Here is a post that may not be globally engaging, but is curious and interesting enough for me to picket. There is this thing that people do, here at this bat village where I live, that I feel is fun enough (odd enough) to mention.
Bats? Oh. Yeah. Saw another bat, just 2 days ago, but this time it was outside the back sliding glass door where all my plants, which are dying from too much shade, are hanging out.
Anyway, my shade and golf-course-squirrel-tormented succulents are not meant to be the focus here. These folks who stick shit out for grabs are.
What I mean is, you go to throw something away in this bat village and then, in the dumpster area, there are things people just can’t imagine living with any more, but they don’t, not quite, think they are trash. So, they set them there, out and on display, and they offer them up, to other trash throw-er-away-ers, for the taking.
On this 11” cement lip, curb-type ledge, if you will, just opposite of the “total trash” and the “please recycle me” dumpsters, these “you gotta give me a home” baubles plead for attention. The bat village dwellers send these doodads and whatnots out on their own in trash alley in the hopes that someone will find their “I’m over it” crap worth while and take it for a personal “Ah! Gotta have that garbage” treasure.
This trash or treasure tender, a complained about and/or accepted (loved/hated) phenomena, has been going on in bat village since I’ve lived her for almost 7 months (and most defiantly before). The hate crowd says, “Come on! Just throw it away. What the hell?” The recycle crowd says, “Well… You know how people stick things out…? I found some stuff, and…” all the while they don’t want to admit they’ve pirated that rubbish right on back to their lair.
Me? F’, yeah! Sign me up. I just dug a coat out of the recycle bin that I don’t plan on wearing until I move, but it is bad ass. I also got a big pot, for one of my plants, which saved me at least $30.00 in terracotta transplanting costs. My neighbor Jean, she just told my how she found a Wayne Dyer book, “Pulling Your Own Strings,” that was set out on the trash “ledge” which prompted her to change her way of operating, and which, as she said, “Has been fun and informative.”
What does it all mean? I don’t know any more. At all. All I know is that I woke up with a text message from Jen saying, “Bleeding into my right breast. Took an ambulance to the hospital. Hypotensive. Tachycardia,” and, as I later learned, had she not have called 911 for an ambulance, she might have bled out and died last night.
I know. Tangent. Strong shift to the left. Trash; then one of my best friends in peril. I’m an ass, a jarring, disjunctive story teller. A bit crook neck. (Bare with me.)
We, and by “we” I mean Jen and me (and by “me” I mean by proxy of being a best friend worrying), waited until this evening to find out that she would not need a blood transfusion from losing so much blood from the blood clot that developed from her surgery and had bursted. (Sorry, the nature of Jen’s original surgery, which took place on my birthday this year, is not my specific detail to share.) Jen having another emergency surgery today to deal with the burst of the blood clot from the original surgery, that almost caused her too bleed out (if I am even getting the medical terms right), that, well, is my detail.
That is where my morning started, with a panic, because of a text message from Jen sent the night before, while I was asleep, at 11:43 pm. The more details I got, was the more I learned that I could have lost a best friend last night, a best friend who has, on most occasions, been more family than my own family to me.
What’s important? This is what we ask ourselves. This is what we should continually ask.
I can’t go see my best friend in the hospital because I don’t live in the same state. So what did I do? I had the conversation I needed to have with her, and then I got the follow up text message from her that I needed to get to know that she was going to be okay. “No transfusion needed. Yeah! H&H 22 and 7.5 now.”
Sorry. I didn’t know what that meant, “H&H 22 and 7.5 now,” either. But, as I Googled, H and H, sometimes written as "H&H", shorthand for hemoglobin and hematocrit, are two very common and important blood tests, but don’t ask me what the 7.5 is. Where medical stuff is concerned, I’m a doof and gum, dumb and a goof. I don’t know shit (and I am too emotionally exhausted to look it all up tonight). But, that Jen didn’t need blood, as much blood as she lost, and that Jen was going to be okay is all that I needed to know.
In the aftermath of my own shock of it all today, I did what I could. I only kinda not cried 4 times at work today. I spent the evening with my neighbor Jean and her daughter, figuring out how to overcome the boy crushes and best friend highs and blows that come from being 12 years old (Jean’s daughter got screwed by a best friend and a boy—oohf).
And, I got a dose of perspective today. Rather than working through another lunch, staying late, and worrying about the follow up review with Bull #2 tomorrow (bully bitch), I ate garlic bread. I focused on a beautiful strong and sensitive teenager’s problems, Jean’s daughter. I relished in the fact that I am going to get at least 20 more years with one of my best friends. I smiled at the treasures that the bat village neighbors put out. I thanked the bigger picture that people and things aren’t indispensable.
And I remembered, that no matter how hard it gets, and how much it can hurt like hell and take its toll, the crap is the cache. The trash is the treasure. Fortune is where you find it.
BTW, if you are curious, among today’s selections for the picking, on the bat village trash walk, were a 3’ x 4’ white framed mirror, a grocery bag full of bird houses (like 7-8 of ‘em), a 2’ x 3’ cork board, a selection of ceramic angels and pooties, and a stainless-steel metal shower caddie.
The shower caddie? Okay. That was my addition. Obviously I’m signed up to the cornucopia of free garage-sale-like trash gifties.
BTW, this is another post I do not apologize for. It’s late. I’ve been stressed all day.
Whatever shortcomings I have as a writer, or in the editing of my own posts (especially the late night posts), I don’t have as a friend loving another friend. I’m willing to be imperfect in my commas and my points. I’m not so willing to loose one of the best gifts of my life… one of my best friends who is my family. I don’t play cards, but I’m playing the ouch card now.
So, if I, in my odd way of being grateful in my personal time of stress, find a way to compare almost losing a friend to the recycled treasures presented by strangers in a bat village, I’m okay with that.
What if in a profound way it’s all connected? What if on a base tangible level, in a greater sharing way, even if the connection is lame as hell, it’s just about coping? What if I’m just coping? What if I’m just trying to work through my expression of appreciation, fear, connectivity, loss, gain, frustration, and elation…
What if I’m just…
So bring it, bat village recyclers. I’m in.
I’m getting dented. I’m having a hard time. What happened to Jen scared the !!!! out of me. But if you want to put things out for my consideration, and if by you doing that I am reminded what are the treasure in my life, even when I’m throwing the garbage out, I’M IN!
I’m in.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
How big is your elephant?
About a week after 911 happened I was to get on a plane headed for the East Coast to see my eldest sister. My other sister, just older than me, who lives on the West Coast with me, didn’t want me to fly after what had happened. She was extremely concerned, and said as much to me. To put her mind at ease I told her what I believed to be the absolute truth. “Don’t worry,” I said. “The universe is not done fucking with me yet. I’ll be just fine, and so will everyone else on that plane with me. Trust me. I've got a long life of lessons ahead of me.”
I’d forgotten how, since I'd said that to my sister, whenever something goes hay wire in my life, to laugh about it, and remember I'm supposed to learn from it, it's been my joke to say that the universe is fucking with me again. Something else I often forget, is to figure out how to learn from what I am going through.
And now we get to this chase...
So there I am, annoyed that I’d already driven the neighborhoods for over 4 hours and only saw 2 new For Rent signs. I was exasperated by how, essentially, my apartment search has become a part-time job in the last few months. And, I was pissed off that I still haven’t found a place that doesn’t make me feel like I am going to have to move again. And, then, there it is, just as I was about to make a right turn, this not too shabby middle shade of mint green four-plex, with a hearty For Rent sign winks at me.
The unit for rent appears to be upstairs, so, that’s good, I think to myself. There are a lot of windows, so, that’s great. No info on the rent amount, though. I’m not feeling like this place is it, the one I’ve been looking for, but, still, I will call on it. There’s just some reason I think I should call.
I even drove by the place two more times later the same day, trying to guess how it was laid out inside and trying to see if I could get a different feeling about this place. I wanted to figure out why it didn’t feel right, why it didn’t feel like it was my new home, yet I kept being drawn back to this damn place.
On what was to be my 3rd trip, the following day, I parked near the business that neighbored the rental and then I walked up a driveway type alley to get a better peak. I had more questions. Was the bedroom going to be on the South West corner, getting all the sun light and leaving the living room in the dark? If that’s the case, then damn it. That’s going to suck. I want a South West living room. (Gawd, I’m a sun light addicted but sun light depraved spaz.) Is the door too shallow to get my couch through and up those stairs on that bend? Seems like it. Still, if/when someone calls back, I’ll go check this place out. I’ll measure my couch ahead of time.
When a guy called back I got some additional rental info from him: $1,000.00 a month, 750 sq ft, parking in the driveway. Good. Fine. Then I took his name down. Even though he had a simple name, you know, like Jeff, I asked, “How do you spell that?” Then when he answered, and gave the way he spells it, like G e o f f, I thought: SHIT. We’ve dated.
Of course the guy on the phone was not really named Jeff, or Geoff, that’s the name we’re going with. But, using a simple name like Jeff as an example is meant to point out that there would not only be plenty of otherwise spelled Geoffs in this world, there would be no reason for me to assume it was the otherwise spelled Geoff I dated, yet, that’s what I instantly felt, even if this Phone Geoff didn’t sound anything like the Geoff I thought I dated. Then again, it was over 7 years ago, and me and this Dated Geoff only went out three or four times, so it’s not like the Dated Geoff would have been embedded in my memory.
Wrong. I didn’t know for sure who was on the other end of the phone, and the conversation was so brief, but Dated Geoff, he’s been forever fixed in my brain. Know what a Maestro is? A Maestro is an artist of consummate skill. It’s a title, or a respect, often given to a master musician. Sometimes, though, this title can be used to reference a level of skill in other arts, arts that seem to conjure up the thought that music is being made. (At least in my world that’s how the title Maestro can be used.) So, yeah, in my head, those years back, I had called Dated Geoff The Maestro.
What this man could do with his hands, the dancing he made my body succumb to, the music he could make with his fingers, the singing he got my clitoris to do, well… We shall leave it there. And, yes, I said clitoris, not Delores.
Never slept with the guy. It never got that far. There wasn’t even any oral sex. Nope. There were just those two very lovely post-date nights on my couch where I needed mercy because my body was being turned into a symphony at The Maestro’s hands. (I assure you, it was sheer pleasure.)
But that was Dated Geoff, not Phone Geoff. I still didn’t know who Phone Geoff really was. But I’d find out. I’d see if I’d wasted two day’s energy wondering, asking myself, and going back and forth: Can I rent from a guy who felt me up? What if the place is perfect? I just want to find a new place I’m going to feel at home in, damn it!
The wondering would soon be over. Phone Geoff had pulled into the driveway of the rental place seconds before I parked my car across the street. Phone Geoff drove a newer silver truck. Dated Geoff used to have an old blue truck. Still, it would make sense that if Dated Geoff was Phone Geoff, he would have a newer truck by now. Dated Geoff was renovating the house he owned those years back. Buying, renovating, then renting out property, that all seemed like a logical progression for Dated Geoff.
It should be noted, I never forgot how beautiful the arched entrance was that Dated Geoff had made out of the square doorway between his living room and dining room. Sure, Dated Geoff was also living amongst his plaster dust, didn’t have hardly any furniture, but had, instead, made a wall shelf out of a public bus bench and two over-sized industrial plumbing tubes, and had a dining room table to match (an industrial wooden cable spool with I don't know what on the top), but the raw potential in this guy was always there. He was sort of campy, but in a smart way, and he was artistic, rugged...sexy.
It was him. Dated Geoff didn’t even have to get out of his truck for me to know he was one in the same as Phone Geoff. I could feel it. Still sitting in my car, into my cell phone I said, “Hi. Geoff. It’s Levan. I just pulled up.” “Me, too,” Geoff responded.
Still doesn’t sound like him, but I know it is him, I thought.
“Hi. Good to meet you,” I said, extending my hand for his the way any person would offer a shake upon first meeting someone. Geoff, now a little heavier, but just as friggen gorgeous with his light-ash-brown hair, boyish looks, and broad, strong shoulders, gave me his hand in return. The instant our skin connected, Geoff couldn’t fight it. While Geoff didn’t want to admit it first, that we already knew each other, I could tell he’d recognized me the second I’d gotten out of my car. And, once we were hand to hand, his face betrayed him. The curl of his smile and the light in the corners of his eyes proved to me that he knew it was me.
But I was playing it straight. I wouldn’t let him know I knew it was him and that I knew he knew it was me. I let the elephant follow us up the stairway and in through the front door of the rental unit. The elephant followed me around as I peeked into the bedroom, remarked about the size of the kitchen and asked questions about the lease and if there was a credit check and gas heating.
I can’t be sure, but I think it killed Geoff that I didn’t show even one sign of recognition. He kept burning a hole through me, asking me with his eyes, and daring me with both a stupefied and amused grin, to come clean, to say something, to let him know we’d already been familiarized. Still, I didn’t. And, I knew he wouldn’t be the first to come clean. Male egos are so fragile.
There were, for me, so many more reasons not to address the elephant in the room. For one, I didn’t know if I wanted to rent the place or not and I needed time to digest that decision before I said, “Hey, are you good with taking my rent money when you’ve already checked the credit under my skirt?” (Actually, why wouldn’t he be?)
Also, he had all the advantages. He’s got a house. Hell, he’s got a fourplex for rent. He’s doing just fine for himself. Me? Have you checked my blog posts lately? I’m emotionally homeless and an emotional mess because of work. And, while I was the one who broke it off with him, because he was one of my first trial runs for internet dating, and I couldn’t handle that he might be dating other girls while I was starting to really like him, I more than repaired his ego months later.
I made one of those calls. You know the kind, where your ego ducks its tail between its legs afterward. I didn’t say much, just: Hi. I was an ass to call off our (3rd/4th?) date by leaving only a voice mail. I was hasty. Been thinking about you. Are you still single? Want to go out again?
In response, he didn’t say much either, just something to the effect of: Don’t worry about it. Not a problem. I’m seeing someone, but it’s great to hear from you.
So that’s that.
I sent Phone, Dated, it-friggen-is Geoff an email today:
Subject: Rental
Hello Geoff,
Thanks for showing me the place. However, upon returning home last night, and surveying my furniture, I think the divided living room probably won't accommodate my couch, etc.
Best,
Levan
What I wanted to say was…
Hi Geoff.
The place is great, except the living room really is kinda jacked. But, I probably could have worked around that weird divider thingy, especially since the month-to-month tenancy is so enticing. However, I’ve been in such a fine mess, by renting a bat cave from a batty so-called friend, that I think at this juncture in my life it’s probably an even worse idea for me to rent from a guy who can make me writhe. My mind cannot accommodate the thought of paying rent to someone who turned me into puddy on my couch.
Plus, we all know it’s just not smart to mix business with pleasure, or, should I say, conduct business with someone who has given me physical pleasure?
So, thanks again for the enjoyable 10 minutes we spent together ignoring an elephant. Hope you enjoyed the mention I made of anything that would allow you to confirm that yes, it was, indeed, me. Saying I had a lot of paintings probably really sealed it for you, eh?, as you saw them all on my wall on the 3rd date. But, tell me, did you actually enjoy my academy award winning performance where I gave you no clue that I knew it was you, or was that just me enjoying that?
Anyway, best of luck to you as you continue to make a success out of your life. Wish me luck on getting my shit together, in finding an elephant free place to live, and on me eventually getting my credit checked by someone who doesn’t make me feel utterly embarrassed about how crapped up my little life is. (Oh, wait, that’s not your fault I feel that way. You just caught me at a difficult time. My bad.)
Happy New Year???
Levan
So, back to the drawing board, back to spending at least 6-10 hours of my time, each week, every week, until I find a new place to live where I can give my poor, homeless soul a place to take a breath. Back to me asking the universe, “Are you fucking with me, or what?" And back to me asking, "If so, what am I to learn from this?”
Hey, at least this run in with Dated Geoff proves that we all really are connected. (Even if sometimes it’s a little too connected for comfort.)
I’d forgotten how, since I'd said that to my sister, whenever something goes hay wire in my life, to laugh about it, and remember I'm supposed to learn from it, it's been my joke to say that the universe is fucking with me again. Something else I often forget, is to figure out how to learn from what I am going through.
And now we get to this chase...
So there I am, annoyed that I’d already driven the neighborhoods for over 4 hours and only saw 2 new For Rent signs. I was exasperated by how, essentially, my apartment search has become a part-time job in the last few months. And, I was pissed off that I still haven’t found a place that doesn’t make me feel like I am going to have to move again. And, then, there it is, just as I was about to make a right turn, this not too shabby middle shade of mint green four-plex, with a hearty For Rent sign winks at me.
The unit for rent appears to be upstairs, so, that’s good, I think to myself. There are a lot of windows, so, that’s great. No info on the rent amount, though. I’m not feeling like this place is it, the one I’ve been looking for, but, still, I will call on it. There’s just some reason I think I should call.
I even drove by the place two more times later the same day, trying to guess how it was laid out inside and trying to see if I could get a different feeling about this place. I wanted to figure out why it didn’t feel right, why it didn’t feel like it was my new home, yet I kept being drawn back to this damn place.
On what was to be my 3rd trip, the following day, I parked near the business that neighbored the rental and then I walked up a driveway type alley to get a better peak. I had more questions. Was the bedroom going to be on the South West corner, getting all the sun light and leaving the living room in the dark? If that’s the case, then damn it. That’s going to suck. I want a South West living room. (Gawd, I’m a sun light addicted but sun light depraved spaz.) Is the door too shallow to get my couch through and up those stairs on that bend? Seems like it. Still, if/when someone calls back, I’ll go check this place out. I’ll measure my couch ahead of time.
When a guy called back I got some additional rental info from him: $1,000.00 a month, 750 sq ft, parking in the driveway. Good. Fine. Then I took his name down. Even though he had a simple name, you know, like Jeff, I asked, “How do you spell that?” Then when he answered, and gave the way he spells it, like G e o f f, I thought: SHIT. We’ve dated.
Of course the guy on the phone was not really named Jeff, or Geoff, that’s the name we’re going with. But, using a simple name like Jeff as an example is meant to point out that there would not only be plenty of otherwise spelled Geoffs in this world, there would be no reason for me to assume it was the otherwise spelled Geoff I dated, yet, that’s what I instantly felt, even if this Phone Geoff didn’t sound anything like the Geoff I thought I dated. Then again, it was over 7 years ago, and me and this Dated Geoff only went out three or four times, so it’s not like the Dated Geoff would have been embedded in my memory.
Wrong. I didn’t know for sure who was on the other end of the phone, and the conversation was so brief, but Dated Geoff, he’s been forever fixed in my brain. Know what a Maestro is? A Maestro is an artist of consummate skill. It’s a title, or a respect, often given to a master musician. Sometimes, though, this title can be used to reference a level of skill in other arts, arts that seem to conjure up the thought that music is being made. (At least in my world that’s how the title Maestro can be used.) So, yeah, in my head, those years back, I had called Dated Geoff The Maestro.
What this man could do with his hands, the dancing he made my body succumb to, the music he could make with his fingers, the singing he got my clitoris to do, well… We shall leave it there. And, yes, I said clitoris, not Delores.
Never slept with the guy. It never got that far. There wasn’t even any oral sex. Nope. There were just those two very lovely post-date nights on my couch where I needed mercy because my body was being turned into a symphony at The Maestro’s hands. (I assure you, it was sheer pleasure.)
But that was Dated Geoff, not Phone Geoff. I still didn’t know who Phone Geoff really was. But I’d find out. I’d see if I’d wasted two day’s energy wondering, asking myself, and going back and forth: Can I rent from a guy who felt me up? What if the place is perfect? I just want to find a new place I’m going to feel at home in, damn it!
The wondering would soon be over. Phone Geoff had pulled into the driveway of the rental place seconds before I parked my car across the street. Phone Geoff drove a newer silver truck. Dated Geoff used to have an old blue truck. Still, it would make sense that if Dated Geoff was Phone Geoff, he would have a newer truck by now. Dated Geoff was renovating the house he owned those years back. Buying, renovating, then renting out property, that all seemed like a logical progression for Dated Geoff.
It should be noted, I never forgot how beautiful the arched entrance was that Dated Geoff had made out of the square doorway between his living room and dining room. Sure, Dated Geoff was also living amongst his plaster dust, didn’t have hardly any furniture, but had, instead, made a wall shelf out of a public bus bench and two over-sized industrial plumbing tubes, and had a dining room table to match (an industrial wooden cable spool with I don't know what on the top), but the raw potential in this guy was always there. He was sort of campy, but in a smart way, and he was artistic, rugged...sexy.
It was him. Dated Geoff didn’t even have to get out of his truck for me to know he was one in the same as Phone Geoff. I could feel it. Still sitting in my car, into my cell phone I said, “Hi. Geoff. It’s Levan. I just pulled up.” “Me, too,” Geoff responded.
Still doesn’t sound like him, but I know it is him, I thought.
“Hi. Good to meet you,” I said, extending my hand for his the way any person would offer a shake upon first meeting someone. Geoff, now a little heavier, but just as friggen gorgeous with his light-ash-brown hair, boyish looks, and broad, strong shoulders, gave me his hand in return. The instant our skin connected, Geoff couldn’t fight it. While Geoff didn’t want to admit it first, that we already knew each other, I could tell he’d recognized me the second I’d gotten out of my car. And, once we were hand to hand, his face betrayed him. The curl of his smile and the light in the corners of his eyes proved to me that he knew it was me.
But I was playing it straight. I wouldn’t let him know I knew it was him and that I knew he knew it was me. I let the elephant follow us up the stairway and in through the front door of the rental unit. The elephant followed me around as I peeked into the bedroom, remarked about the size of the kitchen and asked questions about the lease and if there was a credit check and gas heating.
I can’t be sure, but I think it killed Geoff that I didn’t show even one sign of recognition. He kept burning a hole through me, asking me with his eyes, and daring me with both a stupefied and amused grin, to come clean, to say something, to let him know we’d already been familiarized. Still, I didn’t. And, I knew he wouldn’t be the first to come clean. Male egos are so fragile.
There were, for me, so many more reasons not to address the elephant in the room. For one, I didn’t know if I wanted to rent the place or not and I needed time to digest that decision before I said, “Hey, are you good with taking my rent money when you’ve already checked the credit under my skirt?” (Actually, why wouldn’t he be?)
Also, he had all the advantages. He’s got a house. Hell, he’s got a fourplex for rent. He’s doing just fine for himself. Me? Have you checked my blog posts lately? I’m emotionally homeless and an emotional mess because of work. And, while I was the one who broke it off with him, because he was one of my first trial runs for internet dating, and I couldn’t handle that he might be dating other girls while I was starting to really like him, I more than repaired his ego months later.
I made one of those calls. You know the kind, where your ego ducks its tail between its legs afterward. I didn’t say much, just: Hi. I was an ass to call off our (3rd/4th?) date by leaving only a voice mail. I was hasty. Been thinking about you. Are you still single? Want to go out again?
In response, he didn’t say much either, just something to the effect of: Don’t worry about it. Not a problem. I’m seeing someone, but it’s great to hear from you.
So that’s that.
I sent Phone, Dated, it-friggen-is Geoff an email today:
Subject: Rental
Hello Geoff,
Thanks for showing me the place. However, upon returning home last night, and surveying my furniture, I think the divided living room probably won't accommodate my couch, etc.
Best,
Levan
What I wanted to say was…
Hi Geoff.
The place is great, except the living room really is kinda jacked. But, I probably could have worked around that weird divider thingy, especially since the month-to-month tenancy is so enticing. However, I’ve been in such a fine mess, by renting a bat cave from a batty so-called friend, that I think at this juncture in my life it’s probably an even worse idea for me to rent from a guy who can make me writhe. My mind cannot accommodate the thought of paying rent to someone who turned me into puddy on my couch.
Plus, we all know it’s just not smart to mix business with pleasure, or, should I say, conduct business with someone who has given me physical pleasure?
So, thanks again for the enjoyable 10 minutes we spent together ignoring an elephant. Hope you enjoyed the mention I made of anything that would allow you to confirm that yes, it was, indeed, me. Saying I had a lot of paintings probably really sealed it for you, eh?, as you saw them all on my wall on the 3rd date. But, tell me, did you actually enjoy my academy award winning performance where I gave you no clue that I knew it was you, or was that just me enjoying that?
Anyway, best of luck to you as you continue to make a success out of your life. Wish me luck on getting my shit together, in finding an elephant free place to live, and on me eventually getting my credit checked by someone who doesn’t make me feel utterly embarrassed about how crapped up my little life is. (Oh, wait, that’s not your fault I feel that way. You just caught me at a difficult time. My bad.)
Happy New Year???
Levan
So, back to the drawing board, back to spending at least 6-10 hours of my time, each week, every week, until I find a new place to live where I can give my poor, homeless soul a place to take a breath. Back to me asking the universe, “Are you fucking with me, or what?" And back to me asking, "If so, what am I to learn from this?”
Hey, at least this run in with Dated Geoff proves that we all really are connected. (Even if sometimes it’s a little too connected for comfort.)
Thursday, December 30, 2010
I've learned some things...
Yeah, it's like 5 minutes later, and I am not smarter yet, but this I know...
This post will not be profound. I don't have the happy of flower power sprouting out of my ass yet. And, Spring is not upon me. At all. (So much not, I feel like a napkin at a BBQ resteraunt, all used up and a over worn.)
Yet, a day away from New Year's eve, I've had a revelation. Velveeta and reality TV are my rocky road. I know the brain cannot process fatty food and intense emotion at the same time...but this concept has had a whole new meaning in the passing months.
I want to marry velveeta and bury myself in trashy reality TV!
This post will not be profound. I don't have the happy of flower power sprouting out of my ass yet. And, Spring is not upon me. At all. (So much not, I feel like a napkin at a BBQ resteraunt, all used up and a over worn.)
Yet, a day away from New Year's eve, I've had a revelation. Velveeta and reality TV are my rocky road. I know the brain cannot process fatty food and intense emotion at the same time...but this concept has had a whole new meaning in the passing months.
I want to marry velveeta and bury myself in trashy reality TV!
No, really. Surrender.
I guess that's the message life is giving me. I really am going to have to surrender. But how and to what, exactly? For me, it's all getting a little out of whack and I'm not sure how to make sense of it.
Bull#2 writes a review and checks one of the commendable boxes, and uses words like efficient, clear, and concise. Then slips in some personal digs, calls me zealous in my efforts (trust me, it was meant negative), and remarks about my time away from the office.
I really shouldn't have scheduled a training session in advance of a meeting Bull#2 wanted to invite me to and I shouldn't have taken the approved vacation time this holiday season that would be taking place whilst another meeting Bull#2 wanted me in attendance for would also be taking place. Oh, and in the last 7 months, there was one or two sick days I called in for, and there were those 2 pre-approved days off for doctors appointments. Man I have, obviously, been abusing my vacation and sick time. What was I thinking?
I also shouldn't have asked one of my former professors to write a letter of recommendation for me for grad school. He'll do it, he said, but he warned me that my art just isn't good enough at this time and that I should expect to have to apply a couple of times and paint some more focussed work before I am actually accepted.
Another wonderful boost to my ego came when one of my close friends, who happens to be going through a lot of tough stuff, unleashed on me. I apparently do and say a lot of annoying things. I'd go into all of the annoying things I've been doing for the last 8+ years, that have been grating on this friend's nerves but weren't worth mentioning until now, but I'm not sure it is necessary.
I'm either that annoying, or not. Either way, I have to accept that this friend needed a place to put all the hurt, anger, frustration, betrayal, abandonment, etc., they are feeling from the events in their life, and, tag, I was the place and my personality was the target.
What sucks the most?
Well, I can take that my boss is an idiot and in sections of my review took out on me many of the boss's own short commings. I can also accept that I may need to look at myself professionally, even if I've never gotten a negative review in my entire life before (even for jobs I hated more).
I can take that I may not be a good enough artist for grad school at this point. That's fine. Getting my BFA in art taught me to have a thick skin as a creative.
And, I can take that one of my good friends either finds me wildly annoying, or moderatly annoying, depending upon where the anger was coming from, and that I may have some personal things worth looking at.
But what I can't take is that I don't quite know what to do with all of this now. It's all a bit much at one time. I am left wondering, how do I surrender to so much negative energy and turn it into useful productive steps? Maybe there are people out there who could essentially be told "You're not good enough," personally, professionally, and creatively, and come out feeling spry, but I feel like life just kick the crap out of me.
Wow! The last half of this year really has been a fabulous learning experience. (Wait?! WTF am I supposed to be learning again? Oh, yeah...Surrender.)
Bull#2 writes a review and checks one of the commendable boxes, and uses words like efficient, clear, and concise. Then slips in some personal digs, calls me zealous in my efforts (trust me, it was meant negative), and remarks about my time away from the office.
I really shouldn't have scheduled a training session in advance of a meeting Bull#2 wanted to invite me to and I shouldn't have taken the approved vacation time this holiday season that would be taking place whilst another meeting Bull#2 wanted me in attendance for would also be taking place. Oh, and in the last 7 months, there was one or two sick days I called in for, and there were those 2 pre-approved days off for doctors appointments. Man I have, obviously, been abusing my vacation and sick time. What was I thinking?
I also shouldn't have asked one of my former professors to write a letter of recommendation for me for grad school. He'll do it, he said, but he warned me that my art just isn't good enough at this time and that I should expect to have to apply a couple of times and paint some more focussed work before I am actually accepted.
Another wonderful boost to my ego came when one of my close friends, who happens to be going through a lot of tough stuff, unleashed on me. I apparently do and say a lot of annoying things. I'd go into all of the annoying things I've been doing for the last 8+ years, that have been grating on this friend's nerves but weren't worth mentioning until now, but I'm not sure it is necessary.
I'm either that annoying, or not. Either way, I have to accept that this friend needed a place to put all the hurt, anger, frustration, betrayal, abandonment, etc., they are feeling from the events in their life, and, tag, I was the place and my personality was the target.
What sucks the most?
Well, I can take that my boss is an idiot and in sections of my review took out on me many of the boss's own short commings. I can also accept that I may need to look at myself professionally, even if I've never gotten a negative review in my entire life before (even for jobs I hated more).
I can take that I may not be a good enough artist for grad school at this point. That's fine. Getting my BFA in art taught me to have a thick skin as a creative.
And, I can take that one of my good friends either finds me wildly annoying, or moderatly annoying, depending upon where the anger was coming from, and that I may have some personal things worth looking at.
But what I can't take is that I don't quite know what to do with all of this now. It's all a bit much at one time. I am left wondering, how do I surrender to so much negative energy and turn it into useful productive steps? Maybe there are people out there who could essentially be told "You're not good enough," personally, professionally, and creatively, and come out feeling spry, but I feel like life just kick the crap out of me.
Wow! The last half of this year really has been a fabulous learning experience. (Wait?! WTF am I supposed to be learning again? Oh, yeah...Surrender.)
Saturday, December 18, 2010
You can't make this stuff up
Ah, COME ON! I know I’ve been joking that this place is so dark it’s like a cave, but I’m not a friggen super hero, I don’t want to hang out with bats. Am I kidding? I wish.
Here I go and give myself a break from my new place hunt that I’ve been on for the last 2 months straight, like a second job, and only drove the neighborhoods for an hour and a half today, leaving myself the rest of the afternoon to spend with Cella, doing lunch and a movie, and upon returning home I end up less than five feet from a bat in a floundering flight.
Not cool.
“Nuh, uh,” you say. “How can it be?” you ask.
Fine. Than what was it? Just as I was turning key to knob, a black, blob of a featherless flying object was flipping its stunted flaps against the overhang of the condo porch, in what appeared to be a disorientated redirection of aim, at 8:30 pm in the evening. (Little reminder, the expression “blind as a bat” has it merits.)
Just in case there was a chance I mistook a bird for a bat, because perhaps birds do fly at night and bats don’t exist at the beach where I live, I Googled it. One article down from my basic search, dated 2010-04-07, I found a siting in my area. “Rabid bat enters home; Health department issues warning.”
Perfect. If I die from a panic attack a pack of rapid bats can eat my decaying flesh instead of wild wolves. I can’t think of a more poetic disposal of my corpse. Nice. (BTW... Do bats come in packs?)
Here I go and give myself a break from my new place hunt that I’ve been on for the last 2 months straight, like a second job, and only drove the neighborhoods for an hour and a half today, leaving myself the rest of the afternoon to spend with Cella, doing lunch and a movie, and upon returning home I end up less than five feet from a bat in a floundering flight.
Not cool.
“Nuh, uh,” you say. “How can it be?” you ask.
Fine. Than what was it? Just as I was turning key to knob, a black, blob of a featherless flying object was flipping its stunted flaps against the overhang of the condo porch, in what appeared to be a disorientated redirection of aim, at 8:30 pm in the evening. (Little reminder, the expression “blind as a bat” has it merits.)
Just in case there was a chance I mistook a bird for a bat, because perhaps birds do fly at night and bats don’t exist at the beach where I live, I Googled it. One article down from my basic search, dated 2010-04-07, I found a siting in my area. “Rabid bat enters home; Health department issues warning.”
Perfect. If I die from a panic attack a pack of rapid bats can eat my decaying flesh instead of wild wolves. I can’t think of a more poetic disposal of my corpse. Nice. (BTW... Do bats come in packs?)
Friday, December 17, 2010
Did I just get served?
First, I've got to get better at remembering what fake name(s) I've assigned to the people I blog about, and remembering whether or not I've posted about that something with that someone, or some whatever, or not. But, right now, I'm not any better at remembering $hi!, so I'll just make my point...
I just got served. A booty call, that is. Whatever fake name I called this guy, a month or so ago, when I met him, just one of the dudes I met out and about, it doesn't matter.
He dropped off. After a bunch of text messages, and our planned/impromptu outing to buy some sage to burn and cleanse his ex-girlfriend's energy away, gone, baby, gone! That meet and greet didn't get smoked. He wussed out when it came to a real connection, to going beyond the chase, beyond just trying to ego finagle me into his snare with text messages. Yet, today, dah-dah, ta-dah, he texted me and tried again.
Can you say, "Let's just see if this biach is eazy and will sleepz wit' me?" (Which is so disappointing, because he was such a great conversationalist and I had more respect for him than his actions have just now commanded.)
"Hi Levan," was his opener.
I didn't know it was him, at first. He's got the same name as one of my long-lost friend's husbands, so I thought, Shoot! What's up with the text outa the blue? Everything okay?" Then, later, just now, I called back after the text, to see, what up?, and it took me a minute to figure out it was the guy I met, who bought me a draft beer with my beans and salad addiction at my local eatery, and it was the guy who, while financially successful, is personally stunted.
He actuality put it out there, to see if I'd bite. "I'm in this place where I'm just having fun. So if you want to hook up tonight..."
You player hole, you! Did you really think I was that girl? Kiss my better-than-that!
The phone conversation ended with him thinking he might still have a chance, even after I assured him I am way too old, and way too self actualized (no matter what life brings me), to be the booty call for some guy with a self/relationship identity crises.
Never the less, he may call again. But, as always, I reserve the right to forget to post, to forget a name, to forget if I've named a post, and to forget to care about those who haven't posted a sincere desire to be a real part of my life...
I just got served. A booty call, that is. Whatever fake name I called this guy, a month or so ago, when I met him, just one of the dudes I met out and about, it doesn't matter.
He dropped off. After a bunch of text messages, and our planned/impromptu outing to buy some sage to burn and cleanse his ex-girlfriend's energy away, gone, baby, gone! That meet and greet didn't get smoked. He wussed out when it came to a real connection, to going beyond the chase, beyond just trying to ego finagle me into his snare with text messages. Yet, today, dah-dah, ta-dah, he texted me and tried again.
Can you say, "Let's just see if this biach is eazy and will sleepz wit' me?" (Which is so disappointing, because he was such a great conversationalist and I had more respect for him than his actions have just now commanded.)
"Hi Levan," was his opener.
I didn't know it was him, at first. He's got the same name as one of my long-lost friend's husbands, so I thought, Shoot! What's up with the text outa the blue? Everything okay?" Then, later, just now, I called back after the text, to see, what up?, and it took me a minute to figure out it was the guy I met, who bought me a draft beer with my beans and salad addiction at my local eatery, and it was the guy who, while financially successful, is personally stunted.
He actuality put it out there, to see if I'd bite. "I'm in this place where I'm just having fun. So if you want to hook up tonight..."
You player hole, you! Did you really think I was that girl? Kiss my better-than-that!
The phone conversation ended with him thinking he might still have a chance, even after I assured him I am way too old, and way too self actualized (no matter what life brings me), to be the booty call for some guy with a self/relationship identity crises.
Never the less, he may call again. But, as always, I reserve the right to forget to post, to forget a name, to forget if I've named a post, and to forget to care about those who haven't posted a sincere desire to be a real part of my life...
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Holiday-itis?
You know how they call someone a short-timer when someone is on their way out of a job? What do they say? You have short-timer's syndrome? So, what do they call it when you can't wait to go get your holiday started, can't wait to go to Colorado, can't wait to sit on your ass, eat a velveeta and white-flour tortilla quesadilla (a staple meal in Jen's house), watch movies, and laugh about what belly buttom jam smells like with one of your best friends?
We'll probably also make a list on which celebrity women are hot enough to have IBS (irritable bowl syndrome), and get away with crapping the bed during sex. Yes. I know. My conversations with Jen are the stuff of 12 year-old boys, dirt clods and farts, and are totally gross and immature. (Can you see why I can't wait?)
I am so already there in my head. I am sitting in Jen's sunlight-filled living room and we're plotting our evening plans. Or, we are at lunch, and we're both drinking a beer way too early in the day. But it doesn't matter, because it's the holidays and the chilli rellenos, drafts, and laughter are flowing. Maybe I'm sleeping in and I can hear the little foot steps of Jen's daughters coming down the hallway and tiny voices outside the door, whispering, wondering, if Aunt Levan is up and is going to come out and play.
I'm also already sitting down in the den, by a crackling fire dancing it's way inside of a stone-rock fireplace, and I'm yelling up to Jen, "Bring me more wine when you get another beer. And bring me my own bowl... You're not hogging all the cheesy popcorn this time, damn it!"
I don't know what book I am polishing off yet, because I'm packing light this year to avoid baggage fees, but Jen's got a title or two I'm pretty sure I'm going to want to get my hands on. I also don't even know what, exactly, we are doing for Christmas eve or Christmas day. But I don't care.
Holiday vacation, two weeks off, resting my eyes from fluorescent lights and computers, gaining back the stress pounds I lost, laughing until beer comes out of my nose, HERE I COME!
We'll probably also make a list on which celebrity women are hot enough to have IBS (irritable bowl syndrome), and get away with crapping the bed during sex. Yes. I know. My conversations with Jen are the stuff of 12 year-old boys, dirt clods and farts, and are totally gross and immature. (Can you see why I can't wait?)
I am so already there in my head. I am sitting in Jen's sunlight-filled living room and we're plotting our evening plans. Or, we are at lunch, and we're both drinking a beer way too early in the day. But it doesn't matter, because it's the holidays and the chilli rellenos, drafts, and laughter are flowing. Maybe I'm sleeping in and I can hear the little foot steps of Jen's daughters coming down the hallway and tiny voices outside the door, whispering, wondering, if Aunt Levan is up and is going to come out and play.
I'm also already sitting down in the den, by a crackling fire dancing it's way inside of a stone-rock fireplace, and I'm yelling up to Jen, "Bring me more wine when you get another beer. And bring me my own bowl... You're not hogging all the cheesy popcorn this time, damn it!"
I don't know what book I am polishing off yet, because I'm packing light this year to avoid baggage fees, but Jen's got a title or two I'm pretty sure I'm going to want to get my hands on. I also don't even know what, exactly, we are doing for Christmas eve or Christmas day. But I don't care.
Holiday vacation, two weeks off, resting my eyes from fluorescent lights and computers, gaining back the stress pounds I lost, laughing until beer comes out of my nose, HERE I COME!
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