I went out with Chloe tonight. It’s late, and I don’t even know if I am spelling her fake name right. Whatever. Chloe is engaged. That’s wicked awesome.
Two guys asked for my number tonight.
Lying again (blame my ego). One guy wanted to ask for my number (swear he did) but it was his birthday, and I didn’t know, ‘til he left, that it was his b-day, and that he needed a birthday hooker, not a good girl. The other guy? He was the bar tender flirting for tips. ‘nuf said.
But, the great/delusional part is, I actually thought if I flirted harder either one of them would have really asked for my number.
Nighty-night delusions. Come-ie-come reality, more delusions.
No matter.
Chloe really is engaged, and that’s pretty intense/awesome come what may…
I’m open for her, for me. I’m hopefull. I am supportive.
It’s late. I need top ramen. Ga’ nite.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Be a good friend!
I dug this up, a letter I’d written to one of my friends when something really hard had happened in their life. After my post the other day, writing about the question my friend Rod asked me: Have you lost your faith in men?, which he’d asked during a conversation about dating, I wanted to share this letter.
I think the things l wrote to my friend then are just as good Now.
To my friend:
I want to say that I love you and I value the person and the friend you are in my life more than words can ever express.
Next, I wanted to write to you so that I can tell you the things you need to hear but may not believe yet or may not yet be ready to hear.
1. First, you are one of the most beautiful people who will ever walk this earth and one of the most incredible women I have ever known. I know this because you are my friend. I chose wisely for myself when it comes to friends, and you are one of the smartest choices I have ever made.
2. Next, whatever someone, anyone, does, or does not do, to recognize the beauty I see in you (beauty that exists even without my recognition), it can never diminish the light that makes you so beautiful to me, to others, and to this world.
3. I want you to know that I think you are strong, stronger than you think you are. It’s not possible for you to have become the incredible person and friend you have become without strength. It takes a lot of strength to have the character and conviction you have in all your actions. It takes strength to show others respect when they have not shown you the same at times. And, it takes incredible strength to know yourself well enough not accuse others for who you are. Not once have I ever seen you blame another person for the choice you have made.
4. I want you to remember that not everyone has the kind of character you have. There are people who are weaker than you, people who will do things that will hurt you, that will make you feel as though there is something wrong with you. Never forget, the choices others make, they have nothing to do with you.
5. As hard as it is may be to swallow, find solace in remembering that nothing is personal. Meaning, because, more often than not, people act on their own behalf before thinking of others, their actions (good or bad), have nothing to do with others. And, while we’d all like to think we have had or have a hand in what others do, especially when it is good, we are not the ones who ultimately acted.
6. Also remember, that when someone close to us does something, that hurts so much we cannot understand how they could have done what they’ve done, that many of the things people do are because they are trying find or forget themselves and that has nothing to do with us. They are trying to work through pain or keep from adding more pain. That is not personal. It’s instinctual. That’s why we shouldn’t blame ourselves for the actions of others. That’s also why we cannot expect to change others and can only expect to change from ourselves.
7. Never forget that this too shall pass. What seems insurmountable now will be the thing that we see later, sometimes much later, needed to change in order to make room for something else that is even better for us. It’s hard to believe that something different, something more wonderful, could exist, especially when we are in the middle of our own storm, but change is the only constant and we are constantly changing to grow.
8. Lastly, remember that I love you, now and forever, and that I am here when you need me.
So...back to this post now and a request, if I may...
If you are going to do anything fabulous with your life, spend it being a fabulous friend. The friends I have in my life, they are jewels. They are incredible, beautiful, amazing people who have gotten me through EVERYTHING I have ever gone through. Every moment.
Even now, as my friendships grow with new friends, and other friendships have come to pass, I cannot say enough how lucky I am to have friends and to be a friend and cannot relish enough in how fortunate I am that many friends have come to stay.
xo and LOVE!!!!
I think the things l wrote to my friend then are just as good Now.
To my friend:
I want to say that I love you and I value the person and the friend you are in my life more than words can ever express.
Next, I wanted to write to you so that I can tell you the things you need to hear but may not believe yet or may not yet be ready to hear.
1. First, you are one of the most beautiful people who will ever walk this earth and one of the most incredible women I have ever known. I know this because you are my friend. I chose wisely for myself when it comes to friends, and you are one of the smartest choices I have ever made.
2. Next, whatever someone, anyone, does, or does not do, to recognize the beauty I see in you (beauty that exists even without my recognition), it can never diminish the light that makes you so beautiful to me, to others, and to this world.
3. I want you to know that I think you are strong, stronger than you think you are. It’s not possible for you to have become the incredible person and friend you have become without strength. It takes a lot of strength to have the character and conviction you have in all your actions. It takes strength to show others respect when they have not shown you the same at times. And, it takes incredible strength to know yourself well enough not accuse others for who you are. Not once have I ever seen you blame another person for the choice you have made.
4. I want you to remember that not everyone has the kind of character you have. There are people who are weaker than you, people who will do things that will hurt you, that will make you feel as though there is something wrong with you. Never forget, the choices others make, they have nothing to do with you.
5. As hard as it is may be to swallow, find solace in remembering that nothing is personal. Meaning, because, more often than not, people act on their own behalf before thinking of others, their actions (good or bad), have nothing to do with others. And, while we’d all like to think we have had or have a hand in what others do, especially when it is good, we are not the ones who ultimately acted.
6. Also remember, that when someone close to us does something, that hurts so much we cannot understand how they could have done what they’ve done, that many of the things people do are because they are trying find or forget themselves and that has nothing to do with us. They are trying to work through pain or keep from adding more pain. That is not personal. It’s instinctual. That’s why we shouldn’t blame ourselves for the actions of others. That’s also why we cannot expect to change others and can only expect to change from ourselves.
7. Never forget that this too shall pass. What seems insurmountable now will be the thing that we see later, sometimes much later, needed to change in order to make room for something else that is even better for us. It’s hard to believe that something different, something more wonderful, could exist, especially when we are in the middle of our own storm, but change is the only constant and we are constantly changing to grow.
8. Lastly, remember that I love you, now and forever, and that I am here when you need me.
So...back to this post now and a request, if I may...
If you are going to do anything fabulous with your life, spend it being a fabulous friend. The friends I have in my life, they are jewels. They are incredible, beautiful, amazing people who have gotten me through EVERYTHING I have ever gone through. Every moment.
Even now, as my friendships grow with new friends, and other friendships have come to pass, I cannot say enough how lucky I am to have friends and to be a friend and cannot relish enough in how fortunate I am that many friends have come to stay.
xo and LOVE!!!!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Have you lost your faith in men?
That is what my friend Rod asked me after I told him what happened to one of my friends. Before I tell you how I answered him, and what happened to one of my friends, let me make the same clarification I always make before sharing information about a friend: I have no intention of making it apparent which friend or when it happened. Meaning, this could have happened 10 years ago, last night, last month, 8 or 5 years ago. It doesn’t matter when it happened because this friend is not the only friend of mine who has had something like this happen to her.
What happened to my friend? Let’s do it this way… How about I tell you what happened to many of my girl friends.
Two of my girl friends have found out that their husbands had sex addictions and were sleeping with hookers (their entire marriages—long marriages). One stayed with her husband and had two children with him. The other? She filed for divorce a day and a half later.
Four other friends have gotten divorced because they, too, were cheated on by their husbands. They experienced the normal, shitty kind of cheating where their husbands just cheated on them with non-paid hookers (with a stranger, or with a friend, or with a friend of their friend, or with a gal from the office, just some non-marriage respecting hooker), which is a devastation all the same. With these friends, all four worked towards a divorce. They didn’t file as quickly as the one friend who filed to divorce her asshole in a day in a half. She holds the record for: U-go-GIRL and tell’n her hooker-loving husband: F’ you, bastard! Get out! But, each friend reached the same decision, to divorce, in their quick-enough time.
Some women need the blinders on longer than others do, and that’s okay. That just means they are holding on tighter to the good they ‘thought’ they saw rather than easily letting the bad in that is now in front of them. Who wouldn’t want to grasp for the good a little longer? Bad sucks. Bad hurts. Bad means the person being cheated on was also being lied to.
What makes me sad is that women, well, people, always feel like they lived a lie when they find out that they were cheated on. But they weren’t the ones doing the lying so the life they lived, and the love they gave in that life, it wasn’t a lie. They weren’t living the lie. The person who was doing the cheating, the person who believed they could be irresponsible and reckless with another person's heart and life, they were living a lie.
They were lying to everyone, even their self. When a person makes the choice to do something in spite of how it will affect others (and make no mistake, it is a choice), that person is lying in the worst way. They have fooled themselves that others don't matter. They’ve convinced themselves that they don't need others; therefore it is okay to be selfish.
But we all need each other. We cannot escape that; no matter how much we want to lie to ourselves and pretend, that our needing each other is not true, that truth remains. To that end, because others DO matter, we cannot make choices that rob others of what we all need the most: to matter most to the people we need and love.
Another friend, she found out her husband is not a cheater, but a porno-loving cross dresser. He had a taste for women’s lingerie while watching porno. Another friend, like the aforementioned friend, also experienced a porno-loving bastard in her life. It almost tore her esteem in half as this sick schmuck made her feel like she was the problem, like she was not desirable enough, rather than manning up and admitting he was a sick bastard.
Another girl had a porno lover in her life. Me. My ex fiancé, he was a porno lover. When I found a hidden stack of about 40 playboys, and I asked him to get rid of them, he didn’t. (They never do.) Of course he told me he’d gotten rid of them. I wanted to believe him. So I did. Until I was walking up the driveway and the notion hit me: Those f’n magazines aren’t gone and then I walked right to the new hiding spot. (Even then my intuition was good.)
By the way, many folks are probably asking, “What’s wrong with porno?” Well, maybe nothing according to many sexual therapists. But, for many, and for me, porno is thought to be as much of an addiction and a gateway behavior as certain drug/alcohol use can be. (Yeah, yeah. This from the self-proclaimed wino. Hey! Never said I was perfect and I already said I’m opinionated.)
After the first try, once and for all my ex-fiancé told he had gotten rid of those magazines. Oh, and he did. He gave them to his brother for safe keeping. That numbskull ex of mine even brought porno into our new place when we moved together, only it wasn’t more magazines. He’d graduated to video.
It was the lies (that were just as bad as the porno loving), among other things, that made me leave him. But I was one of the girls who needed my blinders on for another 7 months before I had the strength to leave this man I had loved so much, this man I’d wanted to hold onto the good for.
Once I’d already been planning to leave, but he didn’t know (I’d packed a bunch of stuff w/out him noticing) I relished in finding yet another porno tape of his and in pulling all of the tape out of its casing so that I could lay it ever so nicely across the trash The hard, black, cracked VCR-tape casing and all the tape, piled like shimmering, brownish-black fettuccini noodles, was destroyed and on perfect display over an old piece of lettuce and a crusty can of chili. On top of that pile was note written on a small piece of bright pink paper (about the size of a Post-it ): Do we need to talk?
I didn’t want to talk. I was done talking. But I know men hate the words: Let’s talk. How could I not f’ with him?
It’s just like Rod and I joked about when we had dinner the other night. I told Rod that every woman knows inside of the first 5 seconds she sees a guy if she is going to sleep with him or not. What I didn’t say is that every woman knows by the first date if she could or would marry the guy. And, just as important, every woman knows when she’s done. It may take her longer to be done, but done is then DONE!
It is sickness, you know, when people behave so badly, cheat so heartlessly. Sadly, in my humble opinion, it is the kind of sick that often cannot be cured. See, it is often our very nature that keeps us from doing the things that others can do; things which go against their nature (so they say). But if they can do it, that means they are capable of it, whatever it is, so that behavior is within their nature. Nature is not a nurtured or learned behavior. You cannot cure a person’s nature.
Anyway, to continue on the path of doing what I always do (protect the anonymity of my friends), you can pick which incident it was, that happened however long ago, which I shared with my friend Rod during a dinner conversation and which thus brought him to the question: Have you lost your faith in men?
Now, for my answer: “No,” I said.
Rod’s eyes widened a bit in surprise at my “no”.
Rod, he knows me well. We used to work together and traveled together for work as well. You can’t not get to know someone when you travel with them. Fact. But I think there was a part of him that might have expected I’d say yes.
Then I explained to Rod why my faith has not been lost. “I’ve known good men,” I said. “I’ve dated a lot of assholes, but most of my serious relationships have been with good men. Good, good men.”
I went on to say that my father is a good man. He’s never cheated on my mother in over 40 years of marriage. All my father ever wanted was to be married. In fact, he tried it twice before he married my mother.
Rod is a good man. You should have seen how Rod beamed when he talked about his girlfriend. After he showed me a picture of this gal, a total petite, blonde, cutie pie with strong, gorgeous features, who is a girl he’s known and has been friends with for over three years, his face was so bright and proud I thought his skin could crack. It was awesome to see that adoration wash over his smile. It was music to my ears to hear him say, “I’m a lucky guy,” when explaining that slow and steady finally won the race for him. (Plus, all you want is to see the people in your life happy. He’s happy.)
Rod knows the value of a woman. He knows the value of the woman he is with. Rod knows his own value. That’s key. They say you cannot love another until you love yourself. I say you cannot love yourself until you know you are worth loving. Tragically, many people don’t know that.
Rod also has a strong faith. As you may recall, in one of my earliest posts, I explained that I felt it doesn’t matter whether you are spiritual or are religious, or are even neither but believe just in something (even a door knob), one has to have a belief system in something higher or outside one’s self. One has to believe in their self, which translates into to believing in others. If a person lacks in either category, they lack period.
Lacking, feeling less in one’s own heart, that’s what makes a person treat themselves and others with less than the respect we ALL deserve. That’s what allows them to not believe in something outside of their self.
I’ll keep saying it: No matter our age, our gender, our race, or the shell we’ve borrowed in life (our bodies), we are the same. We ARE connected. And we should NEVER care less for each other. We need to care MORE!
My heart hurts for any woman, or man, who has suffered through being cheated on or lied to by a mate. But, the only way through it is up. If something like this has happened to you, then you know that. You know you had to reach for your own heights, your own success, your own worth and value, in order to get through it. And, if you are spiritual or religious, you had to reach up and outside of yourself and you had to believe that you weren’t alone. You had to believe that you would get through it all.
If anything like this happens to anyone you love, remind them to reach up. Reach for the sky; don’t hit the bottom. That’s the answer. They’ll tell you to: Go to hell!, because they will feel like hell, but keep reminding them until they have gotten beyond their hell.
And, remember to believe. Believe in yourself and keep believing that there are good people. How could their not be? The person reading this is good. The person who wrote it is good. That’s a lot of good.
What happened to my friend? Let’s do it this way… How about I tell you what happened to many of my girl friends.
Two of my girl friends have found out that their husbands had sex addictions and were sleeping with hookers (their entire marriages—long marriages). One stayed with her husband and had two children with him. The other? She filed for divorce a day and a half later.
Four other friends have gotten divorced because they, too, were cheated on by their husbands. They experienced the normal, shitty kind of cheating where their husbands just cheated on them with non-paid hookers (with a stranger, or with a friend, or with a friend of their friend, or with a gal from the office, just some non-marriage respecting hooker), which is a devastation all the same. With these friends, all four worked towards a divorce. They didn’t file as quickly as the one friend who filed to divorce her asshole in a day in a half. She holds the record for: U-go-GIRL and tell’n her hooker-loving husband: F’ you, bastard! Get out! But, each friend reached the same decision, to divorce, in their quick-enough time.
Some women need the blinders on longer than others do, and that’s okay. That just means they are holding on tighter to the good they ‘thought’ they saw rather than easily letting the bad in that is now in front of them. Who wouldn’t want to grasp for the good a little longer? Bad sucks. Bad hurts. Bad means the person being cheated on was also being lied to.
What makes me sad is that women, well, people, always feel like they lived a lie when they find out that they were cheated on. But they weren’t the ones doing the lying so the life they lived, and the love they gave in that life, it wasn’t a lie. They weren’t living the lie. The person who was doing the cheating, the person who believed they could be irresponsible and reckless with another person's heart and life, they were living a lie.
They were lying to everyone, even their self. When a person makes the choice to do something in spite of how it will affect others (and make no mistake, it is a choice), that person is lying in the worst way. They have fooled themselves that others don't matter. They’ve convinced themselves that they don't need others; therefore it is okay to be selfish.
But we all need each other. We cannot escape that; no matter how much we want to lie to ourselves and pretend, that our needing each other is not true, that truth remains. To that end, because others DO matter, we cannot make choices that rob others of what we all need the most: to matter most to the people we need and love.
Another friend, she found out her husband is not a cheater, but a porno-loving cross dresser. He had a taste for women’s lingerie while watching porno. Another friend, like the aforementioned friend, also experienced a porno-loving bastard in her life. It almost tore her esteem in half as this sick schmuck made her feel like she was the problem, like she was not desirable enough, rather than manning up and admitting he was a sick bastard.
Another girl had a porno lover in her life. Me. My ex fiancé, he was a porno lover. When I found a hidden stack of about 40 playboys, and I asked him to get rid of them, he didn’t. (They never do.) Of course he told me he’d gotten rid of them. I wanted to believe him. So I did. Until I was walking up the driveway and the notion hit me: Those f’n magazines aren’t gone and then I walked right to the new hiding spot. (Even then my intuition was good.)
By the way, many folks are probably asking, “What’s wrong with porno?” Well, maybe nothing according to many sexual therapists. But, for many, and for me, porno is thought to be as much of an addiction and a gateway behavior as certain drug/alcohol use can be. (Yeah, yeah. This from the self-proclaimed wino. Hey! Never said I was perfect and I already said I’m opinionated.)
After the first try, once and for all my ex-fiancé told he had gotten rid of those magazines. Oh, and he did. He gave them to his brother for safe keeping. That numbskull ex of mine even brought porno into our new place when we moved together, only it wasn’t more magazines. He’d graduated to video.
It was the lies (that were just as bad as the porno loving), among other things, that made me leave him. But I was one of the girls who needed my blinders on for another 7 months before I had the strength to leave this man I had loved so much, this man I’d wanted to hold onto the good for.
Once I’d already been planning to leave, but he didn’t know (I’d packed a bunch of stuff w/out him noticing) I relished in finding yet another porno tape of his and in pulling all of the tape out of its casing so that I could lay it ever so nicely across the trash The hard, black, cracked VCR-tape casing and all the tape, piled like shimmering, brownish-black fettuccini noodles, was destroyed and on perfect display over an old piece of lettuce and a crusty can of chili. On top of that pile was note written on a small piece of bright pink paper (about the size of a Post-it ): Do we need to talk?
I didn’t want to talk. I was done talking. But I know men hate the words: Let’s talk. How could I not f’ with him?
It’s just like Rod and I joked about when we had dinner the other night. I told Rod that every woman knows inside of the first 5 seconds she sees a guy if she is going to sleep with him or not. What I didn’t say is that every woman knows by the first date if she could or would marry the guy. And, just as important, every woman knows when she’s done. It may take her longer to be done, but done is then DONE!
It is sickness, you know, when people behave so badly, cheat so heartlessly. Sadly, in my humble opinion, it is the kind of sick that often cannot be cured. See, it is often our very nature that keeps us from doing the things that others can do; things which go against their nature (so they say). But if they can do it, that means they are capable of it, whatever it is, so that behavior is within their nature. Nature is not a nurtured or learned behavior. You cannot cure a person’s nature.
Anyway, to continue on the path of doing what I always do (protect the anonymity of my friends), you can pick which incident it was, that happened however long ago, which I shared with my friend Rod during a dinner conversation and which thus brought him to the question: Have you lost your faith in men?
Now, for my answer: “No,” I said.
Rod’s eyes widened a bit in surprise at my “no”.
Rod, he knows me well. We used to work together and traveled together for work as well. You can’t not get to know someone when you travel with them. Fact. But I think there was a part of him that might have expected I’d say yes.
Then I explained to Rod why my faith has not been lost. “I’ve known good men,” I said. “I’ve dated a lot of assholes, but most of my serious relationships have been with good men. Good, good men.”
I went on to say that my father is a good man. He’s never cheated on my mother in over 40 years of marriage. All my father ever wanted was to be married. In fact, he tried it twice before he married my mother.
Rod is a good man. You should have seen how Rod beamed when he talked about his girlfriend. After he showed me a picture of this gal, a total petite, blonde, cutie pie with strong, gorgeous features, who is a girl he’s known and has been friends with for over three years, his face was so bright and proud I thought his skin could crack. It was awesome to see that adoration wash over his smile. It was music to my ears to hear him say, “I’m a lucky guy,” when explaining that slow and steady finally won the race for him. (Plus, all you want is to see the people in your life happy. He’s happy.)
Rod knows the value of a woman. He knows the value of the woman he is with. Rod knows his own value. That’s key. They say you cannot love another until you love yourself. I say you cannot love yourself until you know you are worth loving. Tragically, many people don’t know that.
Rod also has a strong faith. As you may recall, in one of my earliest posts, I explained that I felt it doesn’t matter whether you are spiritual or are religious, or are even neither but believe just in something (even a door knob), one has to have a belief system in something higher or outside one’s self. One has to believe in their self, which translates into to believing in others. If a person lacks in either category, they lack period.
Lacking, feeling less in one’s own heart, that’s what makes a person treat themselves and others with less than the respect we ALL deserve. That’s what allows them to not believe in something outside of their self.
I’ll keep saying it: No matter our age, our gender, our race, or the shell we’ve borrowed in life (our bodies), we are the same. We ARE connected. And we should NEVER care less for each other. We need to care MORE!
My heart hurts for any woman, or man, who has suffered through being cheated on or lied to by a mate. But, the only way through it is up. If something like this has happened to you, then you know that. You know you had to reach for your own heights, your own success, your own worth and value, in order to get through it. And, if you are spiritual or religious, you had to reach up and outside of yourself and you had to believe that you weren’t alone. You had to believe that you would get through it all.
If anything like this happens to anyone you love, remind them to reach up. Reach for the sky; don’t hit the bottom. That’s the answer. They’ll tell you to: Go to hell!, because they will feel like hell, but keep reminding them until they have gotten beyond their hell.
And, remember to believe. Believe in yourself and keep believing that there are good people. How could their not be? The person reading this is good. The person who wrote it is good. That’s a lot of good.
Friday, July 23, 2010
The Singing Neighbor
We’re okay that everything is out of order, yes? Meaning, when I started this post, which is, obviously, about the singer, Singer, Chad and Heather hadn’t thought to fix Singer up with Ike yet, so the post just before this one, “I’m going to knock on your door to come cuddle with you…” happened after we met Singer.
Why mention the confusion on the order of the posts? Well, I’m getting to that point where my posts are starting to blur. I really don’t know what I’ve said/written about (although I know I’ve said that before). I’m not about to go back and check earlier post to keep from repeating myself. The move has fried my brain a bit. And, I’ve given up on always making total sense. (It’s too much work.)
So, it was about however many weeks ago, and there we are, Heather and me. We were just chill'n outside, like we often do at least one night a week (usually on Friday nights), sometimes Saturdays, too, and drink’n and home’n. That’s my slang for how nice it is when the people outside your kitchen door, your neighbors, who are only 5’ away, are a couple of the people you like to hang out with on a Friday night when you have that glass of wine or two. This way, you don’t have to drink and drive.
Heather and I, we were having one of our conversations, about I cannot remember what (still typical of my brain lately), and as we were sitting there, surrounded by the many (probably too many) succulents and flowers I've accumulated through the years (those babies were a bitch to move), suddenly Heather says, "Shhh. Can you hear that?" And I could. It was singing. Great singing.
The girl's voice, a bit haunting and beautiful, was coming from one of the neighbor's windows. Not from a neighbor in our bungalow row (old style bungalow duplexes), but from the closer of the two more-kept-up and modern two-story apartments near us. Both apartment buildings sandwich and stack up on the modest and dilapidated, one-story, almost condemned 3x by the city, place I called home for the last 13 years. (Remember? It was the low rent in the high-rent neighborhood that kept me there. Location, location, location.)
Heather and I move closer to the arch that opens up to this singing neighbor's window, and we pressed our ears to the air and to the distance between us and her voice. "She's good," I said. "Really good," Heather said. "Right?!" I agreed.
It was a heart break song we were hearing. She was writing as she was singing. There went the chorus...no, the melody...okay, back to chorus. Who cares the song wasn't worked out. I was feeling it because I was missing Watt. (I know. Watt, Watt, Watt. Marsha, Marsha, Marsha. That missing him, missing being with someone, that's not going away over night. I’ll dwell on him for at least another month, or until I meet my man.)
Heather wanted Chad to hear our Singing Neighbor. When Heather went inside to get Chad, the singing stopped for a spell. Singer answered her phone. She was telling someone that she was wanting to go to the studio and that she was just writing.
Oddly, since that first night, I never heard Singer mention studio time or a desire to do anything with her singing again. Maybe her singing that night was just her way of introducing herself to the neighborhood. It worked.
Heather was so impressed by Singer’s singing that some get-up-and-go got a hold of her. "Hold on!” Heather said to me, holding her hand up to the air and me. It was a stop everything “hold on”. Then Heather got up from her chair, walked out of our back area between kitchens, down the bedroom alley of our bungalow row, and the next thing I hear, from Singer’s window, is Singer saying into the phone, “Wait a second. Someone is at my door.”
“Hey. I’m your neighbor,” Heather said. Me and my friend, another neighbor, were just listening to you sing and thought you sounded great. So what’s your story? You a singer?”
I can’t remember how Singer responded, I just remember Heather’s voice coming from Singer’s window even louder, and when I turned around Heather was pointing to where we live(d) below and was asking Singer if she wanted to come hang out with us. From her living room window Singer waved to me. I waved back.
About 15 minutes went by. Time enough for Singer to tell the person on the other end of the phone that she’s never felt more alive, that a new neighbor could come over and compliment her singing, believe in her singing more. She mentioned something about breaking up. (I can only assume now that she was talking to either Keeping-Him-Around guy or to the prison ex-boyfriend.)
Then, Singer came over.
Next I know, Heather is showing Singer into her living room to show her that she and Chad have a used coffin for a coffee table. Then Heather and Singer are off and running. Heather is telling Singer about her renegade roller derby. I think I remember Singer might have mentioned something about having a fake tooth, but wanted to do roller derby also and anyway. Someone mentioned something being angry about some things in life (probably Singer). Heather probably parroted the anger.
Singer apologized for being so faded, and told us about her prison ex-boyfriend. Oddly, this prison guy he’s got the same name as Watt. No. His name is not Watt, because that is a made up name, but prison guy has the same uncommon of a name as Watt’s real name. That was weird for me, especially because Singer tells me that prison guy, her ex, and my Watt are the same age and from the same city. (Thank you Face Book for making people’s pictures so available so I could see that my Watt wasn’t suddenly some liar with a past, a prison record, and another girlfriend.)
Scarier, is the difference between saying you’re faded when you are 40 vs. 20 years old. At 20 it means you are on a path of youthful annihilation (drugs and such). At 40, it either means: Take me home honey; I’m tired. Or, I am a little tipsier than I might have wanted to get.
Then, after the conversation about smoking-out happened (smoking pot), out came the oxy conversation. (Again, refer to my most previous blog for an oxy definition.) Singer explained how oxy is a cleaner high than “H” and how you can smoke it, shoot it, whatever. (For those in the dark, like I was, “H” is the street slang for heroine.) As a reminder, this, when the oxy convo started, is when I had to go pee and didn’t come back.
Disclaimer: I am not saying anyone did oxy. It’s up to you to decide what a conversation about oxy means.
While back at my house, fake peeing, and safe on my couch in front of my TV and ready to prepare to watch one of my favorite recorded TV episodes, “How I Met Your Mother,” I thought: Huh. Singer said she didn’t have an appetite and couldn’t drink because she just broke up with her boyfriend, yet… Uh, yeah, loss of appetite can also happen when… (Just saying… )
It was all so out of my zone. My friends, my generation, we drank too young. We smoked cigarettes and ate French fries and onion rings too late at Bob’s Big Boy. We snuck out of our houses to kiss boys. We went places we were too young to be. We used our allowance for Atari and Bionic Woman stuff. We used too much hairspray on our bangs by the time we were teenagers. We made the mistake of mixing black lace with neon (I blame Madona) and were stupid enough to think hyper-color was cool. And, we only showed our bellies in public (not all of our flesh) for a period of three years when the misguided idea of crop tops were fashionable.
We did not show our butt cracks and thong underwear, nor boxers, as fashion. We didn’t stand in the street in our underwear and argue with our boyfriends. We didn’t “discuss” the street names of hard drugs nor do them. (Well, some kids did.) We didn’t spend our money per pill. We didn’t pierce our eyebrows or tongues or stretch holes into our earlobes. (We just pierced our ears twice…oooh, so daring.) We didn’t try to make our teeth look like we had bad decay with gold caps. We didn’t have friends in common and say things like, “I know that guy, too. He tried to rape my friend.”
This is not me being judgmental. People can do whatever they want. I’m not going to think more or less of them. I might worry more than less though. My point? I’m just not always going to be comfortable around it.
Back when I used to be around one of my cousins who did drugs, who used to take me to people’s houses in bad neighborhoods to do those drugs, and who used to introduce me to people who looked like they’d have their picture posted in the post office, I was uncomfortable then.
Coincidentally, when I pressed play on the “How I Met Your Mother” episode, it happened to be the one with the Murtaug list, where they talk about all the things they are getting too old for, like how Murtaugh, from “Leathal Weapon” kept saying, "I'm gettin' too old for this shit."
That’s one of the reasons I also know it was time for me to move. I love Chad and Heather. If they had not moved in I would not have been able to bear the B.S. from the other butthead neighbors. Chad and Heather will always be in my life if they keep up with our friendship. But Chad and Heather are close to 15 years younger than me. I am too old to be doing the things they do, even when all they are doing is staying up past 10:30 p.m.
The thing that sucks, is that I have been too old to share walls (in an apartment) since I was 26. I have been too old, and too OVER, hearing the noise of other people who don’t live with me. And while I always have been, I don’t want to be careful about my noise either. I don’t want to have to put a robe on when I get out of the shower for fear that a neighbor can see into my window and will see the sideways sag of my 40 year old breasts.
As much as I love people, what I want is not to rent. I want to own. I want to be noisy and naked where no one can hear or see me. Beach house without close-by neighbors, where are you?
What’s funny, is before Watt, I thought I wasn't getting laid because I was boring. Um, no. I've since figured out that I'm not boring. I’m just reasonable and responsible and I am not reckless.
On my first date with Watt, I didn't want him to park in this space where he might get a ticket. He didn't care if he got a ticket, but he moved his truck for me and parked elsewhere to appease me. Then we parked in a parking lot where you are required to pay using the honor system. Slip your two bucks in the numbered space where you parked, and yer set.
Watt never paid for our slot that night. I was so mesmerized by him I didn’t realize it. It was three weeks later when he told me, teased me about how he didn’t pay. It was a week after that that he’d gotten a parking ticket for something else and got all pissed off. “See?” I said. Karma is a bitch.
Guess I'm just not a rule breaker. I like cussing. Does that make me a rebel? Sigh. Probably not. Ah, well. I'm fine with my play it safe, courteous self. What I lack in edge in that way I far make up for in passion. So, go me!
Since this is about the night I met Singer, though, I’ll get back to her and give the latest on what I know, as now that I have moved I may not know much anymore. I can report that to my knowledge Singer and Ike are still at it.
I felt like I was on one of their first dates. Singer reminded me, the morning after we’d all hung out, Chad, Heather, Ike, her and me, that I’d promised to go get burritos with her and Ike the morning after. (Ike had stayed the night at Singer’s place that night.) As the three of us walked up to this famous local breakfast burrito place, Nick's Deli in Seal Beach, Singer reached for Ike’s hand for the first time. It was sweet. I was a third wheel. (At least the burrito I got was A-mazing!)
Once again, Universe, I am ready for naked, noisy, and my man. For that matter, I am ready for naked and noisy with my man.
That is going to be FABULOUS!
Why mention the confusion on the order of the posts? Well, I’m getting to that point where my posts are starting to blur. I really don’t know what I’ve said/written about (although I know I’ve said that before). I’m not about to go back and check earlier post to keep from repeating myself. The move has fried my brain a bit. And, I’ve given up on always making total sense. (It’s too much work.)
So, it was about however many weeks ago, and there we are, Heather and me. We were just chill'n outside, like we often do at least one night a week (usually on Friday nights), sometimes Saturdays, too, and drink’n and home’n. That’s my slang for how nice it is when the people outside your kitchen door, your neighbors, who are only 5’ away, are a couple of the people you like to hang out with on a Friday night when you have that glass of wine or two. This way, you don’t have to drink and drive.
Heather and I, we were having one of our conversations, about I cannot remember what (still typical of my brain lately), and as we were sitting there, surrounded by the many (probably too many) succulents and flowers I've accumulated through the years (those babies were a bitch to move), suddenly Heather says, "Shhh. Can you hear that?" And I could. It was singing. Great singing.
The girl's voice, a bit haunting and beautiful, was coming from one of the neighbor's windows. Not from a neighbor in our bungalow row (old style bungalow duplexes), but from the closer of the two more-kept-up and modern two-story apartments near us. Both apartment buildings sandwich and stack up on the modest and dilapidated, one-story, almost condemned 3x by the city, place I called home for the last 13 years. (Remember? It was the low rent in the high-rent neighborhood that kept me there. Location, location, location.)
Heather and I move closer to the arch that opens up to this singing neighbor's window, and we pressed our ears to the air and to the distance between us and her voice. "She's good," I said. "Really good," Heather said. "Right?!" I agreed.
It was a heart break song we were hearing. She was writing as she was singing. There went the chorus...no, the melody...okay, back to chorus. Who cares the song wasn't worked out. I was feeling it because I was missing Watt. (I know. Watt, Watt, Watt. Marsha, Marsha, Marsha. That missing him, missing being with someone, that's not going away over night. I’ll dwell on him for at least another month, or until I meet my man.)
Heather wanted Chad to hear our Singing Neighbor. When Heather went inside to get Chad, the singing stopped for a spell. Singer answered her phone. She was telling someone that she was wanting to go to the studio and that she was just writing.
Oddly, since that first night, I never heard Singer mention studio time or a desire to do anything with her singing again. Maybe her singing that night was just her way of introducing herself to the neighborhood. It worked.
Heather was so impressed by Singer’s singing that some get-up-and-go got a hold of her. "Hold on!” Heather said to me, holding her hand up to the air and me. It was a stop everything “hold on”. Then Heather got up from her chair, walked out of our back area between kitchens, down the bedroom alley of our bungalow row, and the next thing I hear, from Singer’s window, is Singer saying into the phone, “Wait a second. Someone is at my door.”
“Hey. I’m your neighbor,” Heather said. Me and my friend, another neighbor, were just listening to you sing and thought you sounded great. So what’s your story? You a singer?”
I can’t remember how Singer responded, I just remember Heather’s voice coming from Singer’s window even louder, and when I turned around Heather was pointing to where we live(d) below and was asking Singer if she wanted to come hang out with us. From her living room window Singer waved to me. I waved back.
About 15 minutes went by. Time enough for Singer to tell the person on the other end of the phone that she’s never felt more alive, that a new neighbor could come over and compliment her singing, believe in her singing more. She mentioned something about breaking up. (I can only assume now that she was talking to either Keeping-Him-Around guy or to the prison ex-boyfriend.)
Then, Singer came over.
Next I know, Heather is showing Singer into her living room to show her that she and Chad have a used coffin for a coffee table. Then Heather and Singer are off and running. Heather is telling Singer about her renegade roller derby. I think I remember Singer might have mentioned something about having a fake tooth, but wanted to do roller derby also and anyway. Someone mentioned something being angry about some things in life (probably Singer). Heather probably parroted the anger.
Singer apologized for being so faded, and told us about her prison ex-boyfriend. Oddly, this prison guy he’s got the same name as Watt. No. His name is not Watt, because that is a made up name, but prison guy has the same uncommon of a name as Watt’s real name. That was weird for me, especially because Singer tells me that prison guy, her ex, and my Watt are the same age and from the same city. (Thank you Face Book for making people’s pictures so available so I could see that my Watt wasn’t suddenly some liar with a past, a prison record, and another girlfriend.)
Scarier, is the difference between saying you’re faded when you are 40 vs. 20 years old. At 20 it means you are on a path of youthful annihilation (drugs and such). At 40, it either means: Take me home honey; I’m tired. Or, I am a little tipsier than I might have wanted to get.
Then, after the conversation about smoking-out happened (smoking pot), out came the oxy conversation. (Again, refer to my most previous blog for an oxy definition.) Singer explained how oxy is a cleaner high than “H” and how you can smoke it, shoot it, whatever. (For those in the dark, like I was, “H” is the street slang for heroine.) As a reminder, this, when the oxy convo started, is when I had to go pee and didn’t come back.
Disclaimer: I am not saying anyone did oxy. It’s up to you to decide what a conversation about oxy means.
While back at my house, fake peeing, and safe on my couch in front of my TV and ready to prepare to watch one of my favorite recorded TV episodes, “How I Met Your Mother,” I thought: Huh. Singer said she didn’t have an appetite and couldn’t drink because she just broke up with her boyfriend, yet… Uh, yeah, loss of appetite can also happen when… (Just saying… )
It was all so out of my zone. My friends, my generation, we drank too young. We smoked cigarettes and ate French fries and onion rings too late at Bob’s Big Boy. We snuck out of our houses to kiss boys. We went places we were too young to be. We used our allowance for Atari and Bionic Woman stuff. We used too much hairspray on our bangs by the time we were teenagers. We made the mistake of mixing black lace with neon (I blame Madona) and were stupid enough to think hyper-color was cool. And, we only showed our bellies in public (not all of our flesh) for a period of three years when the misguided idea of crop tops were fashionable.
We did not show our butt cracks and thong underwear, nor boxers, as fashion. We didn’t stand in the street in our underwear and argue with our boyfriends. We didn’t “discuss” the street names of hard drugs nor do them. (Well, some kids did.) We didn’t spend our money per pill. We didn’t pierce our eyebrows or tongues or stretch holes into our earlobes. (We just pierced our ears twice…oooh, so daring.) We didn’t try to make our teeth look like we had bad decay with gold caps. We didn’t have friends in common and say things like, “I know that guy, too. He tried to rape my friend.”
This is not me being judgmental. People can do whatever they want. I’m not going to think more or less of them. I might worry more than less though. My point? I’m just not always going to be comfortable around it.
Back when I used to be around one of my cousins who did drugs, who used to take me to people’s houses in bad neighborhoods to do those drugs, and who used to introduce me to people who looked like they’d have their picture posted in the post office, I was uncomfortable then.
Coincidentally, when I pressed play on the “How I Met Your Mother” episode, it happened to be the one with the Murtaug list, where they talk about all the things they are getting too old for, like how Murtaugh, from “Leathal Weapon” kept saying, "I'm gettin' too old for this shit."
That’s one of the reasons I also know it was time for me to move. I love Chad and Heather. If they had not moved in I would not have been able to bear the B.S. from the other butthead neighbors. Chad and Heather will always be in my life if they keep up with our friendship. But Chad and Heather are close to 15 years younger than me. I am too old to be doing the things they do, even when all they are doing is staying up past 10:30 p.m.
The thing that sucks, is that I have been too old to share walls (in an apartment) since I was 26. I have been too old, and too OVER, hearing the noise of other people who don’t live with me. And while I always have been, I don’t want to be careful about my noise either. I don’t want to have to put a robe on when I get out of the shower for fear that a neighbor can see into my window and will see the sideways sag of my 40 year old breasts.
As much as I love people, what I want is not to rent. I want to own. I want to be noisy and naked where no one can hear or see me. Beach house without close-by neighbors, where are you?
What’s funny, is before Watt, I thought I wasn't getting laid because I was boring. Um, no. I've since figured out that I'm not boring. I’m just reasonable and responsible and I am not reckless.
On my first date with Watt, I didn't want him to park in this space where he might get a ticket. He didn't care if he got a ticket, but he moved his truck for me and parked elsewhere to appease me. Then we parked in a parking lot where you are required to pay using the honor system. Slip your two bucks in the numbered space where you parked, and yer set.
Watt never paid for our slot that night. I was so mesmerized by him I didn’t realize it. It was three weeks later when he told me, teased me about how he didn’t pay. It was a week after that that he’d gotten a parking ticket for something else and got all pissed off. “See?” I said. Karma is a bitch.
Guess I'm just not a rule breaker. I like cussing. Does that make me a rebel? Sigh. Probably not. Ah, well. I'm fine with my play it safe, courteous self. What I lack in edge in that way I far make up for in passion. So, go me!
Since this is about the night I met Singer, though, I’ll get back to her and give the latest on what I know, as now that I have moved I may not know much anymore. I can report that to my knowledge Singer and Ike are still at it.
I felt like I was on one of their first dates. Singer reminded me, the morning after we’d all hung out, Chad, Heather, Ike, her and me, that I’d promised to go get burritos with her and Ike the morning after. (Ike had stayed the night at Singer’s place that night.) As the three of us walked up to this famous local breakfast burrito place, Nick's Deli in Seal Beach, Singer reached for Ike’s hand for the first time. It was sweet. I was a third wheel. (At least the burrito I got was A-mazing!)
Once again, Universe, I am ready for naked, noisy, and my man. For that matter, I am ready for naked and noisy with my man.
That is going to be FABULOUS!
“I’m going to knock on your door to come cuddle with you,” he keeps saying.
He's also said I'm set in my ways? Well, I guess I am showed him. (Not that he ever really cared what if I showed him.)
You might be wondering: Who am I showing? Who said I was set in my ways? Chad and Heather's friend, Ike said it.
When did Ike say this? Why did he say this? You can't guess why? First off, and sad off, what he should have said was that I’ve been "stuck" in my ways. Capital letters STUCK.
Backing up...
A couple of weeks ago, maybe it was a more than a month ago, a new neighbor moved in near Chad and Heather and I. This all went down at the old place, as I am now in my new place.
Oh, and I also think that somewhere along the way I said I had some posts to catch up on. I’m now catching up.
Going back to backing up… I should also mention that time is starting to blur. I’m exhausted. The bags under my eyes have their own bags. All I know about time right now is not weeks, days, or months, but just pre-move and post-move. In other words, what you are about to read happened pre-move and right before my: I'm moving! That's it! epiphany.
Anyway, the new neighbor who moved in, she's a singer. There’s another story there, about the neighbor’s singing, and the first night Heather, Chad and I met her because of her singing. (Yet another post in the blog queue). Regardless, her singing is why, here on out, we're calling her Singer.
It’s also important to note that Singer is this total olive-skinned, So-Cal cutie type: dyed blonde hair, petite, great high-arched eyebrows, high cheek bones (the works), mixed with a bit of exotic, bad-girl edge. She's like a blonde Kim Kardashian—great stomach and tooshy and all. Not long after meeting Singer, Chad and Heather decide they want to fix Singer up with their friend Ike.
Ike and Singer? My first impression of them as a match? It's an explosive match to be made. I thought, if it hits, if they get together, it’ll be like setting a match to a sparkler. There will be the hot of the strike when the physical stuff starts. The courage of liquid and/or drugs will likely be involved to get things going. (They’d taken longer than expected to lift off.) Then the real fire will start and things will ignite like a flash.
But, because the flicker will be brightest at the beginning, as that kind of intense blaze doesn’t usually have staying power, when it comes time to stop playing with fire, and the haze of the alcohol (and other such mind-numbing and/or enhancing substances) wears off, and life and reality set in, they’ll burn each other out.
Like with a sparkler, the fire will get too close to their edges. That’s when it’ll be time for them to let go of each other, to throw water on it all, to run, to yell. Then they’ll dig some drama up. Then they’ll end it. Then they’ll go back to it again, end it again, go back again, end it, go, end! GO! YES! NO! END!
Everything they loved (or infatuated) about each other will sting their eyes like smoldering smoke. That’s just how it can be with sparklers. They’re beautiful, brilliant even, for a second. That is, right before you almost loose/blaze a finger off or poke/sear someone’s eye out. When people are like sparklers, the same thing happens: fire, smoke and tears. The 4th of July is always over when someone gets burned or slips on all the water that’s splashed out of the pool.
Is that a strong opinion about how a romantic exchange will go between two people I have no business taking bets on? Yes. Do I think I am right? Got no clue on this one. This isn’t my feeling, or a knowing. I’m basing this off of experience. Not my experience, but the experience of watching how it goes when two people, who both perpetually play with fire in life, get together. An explosion, a combustion, an implosion, a something, usually goes off or in and things get all dramatic and volatile as shit starts to go up in flames.
Or, Singer and Ike could get married and last 50 years. What do I know?
From what I’ve seen so far, though, Singer is a handful. And Ike, he is a bad boy, for sure. Well, some would say Ike is a male slut. I’d say he’s actually a good guy (and a slut). Ike is like those girls who hate to be alone and who want someone in their life so much that they will go with whomever is cute enough now. But, because Ike is a guy, he’s willing, even more willing than “those” girls, to keep his bed warm with a gal that’ll “pass” before he finds the one he’s really looking for.
It’s like what Chad has been saying all along: Some guys are born ready. Some guys get ready…
Ike was born ready. Ike was ready before he was born. He came out of the womb looking for trouble and women. Sadly, in my opinion (which is worth less than two cents), if Ike keeps spending his time with women who aren’t ready, who aren’t what he’s looking for, he’s going to keep mowing his through women and getting chewed up by them and/or he’s going to keep spitting them out.
More sad? Ike probably doesn’t even know what he is looking for, which is half the problem with most people. But that is of no matter. Since most boys like Ike, who are cute enough to keep getting into the trouble they look for, are sluts, they are never bothered enough by their own patterns to make a change. Why would they be bothered? They’re getting laid. That’s a man’s primal urge. Urge taken care of. Done.
Ah, to be a man.
Why do I think singer a handful? (Which is another opinion worth even less, but I do have my opinions.) Well, the post I’ve not gotten to, about how Heather and Chad and I met singer, will add to this, the definition of Singer’s handful-ness, but for starters we’ll just say that in the time I’ve known her she appears to be a bit of a man eater. Not the traditional kind, where the chick tries to devour a man because she’s just a bad-ass, high-maintenance chick from hell who blows through men and through every possession they can give her like wind blows through trees.
No, Singer is the kind of man eater who doesn’t know she is one. By the default of the lifestyle Singer leads, and how cute she is, and how young she is, she’s a killer. She’s ready for reckless with her life and with her heart and with the hearts of others—same as we all are ready to rumble wrong in our early twenties. But, Singer, the way she’s kicking off her twenties, she could give Heather a run for her money any day of the week. I haven’t figured out who is gonna live faster and die prettier. They’re pretty much skid for life-style skid right now. That’s not an opinion; those are the facts before me.
I know, I know. It sounds bad for me to say Singer is reckless. I know I also have no business comparing how Singer is choosing to live her life next to how Heather is choosing to live hers, especially because Heather is not just a neighbor (well, was a neighbor) but is one of my closest friends (which will probably also change now that I’ve moved.) But, let’s not forget that Heather kicked this year off with a drug and alcohol withdrawal seizure. Next, let’s throw it out there that the sadness/depression Heather said she felt because I was moving quickly subsided once she and Singer started hanging out regularly. (Which was right after the first night we met Singer.)
Another note to drop: Heather has not answered even one of my phone calls or texts in the two years we’ve lived next door to each other. Yet, in the weeks (now more than a month) that have passed, Heather has been all over Singer’s calls, texts, and door knocks.
Please do not mistake what I’ve just written as jealousy. It isn’t. That Singer and Heather have become all chummy and that I became unnecessary is just a fact. Here again, I’m not a jealous person. I do, however, know how to recognize that, in general, Singer is more useful to Heather than I ever could be in this Now, in Heather’s Now.
In Heather’s Now, Singer is a partner in crime. I am the voice of reason. Reason worked for Heather for a while, for a couple of weeks after her seizure, but that seizure was over a half a year ago. It’s time to drink and such again, even if Heather has to take care of the DUI that caused her to stop drinking cold turkey. Hell, it was time for Heather to drink again four weeks after the seizure.
Come on! A. who doesn’t want to drink when they have to go to DUI classes? B. We don’t arrive at a change because it is a reasonable change or because it is time in our life for changes that are reasonable. Nor does change happen because there is someone reasonable in our life showing us how to take some steps toward positive change.
We arrive at change when we have no choice. We change when we have to. Adapt or die.
Look, I didn’t move until I almost went crazy from the noise and the bad energy from the buttheads. I chose to adapt. No one could make that choice for me.
BTW, I have never been to DUI classes. But, I did drive one of my cousins to their DUI classes years ago, and this cousin would pound a six pack before class, then another 6 pack right after class. The class made my cousin want to drink more. That much I never forgot, even if it was almost 20 years ago.
After knowing Singer for only two days I had also learned that she had one boyfriend she was in love with (who screwed her over after he got out of prison) and another she was keeping around. (Chad says every guy is “in love” with the girl, whoever she is, when he is in the joint. Once he’s out, well… The guy Singer is keeping around? The non-jail guy? I felt bad for him. (I don’t feel bad for him now. We’ll get to that.)
My first impression led me to believe that this guy, this just Keeping-Him-Around guy, was beyond shredded for Singer. I felt bad for him because one day, when the three of us were hanging out, Heather and Singer and me, I heard Singer say to Keeping-Him-Around guy (on the phone), and I am trying to quote verbatim from memory, “Look. I am just bored with you. I don’t want to be with you anymore. I need time. Maybe later I’ll come around, but I’m going through some stuff right now and I just don’t want to hear from you. You need to give me space. Got it?!”
Singer had other choice words for Keeping-Him-Around guy, but it doesn’t matter now because Singer had broken up with him 3 more times after that break up. The final time that she broke up with Keeping-Him-Around guy, was when she and Ike finally got it together. Oh, and I don’t feel sorry for Keeping-Him-Around guy anymore because apparently he’s a cocaine user. And, he cheated on Singer. (Hmm? Another match that was lit like a bomb?)
I have to say it. I am so glad, and have even more respect for Watt, that Watt respected me enough to just let me go. Again, I may not have been with him long, but he’s still in my top 5 of guys for how awesome of a man he is. He couldn’t give me what I deserved. We both knew it. So, he let me go. Good man. (Still miss the bastard, though.)
On the meet-cute night, the night Chad and Heather had set up for Ike and Singer to meet, Ike decided to do what he always does when he gets a bit drunk. Ike flirted with me. Good idea? Well, Singer was standing just inside Chad and Heather’s kitchen, within earshot of Ike and me sitting outside in the shared patio, and Ike is telling me he’s going to ring my door bell later and come crawl into my bed to cuddle with me. You decide.
“You better nip that flirting in the bud this time, sweets. Your chance at tapping that (I pointed to Singer) is about to go down the drain if she hears you,” I said to Ike.
I know, you’d think I’d have a little more class in my communication style, and wouldn’t act like I am 20 and a dock-working-mouthy-bitch, but when you are trying to reason with a drunk person, who is also a lot younger than you, you lay it out. You use language they’ll hear.
Ike said, “I don’t care. Me and you. That’s what I want, Levan. I don't want her. I want you. You are so set in your ways. You’d be something to conquer.”
Chad is sitting outside with Ike and me and starts laughing. “He's so right, Levan,” Chad said. “You are set in your ways. He hit the nail on the head.”
“Yeah, yeah. Ya think I don’t know that?” I said. “Come on, here, guys. Ike didn't just hit the nail on the head. He built a cement foundation for the wood to put the nail into it and then hit it on the head. And you can both go to hell. Why do you think this moving thing is so scary for me?”
Then, Ike starts back up. “Come on, Levan. I'll love you. I'll give you foot massages every night. I'll treat you like a princess, a queen—” I laughed and interrupted him. “You’re so full of shit, Ike.”
“Shhh, me and you, Levan. You are so much sexier than her.” “That is true,” I said. “But you might want to take her on at some point, so you are going to need to keep your voice down.” “F… that!” Ike stammered. “I don't want her. I want you. Me and you, Levan.”
“You know, Ike, every time you come over and get a little drink in you, you always flirt with me because you know nothing will come of it.” Ike stands up, puts his hand to his heart, almost tips over (because he is that lit), then he swore. “I’m going to come cuddle with you! I’m going to come get you and cuddle. Admit it, Levan. I’m just too much of a risk for you—too much man.” “That’s right, babe. You are too much man for me.”
“But I can take your risk, Leven.” “But I can't take yours, Ike. I can't handle you. Remember? I’m too set in my ways.” Ike won’t give up. “But I can handle you. Come on! You already had your young guy. Try me on. I’m older.”
Yeah, Ike is a whole two years older than Watt, 28. What an experienced dinosaur Ike is.
“Seriously, Ike. Keep it down. Singer is going to hear you.” “Why do I want the young girl when I can have someone experienced and sexy like you?”
Did my ego like Ike flirting with me? I won’t bother answering that. Did my ego like that one of Chad’s other friends also wanted a stab at me? Answer still not necessary. Did I adore getting together with the best out of Chad’s friends at his and Heather’s wedding? Still obvious.
So, I did the polite thing. I didn’t tell Ike the real truth. I’m not ready for you because I am ready for the man in my life who doesn’t know people who have pot dealers, pill dealers, or any dealers, on speed dial. It’s also not in my fiber to be with a man who had become the second person, in less than two weeks, to mention some aspect of smoking, dropping, or using oxy, when before that I’d never even heard about oxy. So what if it was not Ike doing the oxy, but was his tattoo artist who had wigged out on oxy. So what if Ike was just reiterating the situation. That’s not my world. It never was.
Okay, it’s true, when I was younger me and my friends could crash on anyone’s living room floor without a blanket and use our shoe as a pillow. We all also starting smoking cigarettes insanely young because we wanted to be cool (that, too, was an 80s thing). But we managed not to get into the cocaine scene of the 80s, or any other intense fast living life-style. That’s what I am getting at.
In case you don’t know what “oxy” is, because I didn’t either, it is also referred to as OxyContin. On the street it’s called 'Oxycotton' and is, apparently, the drug du jour. OxyContin, taken in pill form, which is how it was intended to be used, is prescribed for pain, like for folks with cancer, or for others who have severe nerve damage, or even for those with sickle cell disease (among other things pain medication is prescribed for). It is a slow-release narcotic. Since the active ingredient in the drug is a morphine derivative, it is pretty much in the neighborhood of what’s found in Percodan.
Now, keep in mind, I am not an expert on drugs, or their descriptions. Thus, all the aforementioned information I’ve just given is summarized and may not be precise, as it is an amalgamation of the info I found on the Internet. My thing is, when I read on one Internet site that oxycotton (another way I saw it spelled/referred to), when bought on the street, can be crushed and then snorted, delivering a faster and intense high that is supposed to be better than heroin, and that is something close to what I heard Singer say on the first night I met her, and Ike is okay with dating someone who also has the word “oxy” in their vocabulary, there again, Ike may not be my type.
Oh, one small clarification: Singer didn’t talk about snorting oxy. No. She explained that it could be burned. Then, when a piece of tin foil was produced, which looked like it had oven grease on it (I was guessing that soot trail was the oxy), I’m not going to say how it showed up. I’ll just say that I announced that I had to go to the bathroom and then I went home and didn’t come back that night.
It’s all so sad. Tattoo people, like Ike, and Chad and Heather, are my people. I am not one of them, not really, as I only have one tiny, spiritually based tattoo that I got when I was 22, and it is hidden, hidden, hidden, but I love the tatted up. They're edgy artists at heart. But whether it is Heather saying it, or Ike, or Chad, or Singer, or other friend’s of Chad and Heathers, I’m a little out of my comfort zone when people are having a conversation that refers to drug use or which involves taking turns and saying, “When I was in jail…”
Phrases like: “No way, man. You’re screwed if you have on gang colors” and, “Have you ever done…?” are just a totally different neighborhood than the one I want to drive down. Various colors of the drug rainbow references should also be left to celebrity rehab reality TV shows, not conversations outside my kitchen window. ‘Nuf said.
My conversations with my friends are so different. My friends say things like: Let’s do a girl’s night. We need to get together to catch up over a glass of wine. I’ve been so busy, but I’d really love to do happy hour or grab a bite if we can fit it in. And, the word “jail” is just not one of the four-letter words that have frequented our lips.
Simply put, I want the guy who is like my girl friends. He only drinks it up on a week night every once in a while. He’s got to get up for work in the morning; weekday partying just isn’t conducive to a calm life. He drinks on the weekends. That’s in order. Sure. But, he orders a cab when he goes out with the boys. He can also be a situational alcoholic like me. That’s fine. He can drink his way through a tough month, like if he’s just moved, started a new job, and his dog has died. (If he just broke up with his boyfriend, that’s not going to work). But past tough, occasional situation(s), and using a glass of wine or a beer to relax after a hard day, I draw the line for alcohol abuse. My line on drug abuse is about 100 feet wide and a ga-tril-zil-billion feet long. Can’t do a guy like that.
I guess you could say I was 40 by the time I was 18. My twenties, as I’ve mentioned a lot, were a bit wild, but when you move out of your parents home at 18 years old, two weeks after you’ve graduated high school, and you start taking care of your own business (paying bills on time, making rent, setting up your good credit) by the time you are 40 you really are ready for someone else who has put the hard and fast living behind them.
Shoot, even when I was 18-20 years old, living in Lake Tahoe, and sneaking into casinos under age, I was mostly sneaking into those clubs to dance (and to meet boys). But I really did just dance all night. By the time I was going to move from Tahoe, to move in with the man who later became my ex-fiancé, every bartender from ever club I went to said a variation of the same thing to me, that I was one of the few locals who they never saw leaving with a tourist to slut it out. (Little did they know Jen’s older sister and I left w/ plenty of tourist to keep partying.) Still, it was later, when I was almost 20, that ex-fiancé who I had met in Lake Tahoe who was was the first man I offered all of me to.
So, pitter-pat had gone my ego. Thanks, Ike. Thanks for the extra ego nudge later when you gave it one last shot. “Levan, come on. You know you want to cuddle. There are millions of guppies in the sea but you are my marlin, the big catch.” This last ditch happened much later that night when my urge for a fake grilled-cheese sandwich hit and Ike saw my kitchen light go on. Heather, Singer, Ike and Chad were all still up partying and while Singer and Heather were inside Chad and Ike were outside smoking.
(I say fake grilled-cheese because I make my grilled-cheese sandwiches with almond cheese and with olive oil on the bread instead of butter, and I use 100% stone-ground whole wheat bread. Not the fattening delight of a real grilled-cheese on enriched white bread, but not bad.)
Even if, as I’d told Ike earlier (trying to help him out with Singer), that the sure way to a woman’s heart, which is to compliment the hell out of her and make her feel wanted, would always fail on me where he was concerned (because he has always been full of shit where I am concerned and doesn’t care in that way in reality), I thanked him for the way he made my ego swoon.
Ike has been asking me to “cuddle” since the first night I met him, that’s worth the kiss I blew him threw the kitchen window, when I said, “Good night, guys. I’m going to bed.” Chad laughed and teased Ike and said something to the affect of: You’re never going to break her down.
It was already 11:40 p.m. at that point, when Ike still wanted to cuddle. Even if I didn't have to work the next day it was way past my bed time. Of course, I had to wait another 30 minutes to get to sleep because the buttheads had decided to cause a commotion for 30 more minutes, but I went to bed with a full belly and a full ego that night.
BTW, it should be noted that my new neighbors, both the upstairs neighbor and the gay couple next door, are noisy, too. Am I okay with that? For now. They haven’t called me any names and it has all been normal living noise. Well, the gay guys were throwing a Thursday night party, and the music was thumping, but I overheard a great recipe for red potato salad and all the noise stopped, completely, at 15 minutes past 10:00 pm. Ahhh, adulthood.
What I’ve come up with, is that Ike was right. He is right. I have been set, stuck, in my ways. I said it again to Ava the other day. I created such a safety net out of my last apartment, because of the great neighborhood, the great rent, the great security the apartment had given me during four work layoffs and during the end and beginning of three major love relationships. But, just like Ava says, the bigger the building the harder it falls. The more I turned that apartment into my sanctuary, into my husband, my parent, my security, my comfort, my EVERYTHING, the more other things got crowded out and the harder it was to see that. In a way, I allowed that apartment to become my albatross. That’s not good.
But the building has come down, and all the walls I’ve had around me, blocking out the light, they’re gone. Life isn’t about hanging on. It’s about letting go.
I don’t want to create any more false illusions of safety for myself. I want to stop allowing physical things, such as an apartment, a handed down piece of furniture, or even a favorite blanket, that are supposed to be things of comfort, to become wearisome burdens, encumbrances that bog me down because I can’t let go. I don’t want to be an Ancient Mariner anymore.
I guess I’ve given up my stuck-ness. The feeling I had walking to the car the other day, the feeling I posted about in the “Nothing matters” blog post, where I am now starting to feel liberated, free, tells me I am on the right path.
Being set in my ways isn’t going to work. Being like a zoo animal, with a regular feeding and sleeping schedule, that’s still fine. That’s just good health. But being too willing to hang onto something that isn’t good for me, not being open enough to change, that’s not workable anymore.
It feels fabulous to allow the liberation of my being.
Get liberated. Feel the fabulous!
You might be wondering: Who am I showing? Who said I was set in my ways? Chad and Heather's friend, Ike said it.
When did Ike say this? Why did he say this? You can't guess why? First off, and sad off, what he should have said was that I’ve been "stuck" in my ways. Capital letters STUCK.
Backing up...
A couple of weeks ago, maybe it was a more than a month ago, a new neighbor moved in near Chad and Heather and I. This all went down at the old place, as I am now in my new place.
Oh, and I also think that somewhere along the way I said I had some posts to catch up on. I’m now catching up.
Going back to backing up… I should also mention that time is starting to blur. I’m exhausted. The bags under my eyes have their own bags. All I know about time right now is not weeks, days, or months, but just pre-move and post-move. In other words, what you are about to read happened pre-move and right before my: I'm moving! That's it! epiphany.
Anyway, the new neighbor who moved in, she's a singer. There’s another story there, about the neighbor’s singing, and the first night Heather, Chad and I met her because of her singing. (Yet another post in the blog queue). Regardless, her singing is why, here on out, we're calling her Singer.
It’s also important to note that Singer is this total olive-skinned, So-Cal cutie type: dyed blonde hair, petite, great high-arched eyebrows, high cheek bones (the works), mixed with a bit of exotic, bad-girl edge. She's like a blonde Kim Kardashian—great stomach and tooshy and all. Not long after meeting Singer, Chad and Heather decide they want to fix Singer up with their friend Ike.
Ike and Singer? My first impression of them as a match? It's an explosive match to be made. I thought, if it hits, if they get together, it’ll be like setting a match to a sparkler. There will be the hot of the strike when the physical stuff starts. The courage of liquid and/or drugs will likely be involved to get things going. (They’d taken longer than expected to lift off.) Then the real fire will start and things will ignite like a flash.
But, because the flicker will be brightest at the beginning, as that kind of intense blaze doesn’t usually have staying power, when it comes time to stop playing with fire, and the haze of the alcohol (and other such mind-numbing and/or enhancing substances) wears off, and life and reality set in, they’ll burn each other out.
Like with a sparkler, the fire will get too close to their edges. That’s when it’ll be time for them to let go of each other, to throw water on it all, to run, to yell. Then they’ll dig some drama up. Then they’ll end it. Then they’ll go back to it again, end it again, go back again, end it, go, end! GO! YES! NO! END!
Everything they loved (or infatuated) about each other will sting their eyes like smoldering smoke. That’s just how it can be with sparklers. They’re beautiful, brilliant even, for a second. That is, right before you almost loose/blaze a finger off or poke/sear someone’s eye out. When people are like sparklers, the same thing happens: fire, smoke and tears. The 4th of July is always over when someone gets burned or slips on all the water that’s splashed out of the pool.
Is that a strong opinion about how a romantic exchange will go between two people I have no business taking bets on? Yes. Do I think I am right? Got no clue on this one. This isn’t my feeling, or a knowing. I’m basing this off of experience. Not my experience, but the experience of watching how it goes when two people, who both perpetually play with fire in life, get together. An explosion, a combustion, an implosion, a something, usually goes off or in and things get all dramatic and volatile as shit starts to go up in flames.
Or, Singer and Ike could get married and last 50 years. What do I know?
From what I’ve seen so far, though, Singer is a handful. And Ike, he is a bad boy, for sure. Well, some would say Ike is a male slut. I’d say he’s actually a good guy (and a slut). Ike is like those girls who hate to be alone and who want someone in their life so much that they will go with whomever is cute enough now. But, because Ike is a guy, he’s willing, even more willing than “those” girls, to keep his bed warm with a gal that’ll “pass” before he finds the one he’s really looking for.
It’s like what Chad has been saying all along: Some guys are born ready. Some guys get ready…
Ike was born ready. Ike was ready before he was born. He came out of the womb looking for trouble and women. Sadly, in my opinion (which is worth less than two cents), if Ike keeps spending his time with women who aren’t ready, who aren’t what he’s looking for, he’s going to keep mowing his through women and getting chewed up by them and/or he’s going to keep spitting them out.
More sad? Ike probably doesn’t even know what he is looking for, which is half the problem with most people. But that is of no matter. Since most boys like Ike, who are cute enough to keep getting into the trouble they look for, are sluts, they are never bothered enough by their own patterns to make a change. Why would they be bothered? They’re getting laid. That’s a man’s primal urge. Urge taken care of. Done.
Ah, to be a man.
Why do I think singer a handful? (Which is another opinion worth even less, but I do have my opinions.) Well, the post I’ve not gotten to, about how Heather and Chad and I met singer, will add to this, the definition of Singer’s handful-ness, but for starters we’ll just say that in the time I’ve known her she appears to be a bit of a man eater. Not the traditional kind, where the chick tries to devour a man because she’s just a bad-ass, high-maintenance chick from hell who blows through men and through every possession they can give her like wind blows through trees.
No, Singer is the kind of man eater who doesn’t know she is one. By the default of the lifestyle Singer leads, and how cute she is, and how young she is, she’s a killer. She’s ready for reckless with her life and with her heart and with the hearts of others—same as we all are ready to rumble wrong in our early twenties. But, Singer, the way she’s kicking off her twenties, she could give Heather a run for her money any day of the week. I haven’t figured out who is gonna live faster and die prettier. They’re pretty much skid for life-style skid right now. That’s not an opinion; those are the facts before me.
I know, I know. It sounds bad for me to say Singer is reckless. I know I also have no business comparing how Singer is choosing to live her life next to how Heather is choosing to live hers, especially because Heather is not just a neighbor (well, was a neighbor) but is one of my closest friends (which will probably also change now that I’ve moved.) But, let’s not forget that Heather kicked this year off with a drug and alcohol withdrawal seizure. Next, let’s throw it out there that the sadness/depression Heather said she felt because I was moving quickly subsided once she and Singer started hanging out regularly. (Which was right after the first night we met Singer.)
Another note to drop: Heather has not answered even one of my phone calls or texts in the two years we’ve lived next door to each other. Yet, in the weeks (now more than a month) that have passed, Heather has been all over Singer’s calls, texts, and door knocks.
Please do not mistake what I’ve just written as jealousy. It isn’t. That Singer and Heather have become all chummy and that I became unnecessary is just a fact. Here again, I’m not a jealous person. I do, however, know how to recognize that, in general, Singer is more useful to Heather than I ever could be in this Now, in Heather’s Now.
In Heather’s Now, Singer is a partner in crime. I am the voice of reason. Reason worked for Heather for a while, for a couple of weeks after her seizure, but that seizure was over a half a year ago. It’s time to drink and such again, even if Heather has to take care of the DUI that caused her to stop drinking cold turkey. Hell, it was time for Heather to drink again four weeks after the seizure.
Come on! A. who doesn’t want to drink when they have to go to DUI classes? B. We don’t arrive at a change because it is a reasonable change or because it is time in our life for changes that are reasonable. Nor does change happen because there is someone reasonable in our life showing us how to take some steps toward positive change.
We arrive at change when we have no choice. We change when we have to. Adapt or die.
Look, I didn’t move until I almost went crazy from the noise and the bad energy from the buttheads. I chose to adapt. No one could make that choice for me.
BTW, I have never been to DUI classes. But, I did drive one of my cousins to their DUI classes years ago, and this cousin would pound a six pack before class, then another 6 pack right after class. The class made my cousin want to drink more. That much I never forgot, even if it was almost 20 years ago.
After knowing Singer for only two days I had also learned that she had one boyfriend she was in love with (who screwed her over after he got out of prison) and another she was keeping around. (Chad says every guy is “in love” with the girl, whoever she is, when he is in the joint. Once he’s out, well… The guy Singer is keeping around? The non-jail guy? I felt bad for him. (I don’t feel bad for him now. We’ll get to that.)
My first impression led me to believe that this guy, this just Keeping-Him-Around guy, was beyond shredded for Singer. I felt bad for him because one day, when the three of us were hanging out, Heather and Singer and me, I heard Singer say to Keeping-Him-Around guy (on the phone), and I am trying to quote verbatim from memory, “Look. I am just bored with you. I don’t want to be with you anymore. I need time. Maybe later I’ll come around, but I’m going through some stuff right now and I just don’t want to hear from you. You need to give me space. Got it?!”
Singer had other choice words for Keeping-Him-Around guy, but it doesn’t matter now because Singer had broken up with him 3 more times after that break up. The final time that she broke up with Keeping-Him-Around guy, was when she and Ike finally got it together. Oh, and I don’t feel sorry for Keeping-Him-Around guy anymore because apparently he’s a cocaine user. And, he cheated on Singer. (Hmm? Another match that was lit like a bomb?)
I have to say it. I am so glad, and have even more respect for Watt, that Watt respected me enough to just let me go. Again, I may not have been with him long, but he’s still in my top 5 of guys for how awesome of a man he is. He couldn’t give me what I deserved. We both knew it. So, he let me go. Good man. (Still miss the bastard, though.)
On the meet-cute night, the night Chad and Heather had set up for Ike and Singer to meet, Ike decided to do what he always does when he gets a bit drunk. Ike flirted with me. Good idea? Well, Singer was standing just inside Chad and Heather’s kitchen, within earshot of Ike and me sitting outside in the shared patio, and Ike is telling me he’s going to ring my door bell later and come crawl into my bed to cuddle with me. You decide.
“You better nip that flirting in the bud this time, sweets. Your chance at tapping that (I pointed to Singer) is about to go down the drain if she hears you,” I said to Ike.
I know, you’d think I’d have a little more class in my communication style, and wouldn’t act like I am 20 and a dock-working-mouthy-bitch, but when you are trying to reason with a drunk person, who is also a lot younger than you, you lay it out. You use language they’ll hear.
Ike said, “I don’t care. Me and you. That’s what I want, Levan. I don't want her. I want you. You are so set in your ways. You’d be something to conquer.”
Chad is sitting outside with Ike and me and starts laughing. “He's so right, Levan,” Chad said. “You are set in your ways. He hit the nail on the head.”
“Yeah, yeah. Ya think I don’t know that?” I said. “Come on, here, guys. Ike didn't just hit the nail on the head. He built a cement foundation for the wood to put the nail into it and then hit it on the head. And you can both go to hell. Why do you think this moving thing is so scary for me?”
Then, Ike starts back up. “Come on, Levan. I'll love you. I'll give you foot massages every night. I'll treat you like a princess, a queen—” I laughed and interrupted him. “You’re so full of shit, Ike.”
“Shhh, me and you, Levan. You are so much sexier than her.” “That is true,” I said. “But you might want to take her on at some point, so you are going to need to keep your voice down.” “F… that!” Ike stammered. “I don't want her. I want you. Me and you, Levan.”
“You know, Ike, every time you come over and get a little drink in you, you always flirt with me because you know nothing will come of it.” Ike stands up, puts his hand to his heart, almost tips over (because he is that lit), then he swore. “I’m going to come cuddle with you! I’m going to come get you and cuddle. Admit it, Levan. I’m just too much of a risk for you—too much man.” “That’s right, babe. You are too much man for me.”
“But I can take your risk, Leven.” “But I can't take yours, Ike. I can't handle you. Remember? I’m too set in my ways.” Ike won’t give up. “But I can handle you. Come on! You already had your young guy. Try me on. I’m older.”
Yeah, Ike is a whole two years older than Watt, 28. What an experienced dinosaur Ike is.
“Seriously, Ike. Keep it down. Singer is going to hear you.” “Why do I want the young girl when I can have someone experienced and sexy like you?”
Did my ego like Ike flirting with me? I won’t bother answering that. Did my ego like that one of Chad’s other friends also wanted a stab at me? Answer still not necessary. Did I adore getting together with the best out of Chad’s friends at his and Heather’s wedding? Still obvious.
So, I did the polite thing. I didn’t tell Ike the real truth. I’m not ready for you because I am ready for the man in my life who doesn’t know people who have pot dealers, pill dealers, or any dealers, on speed dial. It’s also not in my fiber to be with a man who had become the second person, in less than two weeks, to mention some aspect of smoking, dropping, or using oxy, when before that I’d never even heard about oxy. So what if it was not Ike doing the oxy, but was his tattoo artist who had wigged out on oxy. So what if Ike was just reiterating the situation. That’s not my world. It never was.
Okay, it’s true, when I was younger me and my friends could crash on anyone’s living room floor without a blanket and use our shoe as a pillow. We all also starting smoking cigarettes insanely young because we wanted to be cool (that, too, was an 80s thing). But we managed not to get into the cocaine scene of the 80s, or any other intense fast living life-style. That’s what I am getting at.
In case you don’t know what “oxy” is, because I didn’t either, it is also referred to as OxyContin. On the street it’s called 'Oxycotton' and is, apparently, the drug du jour. OxyContin, taken in pill form, which is how it was intended to be used, is prescribed for pain, like for folks with cancer, or for others who have severe nerve damage, or even for those with sickle cell disease (among other things pain medication is prescribed for). It is a slow-release narcotic. Since the active ingredient in the drug is a morphine derivative, it is pretty much in the neighborhood of what’s found in Percodan.
Now, keep in mind, I am not an expert on drugs, or their descriptions. Thus, all the aforementioned information I’ve just given is summarized and may not be precise, as it is an amalgamation of the info I found on the Internet. My thing is, when I read on one Internet site that oxycotton (another way I saw it spelled/referred to), when bought on the street, can be crushed and then snorted, delivering a faster and intense high that is supposed to be better than heroin, and that is something close to what I heard Singer say on the first night I met her, and Ike is okay with dating someone who also has the word “oxy” in their vocabulary, there again, Ike may not be my type.
Oh, one small clarification: Singer didn’t talk about snorting oxy. No. She explained that it could be burned. Then, when a piece of tin foil was produced, which looked like it had oven grease on it (I was guessing that soot trail was the oxy), I’m not going to say how it showed up. I’ll just say that I announced that I had to go to the bathroom and then I went home and didn’t come back that night.
It’s all so sad. Tattoo people, like Ike, and Chad and Heather, are my people. I am not one of them, not really, as I only have one tiny, spiritually based tattoo that I got when I was 22, and it is hidden, hidden, hidden, but I love the tatted up. They're edgy artists at heart. But whether it is Heather saying it, or Ike, or Chad, or Singer, or other friend’s of Chad and Heathers, I’m a little out of my comfort zone when people are having a conversation that refers to drug use or which involves taking turns and saying, “When I was in jail…”
Phrases like: “No way, man. You’re screwed if you have on gang colors” and, “Have you ever done…?” are just a totally different neighborhood than the one I want to drive down. Various colors of the drug rainbow references should also be left to celebrity rehab reality TV shows, not conversations outside my kitchen window. ‘Nuf said.
My conversations with my friends are so different. My friends say things like: Let’s do a girl’s night. We need to get together to catch up over a glass of wine. I’ve been so busy, but I’d really love to do happy hour or grab a bite if we can fit it in. And, the word “jail” is just not one of the four-letter words that have frequented our lips.
Simply put, I want the guy who is like my girl friends. He only drinks it up on a week night every once in a while. He’s got to get up for work in the morning; weekday partying just isn’t conducive to a calm life. He drinks on the weekends. That’s in order. Sure. But, he orders a cab when he goes out with the boys. He can also be a situational alcoholic like me. That’s fine. He can drink his way through a tough month, like if he’s just moved, started a new job, and his dog has died. (If he just broke up with his boyfriend, that’s not going to work). But past tough, occasional situation(s), and using a glass of wine or a beer to relax after a hard day, I draw the line for alcohol abuse. My line on drug abuse is about 100 feet wide and a ga-tril-zil-billion feet long. Can’t do a guy like that.
I guess you could say I was 40 by the time I was 18. My twenties, as I’ve mentioned a lot, were a bit wild, but when you move out of your parents home at 18 years old, two weeks after you’ve graduated high school, and you start taking care of your own business (paying bills on time, making rent, setting up your good credit) by the time you are 40 you really are ready for someone else who has put the hard and fast living behind them.
Shoot, even when I was 18-20 years old, living in Lake Tahoe, and sneaking into casinos under age, I was mostly sneaking into those clubs to dance (and to meet boys). But I really did just dance all night. By the time I was going to move from Tahoe, to move in with the man who later became my ex-fiancé, every bartender from ever club I went to said a variation of the same thing to me, that I was one of the few locals who they never saw leaving with a tourist to slut it out. (Little did they know Jen’s older sister and I left w/ plenty of tourist to keep partying.) Still, it was later, when I was almost 20, that ex-fiancé who I had met in Lake Tahoe who was was the first man I offered all of me to.
So, pitter-pat had gone my ego. Thanks, Ike. Thanks for the extra ego nudge later when you gave it one last shot. “Levan, come on. You know you want to cuddle. There are millions of guppies in the sea but you are my marlin, the big catch.” This last ditch happened much later that night when my urge for a fake grilled-cheese sandwich hit and Ike saw my kitchen light go on. Heather, Singer, Ike and Chad were all still up partying and while Singer and Heather were inside Chad and Ike were outside smoking.
(I say fake grilled-cheese because I make my grilled-cheese sandwiches with almond cheese and with olive oil on the bread instead of butter, and I use 100% stone-ground whole wheat bread. Not the fattening delight of a real grilled-cheese on enriched white bread, but not bad.)
Even if, as I’d told Ike earlier (trying to help him out with Singer), that the sure way to a woman’s heart, which is to compliment the hell out of her and make her feel wanted, would always fail on me where he was concerned (because he has always been full of shit where I am concerned and doesn’t care in that way in reality), I thanked him for the way he made my ego swoon.
Ike has been asking me to “cuddle” since the first night I met him, that’s worth the kiss I blew him threw the kitchen window, when I said, “Good night, guys. I’m going to bed.” Chad laughed and teased Ike and said something to the affect of: You’re never going to break her down.
It was already 11:40 p.m. at that point, when Ike still wanted to cuddle. Even if I didn't have to work the next day it was way past my bed time. Of course, I had to wait another 30 minutes to get to sleep because the buttheads had decided to cause a commotion for 30 more minutes, but I went to bed with a full belly and a full ego that night.
BTW, it should be noted that my new neighbors, both the upstairs neighbor and the gay couple next door, are noisy, too. Am I okay with that? For now. They haven’t called me any names and it has all been normal living noise. Well, the gay guys were throwing a Thursday night party, and the music was thumping, but I overheard a great recipe for red potato salad and all the noise stopped, completely, at 15 minutes past 10:00 pm. Ahhh, adulthood.
What I’ve come up with, is that Ike was right. He is right. I have been set, stuck, in my ways. I said it again to Ava the other day. I created such a safety net out of my last apartment, because of the great neighborhood, the great rent, the great security the apartment had given me during four work layoffs and during the end and beginning of three major love relationships. But, just like Ava says, the bigger the building the harder it falls. The more I turned that apartment into my sanctuary, into my husband, my parent, my security, my comfort, my EVERYTHING, the more other things got crowded out and the harder it was to see that. In a way, I allowed that apartment to become my albatross. That’s not good.
But the building has come down, and all the walls I’ve had around me, blocking out the light, they’re gone. Life isn’t about hanging on. It’s about letting go.
I don’t want to create any more false illusions of safety for myself. I want to stop allowing physical things, such as an apartment, a handed down piece of furniture, or even a favorite blanket, that are supposed to be things of comfort, to become wearisome burdens, encumbrances that bog me down because I can’t let go. I don’t want to be an Ancient Mariner anymore.
I guess I’ve given up my stuck-ness. The feeling I had walking to the car the other day, the feeling I posted about in the “Nothing matters” blog post, where I am now starting to feel liberated, free, tells me I am on the right path.
Being set in my ways isn’t going to work. Being like a zoo animal, with a regular feeding and sleeping schedule, that’s still fine. That’s just good health. But being too willing to hang onto something that isn’t good for me, not being open enough to change, that’s not workable anymore.
It feels fabulous to allow the liberation of my being.
Get liberated. Feel the fabulous!
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Nothing matters.
What's the difference between something and nothing? Something is some thing and nothing is no thing. Either way, no thing matters. Meaning, things don't matter.
This is what the last few months (with meeting Watt, with starting a new job, with moving) have taught me, have reminded me. Things just don't matter. Things start to matter even less when you have to move them from point A to point B and all these things in these boxes are heavy. You start to feel the weight of things, literally and figuratively. How much things can weigh, how much weight we put on them, how much we allow the illusion of this weight to weigh on us...it all weighs too much. Period.
No thing that we think is so important, important enough to pack up up, pack along, pack away, is that important. If it seems like I am repeating words, yeah, I'm doing that. To make the point. Things are NOT important! Not my dining room table, not my computer cabinet, not even my antique furniture. The furniture I inherited from my grandmother which took me almost two weeks to refinish and stain.
People, lessons, what's inside, that's what matters. Who sits at my dining room table with me, who I stay connected to via email with my computer sitting at my computer cabinet, and the lessons I learned from my grandmother, what she meant to me, that's what matters.
I've known this. Always. But, as I was leaving work and walking to my car yesterday, and was emotionally and physically exhausted from all that's gone on, that was the thought I had: Nothing matters. No things matter.
I don't need things. I don't need to live in an apartment that keeps me in a bad situation. If my job doesn't last, doesn't work, doesn't pay enough, doesn't whatever, I can get a new one. If the furniture gets scratched in the move, whatever.
Just, whatever with all things.
See? If I am alive, if someone loves me (like my friends and family), and if I have people to love, that's what is important. Who I am, who I am becoming, that's important, too.
Do you know how incredibly freeing that is, to realize you are becoming more free, less in need of things? Sure, I'm still exhausted from unpacking my "things", because I still have them and have not fullfilled my secret desire to give everything up and join Greenpeace. I am exhausted from my new job. But I have people who love me, people like Ava and my sister who helped me move. They matter. Jen loves me. That matters. If the bottom drops out, F' it. I move in with Jen for a couple of months and throw my things in storage (if I even want to lug them around again).
I'm free now. I've always been free. I just forgot. Thanks to this move, I may not forget how this freedom feels again.
Freedom feels FABULOUS!!!
This is what the last few months (with meeting Watt, with starting a new job, with moving) have taught me, have reminded me. Things just don't matter. Things start to matter even less when you have to move them from point A to point B and all these things in these boxes are heavy. You start to feel the weight of things, literally and figuratively. How much things can weigh, how much weight we put on them, how much we allow the illusion of this weight to weigh on us...it all weighs too much. Period.
No thing that we think is so important, important enough to pack up up, pack along, pack away, is that important. If it seems like I am repeating words, yeah, I'm doing that. To make the point. Things are NOT important! Not my dining room table, not my computer cabinet, not even my antique furniture. The furniture I inherited from my grandmother which took me almost two weeks to refinish and stain.
People, lessons, what's inside, that's what matters. Who sits at my dining room table with me, who I stay connected to via email with my computer sitting at my computer cabinet, and the lessons I learned from my grandmother, what she meant to me, that's what matters.
I've known this. Always. But, as I was leaving work and walking to my car yesterday, and was emotionally and physically exhausted from all that's gone on, that was the thought I had: Nothing matters. No things matter.
I don't need things. I don't need to live in an apartment that keeps me in a bad situation. If my job doesn't last, doesn't work, doesn't pay enough, doesn't whatever, I can get a new one. If the furniture gets scratched in the move, whatever.
Just, whatever with all things.
See? If I am alive, if someone loves me (like my friends and family), and if I have people to love, that's what is important. Who I am, who I am becoming, that's important, too.
Do you know how incredibly freeing that is, to realize you are becoming more free, less in need of things? Sure, I'm still exhausted from unpacking my "things", because I still have them and have not fullfilled my secret desire to give everything up and join Greenpeace. I am exhausted from my new job. But I have people who love me, people like Ava and my sister who helped me move. They matter. Jen loves me. That matters. If the bottom drops out, F' it. I move in with Jen for a couple of months and throw my things in storage (if I even want to lug them around again).
I'm free now. I've always been free. I just forgot. Thanks to this move, I may not forget how this freedom feels again.
Freedom feels FABULOUS!!!
Friday, July 9, 2010
More on Moving... Stupid toilet scrubber!
I know. I know. At first I was all: I’m 40. I’m 40. I’m 40. Then it was: I need to get laid. I need to get… (Let’s just stop there on that one.) Then it was, and still kinda has been: Watt, Watt, Watt. Now it’s moving, moving, moving (those buttheads suck, suck, suck). But that’s life. Whatever we’re going through, we’re going through it, through it, through it. That is, until, we go through something else, else, else.
Rena sent me an email today, and I responded, long winded of course. So, I thought I’d share.
Subject: Hey Sista...
Would you like some help with packing tomorrow? I could come over early and help out.
I think this move will open up "new & exciting" opportunities....very happy for you. I know moving is a bitch but it allows you to purge through stuff.
Hugs,
Rena
My response:
You know what? I would love to see your beautiful face. So, yes. Come. Come. Come!
Give me time to sleep in until 9:00 and go for a quick run, so any time after 10:45 am would be great. Wear grubbies, because the things that I am doing, at this point, are cleaning last minute stuff before it gets packed/moved into the new place. I want everything to be sparkly. Point is: I don't want anything you wear to get ruined by the messy environment. (I've been trying to patch wall holes as I go—there are so many more holes in the wall then I put in—so there's some spackle dust, from my first lame attempts at not knowing how to spackle a holes, mixed in with basic moving dust/dirt/general messy annoyance.)
Yes, I feel this is a good change, that my life is just propelling forward. But, it is exhausting! 13 years of stuff in one place...that's a lot. And by stuff I mean more than schtuff. :>)
Have you ever noticed, though, before the change comes, before the move, or the new thing(s) have room to come in, there is a lot of rearranging?
Take moving. Change is just like moving. You pack something up (you take care of something). Then you move what you just packed-up (took care of) over to there. Then when you go to pack something else up—take take care of some other thing(s)—that thing you just packed needs to be dealt with again, it needs to get moved to somewhere else. More shifting, more dealing.
It's like the old things you thought you took care of crop back up again and again. Apparently they need to be packaged and repacked, and then moved around, and around again, and then examined from every angle before any of the dust can settle for them.
Then, inevitably, yet something else needs to be dealt with, packed up, surveyed. There goes the dust, getting kicked back up again. Whatever this new thing is, it doesn't look shiny yet, does it? There goes acceptance moving in. Things do need to settle before we really see what got opened up.
It's all just a bunch of shifting and compartmentalizing, and, eventually, purging and clearing. In the end, we let go of most of everything, hopefully. Or, sadly, we saddle others with what we held onto.
Seriously, packing does feel like learning life's lessons. It is not until you deal with something, really deal with it, that it is able to go on the journey with you or get left behind. I've gotten rid of so much in this move. There are other things I am keeping, and they are only coming with me for convenience. But, I'd be happy to let go of those things, too. (I'm getting less and less attached to the tangible and only holding on to that which holds sentiment if it serves a function.)
It probably won't look like I got rid of a lot when you see my place, but whoa have I done some unloading. Almost 8 black trash bags of cloths to start. Decided that, hypothyroidism or not, I ain’t gonna hang onto everything in every size. And, from here on out, if anything new comes in, at least one thing, possibly two, needs to go out!
Put simply, and ditching the metaphorical moving/packing/change analogy...while this is all good, as you put it, moving is a bitch and I'm getting kinda sick of moving the same shit 2-3 times to stack re-stack/make room as I pack more.
If only there was a way to just load and unload, like buying groceries. It all goes in a bag, goes in a car, goes in a cupboard. Simple. You know what's in the bag because the bag is open. It's a great open, flowing cycle: get groceries, bag 'em, un bag 'm, eat it, trash or recycle the rest.
Boxes? Not an open cycle. Mark them boxes all you want: Bedroom, Living room, Kitchen, Bathroom...the toilet scrubber still ends up in the box with the kitchen blender. (Well, that's just gross, but you get it.) No matter how much you start off all badass and organized, some dumb box needs to be filled and it is only that thing from another room that turns out to be the perfect thing to round the box out before it gets taped up! (Frig'n pack'n!)
Aye, aye, aye. No wonder our brains are just as overloaded when we attempt to work things out. We all have toilet scrubbers lodged into our thought processes and then the liquefy button on the blender gets pushed. That’s how we end up with the mental runs. (Man, I’m gross today.)
I'm brain dead. I just want to get packing and move stuff taken care of. (You know what a machine I am when something needs to get done.)
Anyway, this too-long email was obviously a diversion... :>) Thanks for playing!
L
Rena sent me an email today, and I responded, long winded of course. So, I thought I’d share.
Subject: Hey Sista...
Would you like some help with packing tomorrow? I could come over early and help out.
I think this move will open up "new & exciting" opportunities....very happy for you. I know moving is a bitch but it allows you to purge through stuff.
Hugs,
Rena
My response:
You know what? I would love to see your beautiful face. So, yes. Come. Come. Come!
Give me time to sleep in until 9:00 and go for a quick run, so any time after 10:45 am would be great. Wear grubbies, because the things that I am doing, at this point, are cleaning last minute stuff before it gets packed/moved into the new place. I want everything to be sparkly. Point is: I don't want anything you wear to get ruined by the messy environment. (I've been trying to patch wall holes as I go—there are so many more holes in the wall then I put in—so there's some spackle dust, from my first lame attempts at not knowing how to spackle a holes, mixed in with basic moving dust/dirt/general messy annoyance.)
Yes, I feel this is a good change, that my life is just propelling forward. But, it is exhausting! 13 years of stuff in one place...that's a lot. And by stuff I mean more than schtuff. :>)
Have you ever noticed, though, before the change comes, before the move, or the new thing(s) have room to come in, there is a lot of rearranging?
Take moving. Change is just like moving. You pack something up (you take care of something). Then you move what you just packed-up (took care of) over to there. Then when you go to pack something else up—take take care of some other thing(s)—that thing you just packed needs to be dealt with again, it needs to get moved to somewhere else. More shifting, more dealing.
It's like the old things you thought you took care of crop back up again and again. Apparently they need to be packaged and repacked, and then moved around, and around again, and then examined from every angle before any of the dust can settle for them.
Then, inevitably, yet something else needs to be dealt with, packed up, surveyed. There goes the dust, getting kicked back up again. Whatever this new thing is, it doesn't look shiny yet, does it? There goes acceptance moving in. Things do need to settle before we really see what got opened up.
It's all just a bunch of shifting and compartmentalizing, and, eventually, purging and clearing. In the end, we let go of most of everything, hopefully. Or, sadly, we saddle others with what we held onto.
Seriously, packing does feel like learning life's lessons. It is not until you deal with something, really deal with it, that it is able to go on the journey with you or get left behind. I've gotten rid of so much in this move. There are other things I am keeping, and they are only coming with me for convenience. But, I'd be happy to let go of those things, too. (I'm getting less and less attached to the tangible and only holding on to that which holds sentiment if it serves a function.)
It probably won't look like I got rid of a lot when you see my place, but whoa have I done some unloading. Almost 8 black trash bags of cloths to start. Decided that, hypothyroidism or not, I ain’t gonna hang onto everything in every size. And, from here on out, if anything new comes in, at least one thing, possibly two, needs to go out!
Put simply, and ditching the metaphorical moving/packing/change analogy...while this is all good, as you put it, moving is a bitch and I'm getting kinda sick of moving the same shit 2-3 times to stack re-stack/make room as I pack more.
If only there was a way to just load and unload, like buying groceries. It all goes in a bag, goes in a car, goes in a cupboard. Simple. You know what's in the bag because the bag is open. It's a great open, flowing cycle: get groceries, bag 'em, un bag 'm, eat it, trash or recycle the rest.
Boxes? Not an open cycle. Mark them boxes all you want: Bedroom, Living room, Kitchen, Bathroom...the toilet scrubber still ends up in the box with the kitchen blender. (Well, that's just gross, but you get it.) No matter how much you start off all badass and organized, some dumb box needs to be filled and it is only that thing from another room that turns out to be the perfect thing to round the box out before it gets taped up! (Frig'n pack'n!)
Aye, aye, aye. No wonder our brains are just as overloaded when we attempt to work things out. We all have toilet scrubbers lodged into our thought processes and then the liquefy button on the blender gets pushed. That’s how we end up with the mental runs. (Man, I’m gross today.)
I'm brain dead. I just want to get packing and move stuff taken care of. (You know what a machine I am when something needs to get done.)
Anyway, this too-long email was obviously a diversion... :>) Thanks for playing!
L
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Hot Bum! More Wine...
Saw the hottest homeless/bum guy on my way home after buying more wine from Trader Joes. Is that important in the scheme of everything going on in my life? No. But I'm telling you, if my life was a made for TV movie and I was a slut, I would have taken his "need help" sign from his finger tips and said, "I'll give you some help, baby!"
Okay, but not really.
Point is, I've never seen a homeless guy with a cardboard sign who looked like a cross between Paul Newman and I-want-to-do-you. Alright, if I'd already had the wine, maybe I would have taken him home.
Okay, really not really, but I am wanting to write about anything but how much moving sux!
Anyone need a refrigerator? $50.00 bucks, you pick it up, not like new, but it's yours.
Also, can anyone teach me how to plaster wall holes better? More than half these holes are not mine but I know them property manager bastards are going to try to squeeze my green from me.
Right now, I wished I smoked pot. It might make the fact that the butt-heads have let their daughter play ball on the hardwood floors again. Jack holes. I wish for them a neighbor that wakes their daughter up past hours and destroys their life. Wait, they're bad parents in the first place. They keep that little horror of a noise making child up past 11:30 pm as it is.
They're gonna BBQ with the new neighbor. It'll be more of the property manager's family. Watch. Sadly, as I write this there were just two loud crashes coming from their apartment. No worries, it's only 10:00 pm. Just an hour or two more of the noise and I'll be able to go to bed...
See? This is why getting laid is so important. It works out the noise and the cob webs.
Soon...
Okay, but not really.
Point is, I've never seen a homeless guy with a cardboard sign who looked like a cross between Paul Newman and I-want-to-do-you. Alright, if I'd already had the wine, maybe I would have taken him home.
Okay, really not really, but I am wanting to write about anything but how much moving sux!
Anyone need a refrigerator? $50.00 bucks, you pick it up, not like new, but it's yours.
Also, can anyone teach me how to plaster wall holes better? More than half these holes are not mine but I know them property manager bastards are going to try to squeeze my green from me.
Right now, I wished I smoked pot. It might make the fact that the butt-heads have let their daughter play ball on the hardwood floors again. Jack holes. I wish for them a neighbor that wakes their daughter up past hours and destroys their life. Wait, they're bad parents in the first place. They keep that little horror of a noise making child up past 11:30 pm as it is.
They're gonna BBQ with the new neighbor. It'll be more of the property manager's family. Watch. Sadly, as I write this there were just two loud crashes coming from their apartment. No worries, it's only 10:00 pm. Just an hour or two more of the noise and I'll be able to go to bed...
See? This is why getting laid is so important. It works out the noise and the cob webs.
Soon...
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Moving...
Okay, 4th of July weekend. Up to my ass in boxes. Moving. A mess. Dirty newspaper fingers. Balotzo. (See my middle finger?)
Don’t even remember my last post. That’s the truth.
Am I stressed? Uh… How many days ago did I say what I said about something, everything. Don’t know. Go stress and oblivion. Go new beginnings and the jack that comes with them before they come, them end’ns and begginings.
The reason for this post? I’m tired. It’s late. I’ve been packing all day. I’ve been packing 7 hours a day after work for 3 weeks, 12 hours a day each weekend for those same 3 weeks on top of those 8 hour work days (jack off 13 years in one place. Too much work. Oh, and f’ off spackle and nail holes, too.)
And, real post reason…. been watching some dumb made for TV movie… a romantic
Cheesy ass thing. (Snarl.)
There is a meet/cute in this move (damn boys and girls and love and all that crap). I’m screwed. I’m missing Watt. Missing someone. My guy. That guy. F?
Being my own team all the time is get’n old.
I am so open to the man who is coming. Yet, I am looking backward a bit. (Wine does that to you.) Wondering how abrupt I was, when I ditched Watt. When I gave him no open. Just an “F U I’m 40, I’m strong, and you aren’t signed up enough!”
I’m fine.
Watt was so short lived in my life. But, take it or leave it… I gotta a top 10. Watt is on it. Forever. I’m gonna miss his smile and his laugh even when my guy laughs louder and smiles more. Watt is just Watt.
It’s not even filled out, yet, this top 10, this how many are to come and have been. But, even so, while I never got to fall in love with him or not, Watt, dumb ass not ready man, I’m f’n mad at him for being MIA in age, MIA in ready, MIA in Now, in… WHATEVER.
I’m tired. I said that. Moving sux. Said that, too.
I’d love a Watt diversion. I’d love that big… Shhh. And that, oh. Shhh more.
Miss’n him right now. Not just. But the more. The smile. The look in his eyes when he was looking at me.
Whether he ever signed up or not, my Watt, my young, beautiful man, get’m giger. He’s in my top 10 of cool, ass, bitchen guys in my life (yeah, yes, got at least 5 or 4 men more to fill outa top 10 since there’s only half or so on the top 10, but…WHATEVER)
My Watt. He’s never gonna know how much he meant, how much I wanted him to mean, but…That’s okay.
Sigh.
Just go’n through a lot right now and wish’n he was, my guy was, on my team right now.
Moving sux. Shit. Did I say that?!
I hate newspaper and boxes and bags and hoping glass won’t break right now. I also hate moving one thing to one place and then moving it to another place before I pack it and then unpack it and then move it, and then move it again, and then clean it and move it to its final place before I throw it away or pack it up and clean and move it again.
Friggen stuff! SuK the trouble!
Big life.
Big move.
13 years.
Lot’s of transition.
Sure could use a Watt kiss right now.
Trouble is… If Watt was as into me, or into what we had as I’d wanted to sign up to it all, I’d never have given up that Watt Now and I’d have Watt in this move, somehow. With help. With? Just with.
But I don’t. I’ve not heard from Watt. That says it all.
But, I accept I am not moving to, with, or along side Watt and anyway. I am, obviously, moving toward other things, other men. Another man.
Ready.
Still, broken record, ouchy for Watt. Boo.
Still miss Watt. Still fill’n like an ass for how much so I miss him even so it was so short of a time we knew each other.
Tired.
Moving sux.
Sigh.
Boo more. Sigh more. Repeat more.
Little tear. A couple more. Rinse and repeat again. Now condition. Okay, detangler that doesn’t work. But try any way.
Lower case fabulous...
Be FABULOUS for me.
Long day.
Too much moving.
Too many boxes.
More tired.
…
huh…
Don’t even remember my last post. That’s the truth.
Am I stressed? Uh… How many days ago did I say what I said about something, everything. Don’t know. Go stress and oblivion. Go new beginnings and the jack that comes with them before they come, them end’ns and begginings.
The reason for this post? I’m tired. It’s late. I’ve been packing all day. I’ve been packing 7 hours a day after work for 3 weeks, 12 hours a day each weekend for those same 3 weeks on top of those 8 hour work days (jack off 13 years in one place. Too much work. Oh, and f’ off spackle and nail holes, too.)
And, real post reason…. been watching some dumb made for TV movie… a romantic
Cheesy ass thing. (Snarl.)
There is a meet/cute in this move (damn boys and girls and love and all that crap). I’m screwed. I’m missing Watt. Missing someone. My guy. That guy. F?
Being my own team all the time is get’n old.
I am so open to the man who is coming. Yet, I am looking backward a bit. (Wine does that to you.) Wondering how abrupt I was, when I ditched Watt. When I gave him no open. Just an “F U I’m 40, I’m strong, and you aren’t signed up enough!”
I’m fine.
Watt was so short lived in my life. But, take it or leave it… I gotta a top 10. Watt is on it. Forever. I’m gonna miss his smile and his laugh even when my guy laughs louder and smiles more. Watt is just Watt.
It’s not even filled out, yet, this top 10, this how many are to come and have been. But, even so, while I never got to fall in love with him or not, Watt, dumb ass not ready man, I’m f’n mad at him for being MIA in age, MIA in ready, MIA in Now, in… WHATEVER.
I’m tired. I said that. Moving sux. Said that, too.
I’d love a Watt diversion. I’d love that big… Shhh. And that, oh. Shhh more.
Miss’n him right now. Not just. But the more. The smile. The look in his eyes when he was looking at me.
Whether he ever signed up or not, my Watt, my young, beautiful man, get’m giger. He’s in my top 10 of cool, ass, bitchen guys in my life (yeah, yes, got at least 5 or 4 men more to fill outa top 10 since there’s only half or so on the top 10, but…WHATEVER)
My Watt. He’s never gonna know how much he meant, how much I wanted him to mean, but…That’s okay.
Sigh.
Just go’n through a lot right now and wish’n he was, my guy was, on my team right now.
Moving sux. Shit. Did I say that?!
I hate newspaper and boxes and bags and hoping glass won’t break right now. I also hate moving one thing to one place and then moving it to another place before I pack it and then unpack it and then move it, and then move it again, and then clean it and move it to its final place before I throw it away or pack it up and clean and move it again.
Friggen stuff! SuK the trouble!
Big life.
Big move.
13 years.
Lot’s of transition.
Sure could use a Watt kiss right now.
Trouble is… If Watt was as into me, or into what we had as I’d wanted to sign up to it all, I’d never have given up that Watt Now and I’d have Watt in this move, somehow. With help. With? Just with.
But I don’t. I’ve not heard from Watt. That says it all.
But, I accept I am not moving to, with, or along side Watt and anyway. I am, obviously, moving toward other things, other men. Another man.
Ready.
Still, broken record, ouchy for Watt. Boo.
Still miss Watt. Still fill’n like an ass for how much so I miss him even so it was so short of a time we knew each other.
Tired.
Moving sux.
Sigh.
Boo more. Sigh more. Repeat more.
Little tear. A couple more. Rinse and repeat again. Now condition. Okay, detangler that doesn’t work. But try any way.
Lower case fabulous...
Be FABULOUS for me.
Long day.
Too much moving.
Too many boxes.
More tired.
…
huh…
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