Okay, so I started my blog at the beginning of the year all positive and "GO this year," and have slid my way, towards this year's end, into a menage of mini meltdowns, too many complaints, and an apparent post traumatic stress disorder from all the change in my life, yet I am still more positive than Post, the guy I met last week.
First, he waited almost five days to call, which I've never liked in a guy. And, even though I just spent the last 2 hours on the phone with him, and there's something there I am going to give another chance, why do I feel like I'm still the the girl looking for the spot in the sun and he's the one who should be living in my dark cave of an apartment?
He actually said at one point in the conversation, "I don't like places that are too bright, with a lot of sun light."
What?
I can't tell if he just has a weird sense of humor, and I am not getting it yet, or if we're just writing on different letterhead all together and there's no reason for me to figure out when I am supposed to laugh at his jokes.
It doesn't look like this is going to be something to write home about. But, I've been wrong about a lot this year...
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
Going Postal
In the middle of my shit storm, I may have met someone, "may" being the operative word. No, it's not Rick, the smart, physicist guy from a week-ish ago. I never heard from that schmuck and, probably, honestly didn't want to. He was cute, smart as hell, older, put together, mostly, and I was intrigued. But, handsome and sail-boat owning as he was, he had thin lips I didn’t imagine kissing, and, then was that curly 1980s type mullet of his. 'Nuf said.
So now, despite my better judgment, in sharing something before there is anything to share, as I only met this fellow yesterday, since I've been out on a limb these days, what do I care? I'm so over my ego. If nothing comes of it, then that. Nothing comes of it. Next.
If something does, here's the meet cute moment, how it went down...
I walked into the post office to retrieve whatever mail I've ignored for the last two weeks, and just as I was about to turn the heavy, copper-ish PO-box key to see what my neglect has collected, I noticed this brown haired, medium built, nice looking fellow talking to the attendant who had helped me sign up for my PO box about 6 months ago.
This is the very same sweet faced, petite and thin, brunette clerk who found me in tears when I explained why I needed a PO box, why I was pissed I was essentially becoming homeless. I, of course, mean that I was losing, and have lost, a place where my heart had been at home, for a very long time, in exchange for a place that doesn't offer my heart a home or any comfort.
So if there are any homeless, non-apple eating chaps out there, who have internet access and are reading this post, and now want to kill me for calling myself homeless, I've got a Swiss army knife with my name engraved on the side you can borrow. Have at it. I’m getting life has pitched me a licking to learn from and even if I die, I've probably done enough learning in this life to come back as Oprah’s other best friend. Oprah will have me star in my own television series and I’ll have enough money to pay people to get my gas for me. (This life for all of us is payment enough.)
I can't recall if I ever mentioned that little mini meltdown at the post office those months ago, but, apparently, I was getting a jump start on what would be, and is now, my post traumatic stress disorder (from moving and changing jobs). There's nothing like consciously/unconsciously intuiting a future unraveling. I highly don't recommend it—even if, for me, I know what will come out on the other side will make me stronger than I’ve ever been.
Sick. That’s what I am. Sick or smart. I am rather glad this is all happening, my storm, SUCKS as it does. I’m getting something from it. Haven’t breezed it all up yet, or connected every dot blowing me in different directions, but the puzzle corners will glide together. (They always do.)
"You're not wearing your sunglasses like usual," I overhead him, the guy, say to her, the clerk.
He's right, I'd thought. She hasn't worn her sunglasses since that first month I'd gotten my PO box. I guess I wasn't the only one wondering what the deal was with this cool-cat chick. Medical eye condition? Laser surgery? Going incognito? Going postal like me—hiding out? What was with the sunglasses?
Then, I think I recognize this guy as the guy Cella and I had met months back, the night Cella had her a bit of fun. I am just about to bust him, and say something like, "Hey. What's your name, again? Didn't my friend and I meet you…?” and, “You never called my friend, you ass…” when I realize it's not him, the guy Cella and I met.
Yet, I'm staring at this guy still, a stranger, with an expression I know to be an I-recognize-you glare, mixed with a physical I’m-ready-for-a-mini-confrontation shoulder-puffing rumble. But what does he know?
He knows I am fixed on him, that’s what. Mid-gaze, amidst my mental reconciliation, of the actual reality of him being him, some stranger, vs. the assumption of him being someone else, we lock eyes. This snaps me to, so I disclose my confusion.
I say, "I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else."Then he says, "Damn. I thought I was about to get hit on."
Seeing how way more cute this guy is, and thinking I'm cool, even while my heart started beating so fast it was punching dents into my left breast trying to beat its way out, I say, "How do you know you’re not getting hit on?"
That's when the sunglasses clerk gets cooler than me and asks me, "What's your name?" Since I thought she somehow psychically knew I not only wanted to check my mail, but also wanted to re-pay my PO box rent for another 6 months, I give her my last name so she can start looking my shit up.
She's hip on me being a dip, though, but doesn't let on. She gracefully requests my name again, specifying that it was my first name she is after. I move closer to her and the stranger.
But I'm still none the wiser to where she is going with her inquiry, as I’m under the assumption she is now taking care of stranger guy and me at the same time and letting me bust ahead, take cuts, in front of the line starting to form. Feeling gently ordered to comply with the right answer, I say, "Oh? Levan. My name is Levan." She's a Federal postal worker, for heaven’s sake. I had to give the right information.
Then she looks at the stranger I mistook for someone else, who we are going to call Post, and says, "Levan, meet Post. Post, meet Levan." She, essentially, was the puppeteer managing our meet-cute moment and facilitated a shake of our hands. Contact.
Yes. I know the name Post is bland. But I’m not shooting for the stars at Love here. I’ve got no feeling one way or the other about this guy. No read. I’m so crazy lately I more feel no than yes on him, but I don't know if that's just because I don’t know my own up from my down right now.
There was something else there about it that was so much like what the psychic described as how I’d meet the One (standing in line, he'd say something funny, I'd laugh, etc.) I’ve dog eared the experience.
Plus, I met him in the Post Office. What can I say? If it goes, I might hate that I chose Post for his name. If it don’t go, it’s just a reference. Besides, whatever happens, a name is just a name. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
The other clerk, all smudgy and bland, in her: I can't even remember what she looked like way, who was just doing her job, and who wasn’t watching Post and I, like the line-O-plenty of Post-Office customer people collecting and on looking while we fumbled our way through a potentially cool-cat guided kismet exchange, broke the connection and called out, "NEXT!" in, what I’m going to remember as, falsely (for effect), a shrill voice.
"Uhm. Yeah. I wanted to pay for the next six months on my PO box," I drizzled out to the smudgy clerk.
As Smudgy checked the records, I readied one of my artist business cards to pass off to Post if I was done before him and had to be the one to do the pass off. Drats! It was.
Ready, set, GO! Act nonchalant in front of the other customers still watching the guy-meets-girl spectacle, which are now about 7-8 people who may as well each have had their own popcorn and an over-sized/over-priced soda pop in hand. Just hand him your card like a porn star who can have any man in the moment.
"The rest is up to you," I said, as I presented him my labeled over, wrong e-mail, artist (too cheap and too tired to buy new business cards) card. He had his card ready for me, too.
His card? Way more professional. And way more fun. He's a tax man, you see, yet something about his card made him look more like a member of The Monkeys, or a cover-band musician, than a bland accountant.
If I hear from him, I'll have to ask him: What's up with the card? I'm sure he's wondering the same from my card and asking: What’s up with the stick-em-on cell number label and the pen crossed-out and corrected e-mail? (Psycho, cheap bitch.) Honestly. Who spends the time putting cell number correction labels on business cards rather than just getting new cards? Sigh... me, the girl who doesn’t want to figure out how to re-format a graphic for printing and doesn't trust what her address will be next.
Now we know I really do love Mother Earth, or I really am OCD or crazy or lazy.
Will I be sad if I don't hear from Post? Probably. But only for a couple of days, which for me, these days, in love at least, is long enough to let go of the what if I used to hang on to for weeks or more. There was a time, with love, I'd cry over what was, and what is, and what hasn't become.
Now, I only cry, not because of love found or lost, but because I get edgy with all that I’ve learned, about everything else, but cannot always accept when it does come to what is, I don’t know how to completely surrender to the other parts of my life. I don’t know how to meditate my way out of stress when it comes to work and home. I can’t stop the inner turmoil from coming out on my body in the form of headaches or stress rashes.
But, and I might still be crazy, most of these tears I cry, while a bit knife turning, are mostly happy. Not ha, ha, ha…yippee my guts are on the carpet again happy. But, shit, I am making progress, and getting to know myself even more, happy.
Knowing how far I've come, not holding on to things and trying to cram them into a "meant to be" idea, but rather trying to un-cram the mental wedgies into acceptance, that’s enough to rejoice over for Now.
And, another reason I am posting about this guy, where nothing may come to fruition, is because it occurred to me that while I've come to accept that I may not meet the One I am supposed to be with any time soon, meeting my One Now would actually be the best time. Not because I am so exhausted I want him to take care of me (but it would be a break before I got tired of it and needed independence again), or because, naturally, the distraction would be nice, and I’d be getting laid again, but because I am so raw and so exposed from the changes in my life right Now that I wouldn't have any energy to put up any walls.
Right Now, I would not be capable of presenting any of the precursory and/or cautionary masks many of us put forth when we're in our best-foot-forward phase of a relationship (personal, professional, or spiritual).
I don't have any best foot left in me. I have no access to my usual, "I'm fine," and "I can take care of myself" shields.
It's just me right now, with all my beautiful flaws and all my messy perfection.
Take it or leave it.
Me? I’m going to take it. I’m going to learn from it. I’m going to do me some more crying. Probably some more resisting. Definitely some more misunderstanding before it all comes clear. But, I’ll take it.
It is what is. I’m going a little postal, but I’m getting, or at least looking for, the messages.
So now, despite my better judgment, in sharing something before there is anything to share, as I only met this fellow yesterday, since I've been out on a limb these days, what do I care? I'm so over my ego. If nothing comes of it, then that. Nothing comes of it. Next.
If something does, here's the meet cute moment, how it went down...
I walked into the post office to retrieve whatever mail I've ignored for the last two weeks, and just as I was about to turn the heavy, copper-ish PO-box key to see what my neglect has collected, I noticed this brown haired, medium built, nice looking fellow talking to the attendant who had helped me sign up for my PO box about 6 months ago.
This is the very same sweet faced, petite and thin, brunette clerk who found me in tears when I explained why I needed a PO box, why I was pissed I was essentially becoming homeless. I, of course, mean that I was losing, and have lost, a place where my heart had been at home, for a very long time, in exchange for a place that doesn't offer my heart a home or any comfort.
So if there are any homeless, non-apple eating chaps out there, who have internet access and are reading this post, and now want to kill me for calling myself homeless, I've got a Swiss army knife with my name engraved on the side you can borrow. Have at it. I’m getting life has pitched me a licking to learn from and even if I die, I've probably done enough learning in this life to come back as Oprah’s other best friend. Oprah will have me star in my own television series and I’ll have enough money to pay people to get my gas for me. (This life for all of us is payment enough.)
I can't recall if I ever mentioned that little mini meltdown at the post office those months ago, but, apparently, I was getting a jump start on what would be, and is now, my post traumatic stress disorder (from moving and changing jobs). There's nothing like consciously/unconsciously intuiting a future unraveling. I highly don't recommend it—even if, for me, I know what will come out on the other side will make me stronger than I’ve ever been.
Sick. That’s what I am. Sick or smart. I am rather glad this is all happening, my storm, SUCKS as it does. I’m getting something from it. Haven’t breezed it all up yet, or connected every dot blowing me in different directions, but the puzzle corners will glide together. (They always do.)
"You're not wearing your sunglasses like usual," I overhead him, the guy, say to her, the clerk.
He's right, I'd thought. She hasn't worn her sunglasses since that first month I'd gotten my PO box. I guess I wasn't the only one wondering what the deal was with this cool-cat chick. Medical eye condition? Laser surgery? Going incognito? Going postal like me—hiding out? What was with the sunglasses?
Then, I think I recognize this guy as the guy Cella and I had met months back, the night Cella had her a bit of fun. I am just about to bust him, and say something like, "Hey. What's your name, again? Didn't my friend and I meet you…?” and, “You never called my friend, you ass…” when I realize it's not him, the guy Cella and I met.
Yet, I'm staring at this guy still, a stranger, with an expression I know to be an I-recognize-you glare, mixed with a physical I’m-ready-for-a-mini-confrontation shoulder-puffing rumble. But what does he know?
He knows I am fixed on him, that’s what. Mid-gaze, amidst my mental reconciliation, of the actual reality of him being him, some stranger, vs. the assumption of him being someone else, we lock eyes. This snaps me to, so I disclose my confusion.
I say, "I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else."Then he says, "Damn. I thought I was about to get hit on."
Seeing how way more cute this guy is, and thinking I'm cool, even while my heart started beating so fast it was punching dents into my left breast trying to beat its way out, I say, "How do you know you’re not getting hit on?"
That's when the sunglasses clerk gets cooler than me and asks me, "What's your name?" Since I thought she somehow psychically knew I not only wanted to check my mail, but also wanted to re-pay my PO box rent for another 6 months, I give her my last name so she can start looking my shit up.
She's hip on me being a dip, though, but doesn't let on. She gracefully requests my name again, specifying that it was my first name she is after. I move closer to her and the stranger.
But I'm still none the wiser to where she is going with her inquiry, as I’m under the assumption she is now taking care of stranger guy and me at the same time and letting me bust ahead, take cuts, in front of the line starting to form. Feeling gently ordered to comply with the right answer, I say, "Oh? Levan. My name is Levan." She's a Federal postal worker, for heaven’s sake. I had to give the right information.
Then she looks at the stranger I mistook for someone else, who we are going to call Post, and says, "Levan, meet Post. Post, meet Levan." She, essentially, was the puppeteer managing our meet-cute moment and facilitated a shake of our hands. Contact.
Yes. I know the name Post is bland. But I’m not shooting for the stars at Love here. I’ve got no feeling one way or the other about this guy. No read. I’m so crazy lately I more feel no than yes on him, but I don't know if that's just because I don’t know my own up from my down right now.
There was something else there about it that was so much like what the psychic described as how I’d meet the One (standing in line, he'd say something funny, I'd laugh, etc.) I’ve dog eared the experience.
Plus, I met him in the Post Office. What can I say? If it goes, I might hate that I chose Post for his name. If it don’t go, it’s just a reference. Besides, whatever happens, a name is just a name. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
The other clerk, all smudgy and bland, in her: I can't even remember what she looked like way, who was just doing her job, and who wasn’t watching Post and I, like the line-O-plenty of Post-Office customer people collecting and on looking while we fumbled our way through a potentially cool-cat guided kismet exchange, broke the connection and called out, "NEXT!" in, what I’m going to remember as, falsely (for effect), a shrill voice.
"Uhm. Yeah. I wanted to pay for the next six months on my PO box," I drizzled out to the smudgy clerk.
As Smudgy checked the records, I readied one of my artist business cards to pass off to Post if I was done before him and had to be the one to do the pass off. Drats! It was.
Ready, set, GO! Act nonchalant in front of the other customers still watching the guy-meets-girl spectacle, which are now about 7-8 people who may as well each have had their own popcorn and an over-sized/over-priced soda pop in hand. Just hand him your card like a porn star who can have any man in the moment.
"The rest is up to you," I said, as I presented him my labeled over, wrong e-mail, artist (too cheap and too tired to buy new business cards) card. He had his card ready for me, too.
His card? Way more professional. And way more fun. He's a tax man, you see, yet something about his card made him look more like a member of The Monkeys, or a cover-band musician, than a bland accountant.
If I hear from him, I'll have to ask him: What's up with the card? I'm sure he's wondering the same from my card and asking: What’s up with the stick-em-on cell number label and the pen crossed-out and corrected e-mail? (Psycho, cheap bitch.) Honestly. Who spends the time putting cell number correction labels on business cards rather than just getting new cards? Sigh... me, the girl who doesn’t want to figure out how to re-format a graphic for printing and doesn't trust what her address will be next.
Now we know I really do love Mother Earth, or I really am OCD or crazy or lazy.
Will I be sad if I don't hear from Post? Probably. But only for a couple of days, which for me, these days, in love at least, is long enough to let go of the what if I used to hang on to for weeks or more. There was a time, with love, I'd cry over what was, and what is, and what hasn't become.
Now, I only cry, not because of love found or lost, but because I get edgy with all that I’ve learned, about everything else, but cannot always accept when it does come to what is, I don’t know how to completely surrender to the other parts of my life. I don’t know how to meditate my way out of stress when it comes to work and home. I can’t stop the inner turmoil from coming out on my body in the form of headaches or stress rashes.
But, and I might still be crazy, most of these tears I cry, while a bit knife turning, are mostly happy. Not ha, ha, ha…yippee my guts are on the carpet again happy. But, shit, I am making progress, and getting to know myself even more, happy.
Knowing how far I've come, not holding on to things and trying to cram them into a "meant to be" idea, but rather trying to un-cram the mental wedgies into acceptance, that’s enough to rejoice over for Now.
And, another reason I am posting about this guy, where nothing may come to fruition, is because it occurred to me that while I've come to accept that I may not meet the One I am supposed to be with any time soon, meeting my One Now would actually be the best time. Not because I am so exhausted I want him to take care of me (but it would be a break before I got tired of it and needed independence again), or because, naturally, the distraction would be nice, and I’d be getting laid again, but because I am so raw and so exposed from the changes in my life right Now that I wouldn't have any energy to put up any walls.
Right Now, I would not be capable of presenting any of the precursory and/or cautionary masks many of us put forth when we're in our best-foot-forward phase of a relationship (personal, professional, or spiritual).
I don't have any best foot left in me. I have no access to my usual, "I'm fine," and "I can take care of myself" shields.
It's just me right now, with all my beautiful flaws and all my messy perfection.
Take it or leave it.
Me? I’m going to take it. I’m going to learn from it. I’m going to do me some more crying. Probably some more resisting. Definitely some more misunderstanding before it all comes clear. But, I’ll take it.
It is what is. I’m going a little postal, but I’m getting, or at least looking for, the messages.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Post Game Highlights
I have showed my toes (done the taking off of shoe and sock upon request) to two different men in a bar scenario only twice in my life. (I’ve showed my toes plenty while in private—za-za-zing—or wearing flip flops, so that’s not where I am going with this.)
The first time my little piglets got a theatrical request, and I gave them their bar beseeched debut, it was years ago, during my early twenties, in a crowded sports bar in Colorado. (That seems to be a theme with me, doing everything in my early twenties.) The man asking me to twinkle up a foot for revue was some random dude promising, upon compliance, he’d give up his Colorado Rockies baseball cap. I didn’t want the cap. Not a sports fan. But…challenge a drunk young’n? Sadly, after I presented him naked toes, the fucker shot me down and didn’t give up the cap. Lying bastard. He didn’t deserve my digits.
The second time, I’ve publicly pointed my manicure in a man’s direction, when dared or goaded, that was the other night. His name is Rick. That’s what we’re going to call the guy who peaked my interest enough that when coerced, by both him and Cella (who I was doing a school night evening out with) during the course of a conversation about why I do my own pedicures, and have done so for years (I’m grossed out by going to the salons—with the threat of funguses and all) I surrendered my cherry-red painted ground-bound digits for review.
And, here we are. If Rick gets another crack at showing up in one of my posts, let’s get an overview of him first, before we decide if we like him. Right now, make no mistake, we are interested. Not like, HOLY SHIT! You’re it interested. But, hmmm, you are quite clever and handsome. We should talk more just so I can see.
If we never speak of Rick again, we’ve decided we don’t like him. Or, because of his baggage, or whatever (we’ll get to that) he decided not to call me. That’s where I’ll decide he’s not worth mentioning again.
Cella said, “He’s a diamond in the rough.” She recognized straight away that I was fascinated by this single/separated (ok, probably bad news—even if he’s been separated for 3 years now) brown, curly haired, bearded, fair skinned English man, who said he was a physicist. Yeah (leaning into it), me likes them smart.
Cella also, slyly, traded her seat next to him for mine so I could saddle up nearer him and find out more. Good, good wing woman, that Cella, especially when you consider she started talking to a dented tooth, gray haired man who had no business buying her a rose from the flower/rose pusher lady. (Can’t stand them rose peddlers. Don’t care for bathroom attendants while I am at it.)
Once Rick and I got to talking, that is when I learned he’s got a boat, a real boat. Not a motor boat that is, as Cella joked is an extension of a man’s penis, but a long ass sail boat with a cabin and wood parts and all, that he, himself, artistically, all craftsmen like, refinished the wood parts on.
Can I remember the name of the special, imported-something-a-rather, wood he put his grit into? What do you think? Can you say “Wine”?
But the artist in me has got some muscle sensory memory about him taking pride in creating, restoring, something, thanks. The asshole in me likes using the word “wood” for innuendo sake, even if I am the girl who discounts any man who’d use a sexual innuendo to flirt with me. From early on, I remembered something I learned: A gentleman reflects himself, not the woman he speaks to, and in that way a true gentleman treats every lady like a lady, regardless.
Anyway, somewhere in my conversation with him, I also got that his boat was a sail boat, and his love for working with wood, building something new or restoring something old, was his passion. That’s when my intrigue flagged a page on him.
Rick also said something about Martha’s Vineyard. Everything in my not pretentious spirit, but craving culture lust, shouldered up. I waited to want to gag, but also paused to appreciate the pleasure he took in speaking of things refined. He wasn’t bragging. He was reminiscing enjoyment. There is a difference. Once his use of the “F” word hit the same ground as his mention of the vineyard, the sucker in me, for smarts, culture, and cussing, got reeled in.
I read once that a good writer does not subject their readers to a list. Well, A) Who knows if I am a good writer yet. I’ve just got a voice and some commas, so B) A list is the only way I am going to succinctly get Rick’s highlights on the game map before I tire of him or find out more.
As such, the list commences. I’ve always loved me some dorky, sweet, handsome intelligent breed of a man who knows how to keep the conversation moving. Check. Didn’t expect super-duper firm guns when I did my flirt, and touched his left arm and felt the strength of a fit body scream through a pin-striped, cleaner’s pressed, collared shirt. Superficial? Duh. But who cares? Check! I’m not a physicist, and obviously am an artist, but meeting a man wholly unthreatened by my feminine strength, my need for mental stimulation…check, check, and CHECK.
Is Rick an “it” guy? No clue. He’s got at least 3 more days to get a hold of me before he pisses me off for playing it too cool. Did I have one of the best conversations with Rick, a man who didn’t make me feel like I needed to be younger or hold back age references or intellectual appearances, which makes me want more from him, because it was refreshing and inviting? Definitely.
We’ll see. That’s all I can do, with Rick, with life, with it all…is just see.
The first time my little piglets got a theatrical request, and I gave them their bar beseeched debut, it was years ago, during my early twenties, in a crowded sports bar in Colorado. (That seems to be a theme with me, doing everything in my early twenties.) The man asking me to twinkle up a foot for revue was some random dude promising, upon compliance, he’d give up his Colorado Rockies baseball cap. I didn’t want the cap. Not a sports fan. But…challenge a drunk young’n? Sadly, after I presented him naked toes, the fucker shot me down and didn’t give up the cap. Lying bastard. He didn’t deserve my digits.
The second time, I’ve publicly pointed my manicure in a man’s direction, when dared or goaded, that was the other night. His name is Rick. That’s what we’re going to call the guy who peaked my interest enough that when coerced, by both him and Cella (who I was doing a school night evening out with) during the course of a conversation about why I do my own pedicures, and have done so for years (I’m grossed out by going to the salons—with the threat of funguses and all) I surrendered my cherry-red painted ground-bound digits for review.
And, here we are. If Rick gets another crack at showing up in one of my posts, let’s get an overview of him first, before we decide if we like him. Right now, make no mistake, we are interested. Not like, HOLY SHIT! You’re it interested. But, hmmm, you are quite clever and handsome. We should talk more just so I can see.
If we never speak of Rick again, we’ve decided we don’t like him. Or, because of his baggage, or whatever (we’ll get to that) he decided not to call me. That’s where I’ll decide he’s not worth mentioning again.
Cella said, “He’s a diamond in the rough.” She recognized straight away that I was fascinated by this single/separated (ok, probably bad news—even if he’s been separated for 3 years now) brown, curly haired, bearded, fair skinned English man, who said he was a physicist. Yeah (leaning into it), me likes them smart.
Cella also, slyly, traded her seat next to him for mine so I could saddle up nearer him and find out more. Good, good wing woman, that Cella, especially when you consider she started talking to a dented tooth, gray haired man who had no business buying her a rose from the flower/rose pusher lady. (Can’t stand them rose peddlers. Don’t care for bathroom attendants while I am at it.)
Once Rick and I got to talking, that is when I learned he’s got a boat, a real boat. Not a motor boat that is, as Cella joked is an extension of a man’s penis, but a long ass sail boat with a cabin and wood parts and all, that he, himself, artistically, all craftsmen like, refinished the wood parts on.
Can I remember the name of the special, imported-something-a-rather, wood he put his grit into? What do you think? Can you say “Wine”?
But the artist in me has got some muscle sensory memory about him taking pride in creating, restoring, something, thanks. The asshole in me likes using the word “wood” for innuendo sake, even if I am the girl who discounts any man who’d use a sexual innuendo to flirt with me. From early on, I remembered something I learned: A gentleman reflects himself, not the woman he speaks to, and in that way a true gentleman treats every lady like a lady, regardless.
Anyway, somewhere in my conversation with him, I also got that his boat was a sail boat, and his love for working with wood, building something new or restoring something old, was his passion. That’s when my intrigue flagged a page on him.
Rick also said something about Martha’s Vineyard. Everything in my not pretentious spirit, but craving culture lust, shouldered up. I waited to want to gag, but also paused to appreciate the pleasure he took in speaking of things refined. He wasn’t bragging. He was reminiscing enjoyment. There is a difference. Once his use of the “F” word hit the same ground as his mention of the vineyard, the sucker in me, for smarts, culture, and cussing, got reeled in.
I read once that a good writer does not subject their readers to a list. Well, A) Who knows if I am a good writer yet. I’ve just got a voice and some commas, so B) A list is the only way I am going to succinctly get Rick’s highlights on the game map before I tire of him or find out more.
As such, the list commences. I’ve always loved me some dorky, sweet, handsome intelligent breed of a man who knows how to keep the conversation moving. Check. Didn’t expect super-duper firm guns when I did my flirt, and touched his left arm and felt the strength of a fit body scream through a pin-striped, cleaner’s pressed, collared shirt. Superficial? Duh. But who cares? Check! I’m not a physicist, and obviously am an artist, but meeting a man wholly unthreatened by my feminine strength, my need for mental stimulation…check, check, and CHECK.
Is Rick an “it” guy? No clue. He’s got at least 3 more days to get a hold of me before he pisses me off for playing it too cool. Did I have one of the best conversations with Rick, a man who didn’t make me feel like I needed to be younger or hold back age references or intellectual appearances, which makes me want more from him, because it was refreshing and inviting? Definitely.
We’ll see. That’s all I can do, with Rick, with life, with it all…is just see.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Honored
BTW, I realize that the last post might seem out of the blue. I wrote that email to a friend because that friend had felt regret for sharing with me more than they were comfortable with sharing. It wasn't about that the friend had shared with me, it was about what the friend had shared.
I hate advise. But, this would be my advise in life, anyway... Never regret sharing anything with a true friend. You honor that friend by allowing them to know you in every way that is vulnerable and strong, and in letting that friend in, a friend who can be strong for you, that which you beleive makes you weak does not. You, and the friend, indeed, gather strength from the experience of going deeper into the fold.
I beleive this. If this comfort in life is not true, and I am an idiot, I'd like to remain so. Never tell me different and leave me to the bliss of my friendships and ignorance.
I hate advise. But, this would be my advise in life, anyway... Never regret sharing anything with a true friend. You honor that friend by allowing them to know you in every way that is vulnerable and strong, and in letting that friend in, a friend who can be strong for you, that which you beleive makes you weak does not. You, and the friend, indeed, gather strength from the experience of going deeper into the fold.
I beleive this. If this comfort in life is not true, and I am an idiot, I'd like to remain so. Never tell me different and leave me to the bliss of my friendships and ignorance.
Let's ROCK it!!!
I’ve got another post coming I am meaning to get around to, where think I might be putting the sourpuss away for a spell, but until I get around to this post, I thought I’d bring little miss positive out, for a squirt, and share another e-mail I sent to a friend.
Once again I am not going to share what friend, and what the circumstance are/where, because… Shit, we’ve been here. You get the drill. Anonymity is our friend for my friends. But, the meaning of this post is this: Sometimes I fall away, and my friends pick me up, sometimes it’s my turn to pick them up. Either way, friends, my friends, they are manna from above and we, you, ALL rock!!!
My friend...
It's true. You are beautiful to the bone. And, now, you are going to get the more present me, the friend who isn't complaining about her own life and I am going to tell you something...
You are not your actions. You are your core, your Being—the Source. The true you is part of the bigger connection. So, you are me, I am you, and we are everything. Yet, we are both human, too, and, this being human stuff, it means we are flawed and flawless. It is part of our design.
So you, we, are loving, learning, amazing human beings who are more than the love we give, the learning we do, or the mishaps or milestones we encounter along the way.
Listen, I know this!
I've become a different person in the last 10 years. I've lived this. For what it's worth, it's taken me a long time to get to just the stressed-out bitch who sometimes can't handle a shitty boss or un-fulfilling work. I used to be worse than the stress I've been sharing with you lately. (Sadly, it's true. Insert laugh here!)
I blamed myself for years for the things that happened to me from my past. I wanted to be mad at the world. Then I blamed myself for reacting from my humanity. I was mad that I was not perfect, that everything human in me, that needed to shut down, to shut off emotion, to get emotion, to be cared for, to care less, to get attention, to ignore attention, to want this, to not want that, to want control, to lose control, to care, to not care, to love, to hate, did what I’ve done, and will likely do.
I understand how we can hate who we are. I’ve always loved myself, but in the midst of that love there was hate. I have hated who I was. I have hated things I’ve done. I have hated ways I’d become. I have hated what I thought I could never be and who I thought I never had a chance to be. I have hated those who I thought made me hate me. I have hated me and others more because I didn’t know how not to hate.
I didn’t know about balance. I didn’t understand how to tap into the love for myself or for others. Then I forgave myself and I forgave others. Not over night. Not in a day. That forgiveness led me to more love and finding the love I always had but couldn’t reach, and I do not mean the kind of love we all feel is in our hearts, but the kind of love that is Love itself. The kind of love that is who we are. That is our Being.
What I am saying is that just as it took me years to learn some of the wrong lessons life presented, I, personally, needed years to un-think those lessons. I had to relearn and practice better lessons.
(Some learn quickly. Others do not. Whichever the speed, learning is a process, not a destination.)
I guess what I am trying to say to you, and trying to remind myself of (since I have recently let stress rule me instead of Love), is that becoming more conscious, loving our true Beings, it is a process. It is a practice.
It takes time and many reminders to accept and to live in Love. And, forgiveness, for others and for ourselves, like walking in Love, while both may be the most natural things in the world, they aren’t always the easiest to come by because we are human.
That’s the trick: to forgive ourselves along the way when we haven’t made it as far as we’d like to have come in Love. There is magic in letting go instead of hanging on, but if we can accept what is, accept imperfection in our humaneness, perhaps we might find more peace along life’s way.
And on it goes as we go. Yes?
We will live. We will fall. We will get up. We will sing. We will cry. We will dance. We will trip. We will laugh and cry some more. But we will learn. Then we will forget. Then we will learn again. Forget again. Then get some things and perhaps become more conscious.
Then we will die. Our true selves won’t parish. No. Our truth can never cease to exist as the source of us is our ultimate truth. But we will leave behind our human bodies as we continue to exist as divinity.
So what’s there to fear? It all is as it is.
Once again I am not going to share what friend, and what the circumstance are/where, because… Shit, we’ve been here. You get the drill. Anonymity is our friend for my friends. But, the meaning of this post is this: Sometimes I fall away, and my friends pick me up, sometimes it’s my turn to pick them up. Either way, friends, my friends, they are manna from above and we, you, ALL rock!!!
My friend...
It's true. You are beautiful to the bone. And, now, you are going to get the more present me, the friend who isn't complaining about her own life and I am going to tell you something...
You are not your actions. You are your core, your Being—the Source. The true you is part of the bigger connection. So, you are me, I am you, and we are everything. Yet, we are both human, too, and, this being human stuff, it means we are flawed and flawless. It is part of our design.
So you, we, are loving, learning, amazing human beings who are more than the love we give, the learning we do, or the mishaps or milestones we encounter along the way.
Listen, I know this!
I've become a different person in the last 10 years. I've lived this. For what it's worth, it's taken me a long time to get to just the stressed-out bitch who sometimes can't handle a shitty boss or un-fulfilling work. I used to be worse than the stress I've been sharing with you lately. (Sadly, it's true. Insert laugh here!)
I blamed myself for years for the things that happened to me from my past. I wanted to be mad at the world. Then I blamed myself for reacting from my humanity. I was mad that I was not perfect, that everything human in me, that needed to shut down, to shut off emotion, to get emotion, to be cared for, to care less, to get attention, to ignore attention, to want this, to not want that, to want control, to lose control, to care, to not care, to love, to hate, did what I’ve done, and will likely do.
I understand how we can hate who we are. I’ve always loved myself, but in the midst of that love there was hate. I have hated who I was. I have hated things I’ve done. I have hated ways I’d become. I have hated what I thought I could never be and who I thought I never had a chance to be. I have hated those who I thought made me hate me. I have hated me and others more because I didn’t know how not to hate.
I didn’t know about balance. I didn’t understand how to tap into the love for myself or for others. Then I forgave myself and I forgave others. Not over night. Not in a day. That forgiveness led me to more love and finding the love I always had but couldn’t reach, and I do not mean the kind of love we all feel is in our hearts, but the kind of love that is Love itself. The kind of love that is who we are. That is our Being.
What I am saying is that just as it took me years to learn some of the wrong lessons life presented, I, personally, needed years to un-think those lessons. I had to relearn and practice better lessons.
(Some learn quickly. Others do not. Whichever the speed, learning is a process, not a destination.)
I guess what I am trying to say to you, and trying to remind myself of (since I have recently let stress rule me instead of Love), is that becoming more conscious, loving our true Beings, it is a process. It is a practice.
It takes time and many reminders to accept and to live in Love. And, forgiveness, for others and for ourselves, like walking in Love, while both may be the most natural things in the world, they aren’t always the easiest to come by because we are human.
That’s the trick: to forgive ourselves along the way when we haven’t made it as far as we’d like to have come in Love. There is magic in letting go instead of hanging on, but if we can accept what is, accept imperfection in our humaneness, perhaps we might find more peace along life’s way.
And on it goes as we go. Yes?
We will live. We will fall. We will get up. We will sing. We will cry. We will dance. We will trip. We will laugh and cry some more. But we will learn. Then we will forget. Then we will learn again. Forget again. Then get some things and perhaps become more conscious.
Then we will die. Our true selves won’t parish. No. Our truth can never cease to exist as the source of us is our ultimate truth. But we will leave behind our human bodies as we continue to exist as divinity.
So what’s there to fear? It all is as it is.
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