parsed hardships of 19th century social inequalities, he’s had to face 21st century ravages of injustice on the lowest level. While we kept our hands clean in our ivory towers, he’s been in the thick of turmoil that keeps the world turning – learning and understanding the problems of the common man, speaking his language with the sincerity that I could never duplicate.

I was sitting on the porch this morning, finishing a cigarette, when the newspaper arrived. It wasn’t delivered by the stereotypical boy on his bike throwing them haphazardly into flowerbeds. It was a middle-aged Mexican woman who drove up in a red pickup truck. She got out of the driver’s seat and walked it up to me. I met her half-way down the steps. I’d been waiting for the newspaper to try and glean more information about the upcoming elections, but as she placed it in my hand, I thought about what the “issues” were and how they would affect her – this woman who I imagined had to take a second job as a newspaper delivery person in order to “make ends meet” in an area of the country that boasts one of the highest “cost of living” status. How does she cope with rent? utilities? educational costs for her children? healthcare? What does she think of the war? Who does she support? Does she even bother reading the newspaper she delivers? Does she even have the time to?

I guess it’s something I have to work at: be less judgemental about People. Because no matter how many times I hear it or say it myself, it’s not always about “The Choices We Make.” There are so many things that happen beyond our control that to force that expectation on others is cruel and hypocritical.

So this doesn’t exclude myself. I judge my own worth too many times and too harshly to be at peace for long. I need to remember: we do the best we can with what happens to us and what we have. Why find fault with myself and cause unnecessary unhappiness with wishing that the people I care about were somehow different or “better”? Why make it Wrong to write for free and call myself a Writer? Why be ashamed to help people one person at a time instead of trying to enact rapid and global changes? And what do I gain by de-valuing that quality of quiet contentment in others? Who am I to judge why they shouldn’t be happy with their current abode, their level of education, their choice of career? If I bring to them that which I love: Knowledge, why sully the gift with ridicule and contempt? And if they’re not the sharpest crayon in the box, then so what? Maybe it just means that somewhere, some time, they were someone’s favorite color.

(clever by-line goes here)
So I’ve been blogging here for a while now, as well as other places. Yeah, yeah, I know, cheating on my blog. I’ll tell you truly though that this is the most complete set of my perverse and self-analyzing word vomit so no need to get your knickers in a twist looking elsewhere.
I want to blame so many external forces for the sporadic and glib posts lately, and the fear at its root is that I’ve somehow managed to lose whatever talent for verbalizing the turmoil of my emotions I once thought I had. Maybe…. maybe I’m supposed to suffer some insidious angst in order to think beyond the mundane and physical to achieve *that* metaphysical existence where I can just let my hands loose on the keyboard and pour out whatever it is that threatens to overwhelm my overtaxed neurons.

1. I’ve heard that one never truly gets over one’s high school sweetheart. I swear to god that it eats me up inside if I give it too much thought. Cliches about “The One That Got Away” whisper in my ears late at night when i turn down the covers and lay down in a bed as cold and lonely as a grave. And I wonder what it is that I miss – the simple warmth of a body? the shared history? the mutual discovery of sexual experience? Or is it deeper – and therefore more disturbing – than that? Do I miss the things we used to discuss; for he had a depth and breadth of intellect I’ve yet to encounter. Do I miss the way we could find each other in a crowded house – that I could lift my gaze from whatever I was doing and just know what direction to face and my feet would carry me there.
So, maybe twice a year, my thoughts dwell on dangerous memories and just as quickly as the maudlin thoughts come, they dissipate like candle smoke. Maybe…. maybe it’s not that we were high school sweethearts after all. Maybe it’s just because we were together for so long. I don’t think I can easily forget someone who was my constant companion for almost a quarter of my life. Plus, the sex was great …..

2. [I've said it a few times now, but I guess I should write it down for posterity.]
I walked him out of the bar, trailing him behind me like a cold balloon. He’d had too much to drink – he said it himself, and I tried valiantly to hide my disappointment.
He really wants to kiss me, he says.
“I wish …. I wish you didn’t wait,” I reply.
He looks abashed, and even though he sways a little as he stands, his eyes are endearing. He really wants to kiss me, he repeats.
I don’t remember who made the first move, but I remember my hands stroking the stubble on his chin. I pull him close and look into his eyes, trying to find something there other than alcohol and half-remembered ideas. With a grace and confidence I’ve never had when it comes to First Kisses, I gently place my lips on his and
              god it was electrifying…….
I move my body towards him, his breath ghosting warm and humid across the frigid winter night to touch my frozen cheeks with the slightest of unearthly caresses. More, I ask him, with every press of my lips against his, give me more than this last minute gesture of benediction and farewell before you leave tomorrow and I might not see you ever again because truly, this kiss is branding your presence on my lips and you can’t just break into my temple and leave nothing but your footprints and now that you’ve finally woken me up, you’ll be gone by the time I can stand again – gone where I won’t be able to follow.
I break away at the thought and the rush back into my body is a little disorienting and yet so clinically clear, and the crowded street is back in focus, and the stream of people leaving the club is surreal, and the button hanging off a frayed thread on my coat is suddenly more significant than anything I can bear. But still I gather up my wits to look him in the eye and say
“I really wish you weren’t drunk right now” because you’ll probably forget any of this happened in a few minutes and you’ll forget what color my eyes are by tomorrow, and you’ll forget what my arms feel like around you by the time you get on the plane, and you’ll forget I exist here in this lovely little town in a few months time.
You grab me and kiss me one last time, but it feels too much like an overeager goodbye, a protestation against everything I left unsaid, so I break away gently, nod to your friends, and walk to my car.

3. Even though I think you’re the cat’s pajamas, I will not have wild monkey sex with you.

Nor wild werewolf sex.

So if that’s all you’re after, I feel sorry for you.

And no! No pity sex either! Good grief!

4. I think I’m getting the hang of this whole “dating” thing. The lack of commitment. The obvious absence of responsibility other than to be present and ready to be picked up. It’s nice and refreshing, being cared for. I like that the goal of a few hours is just to have a “Good Time.” You don’t have to apologize for schedules that are fundamentally different, and part of the fun and feeling each other out is working around those schedules to see each other. I like that you don’t have to give a reason if you’re unavailable for a certain night. There are no explanations necessary for stumbling through the door at 3 in the morning, still half-drunk and smelling like a dozen different colognes. Everything is new and different, from the touch of a hand to the way each one kisses. You don’t have to watch the clock  because someone’s waiting impatiently for you to get home. Yeah, I like it.

5. At midnight on New Year’s Eve, I was weightless and flying on a swingset at the park next to the bar. I heard the boom boom of fireworks in the distance, the clack-clack-clack and high whistles of noisemakers, the joyous yell of hundreds of people coming from all the houses around us exclaiming in exultant abandon. As my swing swung downward I met his gaze and said softly, “Happy New Year, by the way.” 

It’s been a while since I wrote one of these, eh folks? I hope it’s because I’ve been too busy actually trying to live a life instead of analyzing one….

1. My mom does something that really bugs my sister and me; she has us wrap our own Christmas presents. Every year, she plonks down a shopping bag and has us (well, last couple of years, my sister has been the one to do the actual wrapping) box ‘em up, cover them in garish paper, and even write our own gift tags. This year, I said to her,
“You know what I really need?….”
“Date clothes,” my sister quips. Mom holds up a sweater.
“No, seriously…. I have no going out clothes…. I have like, one blouse and a pair of pants!” I exclaim.
“Oh! Show her the red one!” Mom instructs my sister, who dutifully pulls out a red blouse from the shopping bag. “What do you think?”
“It’s….. nice,” but not really something I would wear….
My sister wraps folds it into a shirt box and wraps it up, printing my name across the upper right hand corner so as not to mix up the small tower of white boxes sitting next to her. I turn to her and say how imperative it is that we go shopping for clothes for me at the -gasp!- mall; something I haven’t done in maybe a year.
“You have to go with me so you can tell me if what I pick out is completely stupid,” I beg.
We laugh about the current condition of my “Dating Wardrobe” or lack thereof. Has it really been that long since I’ve been single?
My mom holds the sweater up again.

2.
“I think …. I’m destined to be alone forever,” I sigh melodramatically as I slip into the chair at the breakfast table.
“Yup. But at least you’ll have your house of cats,” my loving sister responds.
“How can you say that? You’re supposed to be supportive and….. make me feel better about myself and…. I don’t even have any cats right now!”
She guffaws at what must be an incredulous and hurt look on my face.
I take a couple bites of stew and brood whilst I masticate.
“Is it normal for guys not to call you after a date?” I ask.
“Yeah, there’s a whole stereotype about that.”
“Huh…. go figure….. It’s been a while since I talked to him…. and by ‘a while’ I mean a day. …. Is that normal?”
“Yeah. It’s the way it usually happens.”
“And people are just ok with that?!?! Are you sure it’s not… there’s not something wrong with me?”
“I know! How can anyone not like you? You like yourself plenty!” she hyperbolizes.
“Exactly! And I enjoy spending as much time as I can with myself!” I reply, and we both giggle hysterically.
“I think you’re going about this whole ‘dating’ thing wrong,” she finally states.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, people usually go into a date – especially a first date – expecting it to fail and that nothing will come of it. That way, they’re not really disappointed when he doesn’t call after. So if you go on a date with low or no expectations, then when it does succeed and he does call you for another, it’s a happy surprise.”
“Oh……”

3.
“How was your date?” she asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I replied, turning away to avoid her compassionate face.
“That bad?”
“No…… that good.”
She blocks my escape route, demanding an explanation.
“It started with his eyes,” I finally confess “and the way he looks when he’s concentrating on something. I was so nervous – I know, me nervous! – that I could barely string more than two words together. He must have thought I was completely moronic. And when he’s talking I watch the way the sides of his mouth twitch and when he got closer, I could smell him and god! he smelled heavenly, and his hands looked so strong and capable, fascinating really, and the way he’s so passionate about his career and what he wants to do with his life, and everything…. just…. everything really…..”
“So, what was the problem?”
“Sadly, I think the attraction was utterly, undeniably, one-sided.” 

I’m achy, I’ve non-romantically induced chills, and I feel like I’ve been running around for the last 72 hours – which I have. I’ve finally come down with a cold.

Yeah…… life could be better.

You asked me why I don’t talk a lot when, after reading all these entries, I seem to overflow with words that could burst the strongest dam.

Well, here’s why.

If you know me, then you can tell what I’m thinking already.  It’s annoying to myself. I walk into a room and people ask if I’m ok, or what I’m angry about, or what’s so funny, or more likely, they don’t have to ask because they can tell the date didn’t go so well, or he said something that pissed me off, or I found something somewhere I’d never thought to look. My silence means I trust you to know what I’m thinking, feeling – the exquisite bliss of the first blush of love, the poignant breathlessness of unexpected grief, the wordless struggle of frustrated rage. And being thus overwhelmed, the mental capacity to form sentences briefly leaves me, and letting you see me so defenseless is my homage to our friendship.

If you don’t know me so well, it’s a similar situation. I can be so courageously candid with strangers if there’s no risk. But when my thoughts are fogged by attraction I get so easily distracted and stymied by advice from well-meaning friends and siblings. I feel like a foreigner trying to understand a new culture and a strange tongue, hesitant to speak in case I mispronounce a sentiment, nervously terrified of stumbling over my own intention. And then my overanalytical brain, forced to screen every utterance from my tongue, picks over each syllable like it’s the final draft of the magna carta. And by the time the thought is fit to be said to someone who electrifies my skin every time he turns his head a certain way, the moment is gone, and I feel like a fool.

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More often, I find myself wishing you lived a whole lot closer.

Close enough that I could run out of my house, jump in my car, drive to your street, knock on your door, crawl into your lap, and just let the scent of your neck comfort me. At least, for a little while until I get my feet back under me and I can hold my chin up again.

I don’t know how long I can handle this – handle the continued expenses of covering Ex-Beau’s self-medication. I’m realizing that it’s because I feel guilty for leaving him – even though I shouldn’t, god knows I shouldn’t, but the softness in my heart continues to yield. I think it’s also because a huge part of my psyche craves contact with anyone who could see me as more than friend or family. Sadly, darkly, I come to terms with the fact that if I were to cut him off completely, then I would be completely alone….

And still another part of me is scared of what he might do if he truly is painted into a corner. I know he won’t lash out. I’ve never seen him survive the crucible a better man. No, the opposite in fact; each obstacle that should burn away his impurities and emotional diseases seems to reveal more of the flaws and imperfections of a malformed spirit. I’m afraid that, left with no options, he’ll just up and kill himself.

No, I can’t be that cruel.

Beau has a new girlfriend already. I don’t know how to feel about that.

All I know is that it kinda hurts. Kinda hurts in the whole “Huh….. there’s a pain in my chest like someone shoved a balloon down my throat and it imploded” kind of feeling.

I found this out this morning when I made my weekly visit to the apartment to look in on the cats. He wasn’t there when I got in, but he arrived just as I was loading a box with old aquarium equipment for a friend. We exchanged the usual pleasantries – you know, the ones that get easier to say every time you see your ex-significant other in the old apartment you used to share.

He was quiet for a mo, then asked me if it would be ok – if I would be ok if he met someone new and started dating again.
“Of course!” I answered, “I want you to be happy, you know that.”
“Well…..”
“You met someone?…….”
“D’you want to see her picture?” he exclaims in a breath.
She’s rather pretty, in my opinion. More like the girls he used to go out with – blond hair, light eyes. Nothing like me at all. She looks older too.
“How old is she?” I ask.
“35…..”
“Oh…… Well, she’s very pretty. Is she kind? She looks kind. Have you gone out already? Did you  take her to your usual bar? Is that where you met?” I’m babbling at this point – anything to keep from being quiet and introspective. I keep up the one-sided conversation while he fiddles with his new phone. I can’t get out of the apartment fast enough now.
As I lug a suitcase of forgotten clothes down the stairs, I pause and chastise him for not taking out the trash, and I remind him gently that he should take better care of himself. And for next week’s visit, he should at least endeavor to have the kitchen clean if he needs me to do some of his laundry. And he stops me gently with “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. I just don’t like seeing you this way.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to be so nice to me. Not after …… you just don’t have to be so damn nice.”
I chuckle. How can I be anything else? It’s not like I could hate him for being human.
“This is me. It’s what I do, you know that,” I chide him.
And we end the visit as we always do, with him saying “I miss you….. I love you….. I’ll see you next week.”
To which I reply, as always “Ok.”

Ever since I moved out, I haven’t been smoking as much. Which is why these posts are so….. ragged. I smoke when I write. It’s a talent, I know, holding a cigarette between your fingers while typing. I abandoned that keyboard at the old apartment seeing as how some of the keys stopped working.

I wonder what’s going on in your life. Your posts are so…. introspective and  terse, bitingly cold with an impassioned distance. I imagine you writing with the windows open, the breeze carrying the smell of the sun around you in a white pureness that makes me want to close my eyes and rest my head on your shoulder. Sometimes I think you wait until the dark of night when the only people awake are you and I on opposite sides of the country separated by miles of water cutting like wounds across the skin of the land. I fantasize that you write for me, pouring out your thoughts like a determined warrior in a language only we speak. Sometimes, the words sound like you’re in pain so profound and secret, carrying an isolation so impenetrable that I want to impale myself on the spires of your fortress and let my hot blood melt that loneliness away. And sometimes, I think that my thoughts are too macabre to share with you, and instead I imagine the simple act of kissing life into you, a simple and swift exhalation of breath into your mouth until your lungs fill with borrowed life and your eyes are suddenly awake and aware and oh so alive!

Odd, I know.

Are you writing for me, then? Were you ever? If not, then don’t tell me, and I can keep pretending….. But I’ll not hide the secret that I write for you, or at least, I keep you with me in the room and you’re looking over my shoulder as I type. I just…. wanted you to know that even though it seems like I’ve disappeared in the cosmos and you’re met with radio silence or static, I’m still out here following a meandering orbit that brings me back to your stratosphere- you with your ever pulling gravity and seriousness….

And even if you don’t hear it on a daily basis, when your thoughts turn maudlin and unsafe, can you at least remember that someone somewhere searches for your beacon to bring her home?

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“So you mean to tell me that if you’re ever going to get married, you’ll eject some relative so you can have your dog in the wedding ceremony like carrying the rings or something sappy like that?” she asked as she fiddles with the air conditioning controls or the ipod or something on her side of the car.
“No, I’m just saying that I’d like to have my dog – and I’m sure I’ll have a dog by then if I ever get married – to be at the wedding. Wearing a little tuxedo with a bow tie…..” I reply.
“You know mammy’s gonna want to run the thing right?”
*Sigh* “Yeah…. I’m going barefoot though…. I want to have it outside and I want to feel my feet on the grass.”
“Then you’ll have to get a dress long enough to hide your feet. Mammy’s not gonna let you get married without shoes.”
“She doesn’t have to know until I show up.”
“Well, you should also wear a long dress because your feet are kind of ……”
And the sister perpetuates the complex she’s given me about how ugly my feet can be.

To her credit, she’s not the first person to tell me my feet are far from the cute hooves of celebrities or models. No, that honor belongs to the boyfriend of a good friend in high school.

Twilight looks different in Belgium, I noted, as the dove gray dusk seeped into the open windows and covered my tipsy brain with wooly fog. We sat on the bright red sofa, our bare feet propped on the glass surface of the coffee table in front of us, and Chucky yelling “Val doot, klotzak!” on the tv. Without preamble, he turns to me and softly exclaims “What happened to your feet?!”
I look at his, almost twice the size of mine, sun baked and foreign with a sprinkling of rough dark hair that crawls upward to cover his muscular calf. Then I look at mine which lack the pedicure I’m sure he’s used to seeing on his girlfriend. I examine them critically, taking in the slightly longer second toe which I’m sure means something superstitious, the dry skin and callouses from dancing barefoot, the strange curvature of the bones leftover from a childhood of ballet lessons, and honestly can’t find anything to disparage. What’s wrong with them?
“Why, what’s wrong with them?”
“They’re ugly!” and even though I know he’s just as relaxed and tipsy as I am, I can’t help but have my feelings broken a little.
“They’re not! At least they’re not hairy hobbit feet!” and I push at his with mine and he looks at his own, as if remembering that those were indeed his. He’s quiet and I know he’s going through the same self-evaluation, probably thanking whatever deity he believes in at the moment that he’s got such big feet with all the lewd connotations that go along with them, that his feet are large enough to carry his over six-foot frame across the football field, that his feet are large enough to take him on the path he wants to follow – filling the large footsteps of his father, and through the wilderness of his own uncharted life.
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s fallen asleep, but as I turn my head to check, he pounces on me and engages me in a tickle war until we’re red-faced and crying with tears.

So, sometimes I forget why my feet are ugly. But I’m thankful when someone reminds me, however bittersweet the moment may be.