I've probably spent too much time in my life pondering over fleeting moments and connections with people and wondering how things could have been. The amount of time this wondering has taken up would make you think that I'm unhappy with my lot in life, which isn't so much the case. But it's on my mind again because I had one of these moments with a stranger last night. I'll get to that in a minute; first, some perspective.
When I was 18, I went to a Christian music festival with some friends who were, obviously, Christian. I was not, but they were my buddies and it was an excuse to take a road trip, camp, and gawk at some cute alterna-Christian boys. I spent the few days we were there eyeing a cute blonde boy named Matthew who worked the merch table for one of the bands (I think it was Relient K). I bought a t-shirt from him, but didn't get up the nerve to really talk to him until the last day. I can't recall what we even talked about now, but I remember talking for awhile and eventually giving him my phone number. We were in Illinois, but he conveniently lived in Ohio, just maybe an hour from where I live. I never really thought he would call, but one day while at my friend Kat's house, my mom called to let me know that a boy named Matthew had called for me (this was before cell phones, people). He didn't leave a number and he never called back again. This incident means nothing in the long run. NOTHING, yet I've thought about it numerous times over the years. Realistically, it wouldn't have worked out. He was super Christian, even attending a Christian college. I was completely not religious and had no interest in becoming so. But why, why did he call only to leave no contact information? I wonder about him and where he is now.
The next one hurts the most. Because it wasn't a fleeting moment, but a very real connection I had with someone that ended badly. When I was with my ex ex and miserable, I spent a lot of time on MySpace. While scrolling through friends of friends of friends, a picture of a really cute guy popped out so I checked out his page. His name was also Matthew (hmm) and I loved everything he had posted about himself. So I wrote him a message. That one message turned into MONTHS of us writing back and forth. I was completely enamored with him, and he felt the same, cautiously. He knew about the boyfriend I had, but he also knew how miserable I was there. We made plans to meet when he came home for the holidays (because even though he lived in Philadelphia, he was from Cleveland! And not just Cleveland, but from my neck of the woods of Cleveland! FATE! INCEPTION!) But then as Christmas drew near, things got weird. I was really struggling with my ex and it really started to bother him. He cancelled, and I was heartbroken. Then, in the strangest turn of events, I met him in person anyway, on a chance. I ended up at a Christmas party where friends of his were. How it even came up is anyones guess, but they convinced me to come with them to meet up with him. It was awkward, to say the very least. He was really shy to begin with, and he was thrust in to meeting this girl who he had tried very hard not to meet, and in retrospect, rightly so. I was a mess back then. I wouldn't have wanted to meet me either. The evening was spent with him avoiding me and me getting very drunk and rubbing my feet on his friends face (....a blog for another time). But Matthew, I think of you. Often, and fondly, as something that could have been in another time or place. (Okay I just facebook stalked him. He's there, in a gorgeous picture, with a girl, looking dapper. Heart breaks a little.)
The next instance isn't nearly so soul crushing, but curious. I worked in retail at a little locally owned store for a few years after college. My favorite job ever. I was with my most recent ex at the time, who I was madly in love with and never would have cheated on. BUT I'm a romantic and can't help but wonder about this person. I don't even remember his name. He came into the store and I helped him. He was delightful and funny and was already a teacher although he was younger than me. We were clearly getting along, because one of my co-workers urged me to follow him out of the store on the pretense of having a cigarette. We walked out and chatted for awhile. He got into his car and started pulling away. I lit a cigarette. And then. He TURNED his car around, pulled back up, got out, and asked me for a light. We sat there and talked and talked and talked. Then I had to go back in, and he left. Never asked for my name or number. Just left. Boys are dumb.
And then last night. Josh, wherever you are, why didn't you come back to look for me? You wandered in from the show next door and I chatted you up and it seemed to work! You print Bibles for a living with a bunch of Hell's Angels! You had me at Hell's Angels! I guess you just weren't interested but how? HOW! I'm funny and charming and cute and my dress was low cut and we had a good conversation! You, Josh, will be added to the list of men I wonder about. Men who could have steered my life in a different direction if I or you had let it.
Oh well. Tomorrow is another day.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Things That Suck: Boys Who Have Girlfriends
This blog has not been forgotten. It's been sitting here waiting for the moment I choose to actually compose all the thoughts that have been collecting in my head over the last few months. I return to you tonight with a doozy: I have a crush on a boy that is very much in a relationship.
I can't say that this is a huge-mondo-life changing-heart breaking-achey crush. It's a subtle, juvenile but none-the-less frustrating crush.
It all started with karaoke, which is where I'm pretty sure all significant things in my life start anymore. A friend brought this boy and his girlfriend, who live a ways out of town now. I can't say we clicked, or that I even particularly noticed him much. They were both kind of quiet and unassuming. I went about my usual business of getting sloppy drunk and singing songs poorly. Like ya do.
A few days later, Boy sends me a friend request on Ye Olde Facebooke. Also like ya do. In this day and age anyway. So we're friends. And then the strangest thing starts happening: he starts commenting on my posts. ALL of my posts. It was slow at first, but consistent. And his comments were INTERESTING. And CHARMING. And EXACTLY the sort of things I would want a boy saying to me. Because my biggest turn on is a man who can keep up with my knowledge of pop culture and who WANTS to talk to me about it. He asks questions, wants to know about my tastes further than what I've posted about and as the weeks have gone by, I keep thinking more and more about how unfair this is. Which is unfair on my part. Here's why:
A friend of mine, Randall, once spent many hours talking to a girl at a bar. At the end of the night she told her friends to leave without her because she clearly thought she had this in the bag and was going home with Randall. The problem, poor girl, is that Randall has a very long term live-in girlfriend who he intends to marry, and he was then faced with a very awkward conversation at the end of the night. Randall then asked me "Why should she have assumed that this was anything more than a conversation?" He claims he mentioned the girlfriend and wasn't being especially flirty; he was just having an interesting conversation with a reasonably intelligent stranger at a bar. And he's RIGHT. At least in theory.
I speak from experience when I say that ladies of my age demographic have to deal with a lot of bullshit from our male peers. Every boy, and I mean EVERY boy I meet is incredibly aloof. Even boys that have expressed their interest don't bother doing any work beyond that. I've tried the taking charge type attitude and my results have been disappointing at best, embarassing at worst. In a nutshell, boys don't seem to give a fuuuuuck about girls anymore.
Therefore, even though this poor girl made an ill informed assumption, I understand her position. When a dude is willing to pay THAT much attention to you, it seems inevitable that he's interested in you, right? Right?
So even though I've gathered that this is just how this Boy is and that he means nothing by it, I can't help but somehow be swayed to think...something. Two examples: I saw him briefly on Friday. He showed up at a DIY rock show I was attending and he sat on the couch sort of behind my chair. I looked behind me twice, because I was already sort of smitten, and both times I swear, I SWEAR I caught him quickly looking away from me when I looked at him. Then yesterday, after I was unusually quiet on Facebook on account of actually trying to work, he posted on my wall, asking "Anything shaking?" This resulted in an epic comments exchange that would have probably been better served in a private message type scenario. He told me some random quirks about himself (he's obsessed with the weather, and the number 33), we talked about awesome shows we'd been to, and found out with both subscribe to Entertainment Weekly ( a fact that wouldn't even be a big deal except that my last boyfriend hated that magazine with a passion and made fun of me for reading it).
So what gives? Anything? Is this just a case of me being so used to aloof assholes that I can't fathom a boy paying attention to me and NOT being interested in me? Probably. And if I were his girlfriend, would I be bothered by him having such grand conversations with a girl I barely know? To quote one of the greatest minds of our time: You betcha!
I'm probably insane. This is clearly a no-win situation. Unless you count "winning" as making an awesome new friend. Pfft. So I return to my breezy, witty banter. A girl takes what she can get.
I can't say that this is a huge-mondo-life changing-heart breaking-achey crush. It's a subtle, juvenile but none-the-less frustrating crush.
It all started with karaoke, which is where I'm pretty sure all significant things in my life start anymore. A friend brought this boy and his girlfriend, who live a ways out of town now. I can't say we clicked, or that I even particularly noticed him much. They were both kind of quiet and unassuming. I went about my usual business of getting sloppy drunk and singing songs poorly. Like ya do.
A few days later, Boy sends me a friend request on Ye Olde Facebooke. Also like ya do. In this day and age anyway. So we're friends. And then the strangest thing starts happening: he starts commenting on my posts. ALL of my posts. It was slow at first, but consistent. And his comments were INTERESTING. And CHARMING. And EXACTLY the sort of things I would want a boy saying to me. Because my biggest turn on is a man who can keep up with my knowledge of pop culture and who WANTS to talk to me about it. He asks questions, wants to know about my tastes further than what I've posted about and as the weeks have gone by, I keep thinking more and more about how unfair this is. Which is unfair on my part. Here's why:
A friend of mine, Randall, once spent many hours talking to a girl at a bar. At the end of the night she told her friends to leave without her because she clearly thought she had this in the bag and was going home with Randall. The problem, poor girl, is that Randall has a very long term live-in girlfriend who he intends to marry, and he was then faced with a very awkward conversation at the end of the night. Randall then asked me "Why should she have assumed that this was anything more than a conversation?" He claims he mentioned the girlfriend and wasn't being especially flirty; he was just having an interesting conversation with a reasonably intelligent stranger at a bar. And he's RIGHT. At least in theory.
I speak from experience when I say that ladies of my age demographic have to deal with a lot of bullshit from our male peers. Every boy, and I mean EVERY boy I meet is incredibly aloof. Even boys that have expressed their interest don't bother doing any work beyond that. I've tried the taking charge type attitude and my results have been disappointing at best, embarassing at worst. In a nutshell, boys don't seem to give a fuuuuuck about girls anymore.
Therefore, even though this poor girl made an ill informed assumption, I understand her position. When a dude is willing to pay THAT much attention to you, it seems inevitable that he's interested in you, right? Right?
So even though I've gathered that this is just how this Boy is and that he means nothing by it, I can't help but somehow be swayed to think...something. Two examples: I saw him briefly on Friday. He showed up at a DIY rock show I was attending and he sat on the couch sort of behind my chair. I looked behind me twice, because I was already sort of smitten, and both times I swear, I SWEAR I caught him quickly looking away from me when I looked at him. Then yesterday, after I was unusually quiet on Facebook on account of actually trying to work, he posted on my wall, asking "Anything shaking?" This resulted in an epic comments exchange that would have probably been better served in a private message type scenario. He told me some random quirks about himself (he's obsessed with the weather, and the number 33), we talked about awesome shows we'd been to, and found out with both subscribe to Entertainment Weekly ( a fact that wouldn't even be a big deal except that my last boyfriend hated that magazine with a passion and made fun of me for reading it).
So what gives? Anything? Is this just a case of me being so used to aloof assholes that I can't fathom a boy paying attention to me and NOT being interested in me? Probably. And if I were his girlfriend, would I be bothered by him having such grand conversations with a girl I barely know? To quote one of the greatest minds of our time: You betcha!
I'm probably insane. This is clearly a no-win situation. Unless you count "winning" as making an awesome new friend. Pfft. So I return to my breezy, witty banter. A girl takes what she can get.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Adventures in House Cleaning
My apartment is in shambles. I don't really have the energy to go into the WHOLE reasoning behind this, but I'll just say that the last few months of my life have been filled with beer drinking, cigarette smoking, real life boys, online boyfriends, and absolutely nothing productive. Including keeping house.
So today, finally, I came home from work and felt the urge to clean something. I started by unclogging my kitchen sink. Having a clogged kitchen sink was a really good excuse to not do dishes. But now I'm out of clean dishes. Also, the food on my dishes has started to smell like a combination of sweat and mildew.
While I waited for the trusty Drano to work, I put away my clothes. I use the term "put away" as loosely as possible, for clothes that smelled clean got shoved in drawers, but mostly everything just got thrown in the laundry basket for later washing.
Finally I tackle the dishes, and I learned something new: Frank's Red Hot will stain good dishes if left to its own devices for too long. Now all of my plates have a red stain.
Why all, you ask?
It may or may not be because all I've eaten for about two weeks are LOTS of Jose Ole Taquitos. Covered in Frank's Red Hot. There also may or may not have been gross dried chunks of sour cream on all of my plates. Because when I started getting sick of the Taquitos, instead of buying something different, I may or may not have just bought a giant tub of sour cream to add some new flavor to the Taquito/Red Hot combo.
So yes, literally every plate I own was covered with this gross and/or staining combination of condiments. Oh, except for the one pot, which had moldy macaroni and cheese in it. When I dumped the mac and cheese out of it I just poured water in it and put the lid on, and then let it sit there for a few days. Or a week.
Needless to say, the foul stench that bombarded me when I finally took off the lid made me violently gag, run from the room, smoke two cigarettes, and chug a Miller High Life before I could confront it again.
Once the dishes were done (mostly) I decided to haul my recyclables down to my car so I can drive them to the recycling center tomorrow. Why, WHY is it that no matter what I do, a puddle of nasty beer collects at the bottom of my recycling bag?
I am anal retentive about dumping my empties. And when I have guests, I ask them just to set their empties aside so that I may properly dump them myself. Evidently I'm just wasting my time. I pulled the bag out of the bin and was at first relieved to note that nothing was leaking. I set the bag down to fill it to capacity with as many beer cases as possible, and wouldn't you know, when I picked it up again there was a huge puddle. FUCK.
I tried to get it outside as quickly as possible, but I live four flights up. Halfway down my hall I knew I'd never make it. Old beer was pouring out the corner of the bag. So I trekked back to my apartment for another bag, to double up. Despite my best efforts, my nice hardwood floors are covered in a sticky mess of stale beer that I am entirely too lazy to Swiffer Wet tonight. On top of that, on the way downstairs with my double bagged mess, it STILL leaked a bunch, and onto ME. So now I smell like stale beer. Which I suppose isn't that different from usual.
I finally decided that enough was enough for one night (even though I'm pretty sure I made a bigger mess than I cleaned up). I've been lounging on my couch, drinking Miller High Life and creating yet more recyclables to cause me distress later this week.
I WISH that were the end of this story, but no. I either have a problem with depth perception or some sort of mutant strength I wasn't aware of before. I reached for the ashtray that sits on my coffee table (a constantly full ashtray) and managed to push it HARD off the table and rolling to the floor. Now there are cigarette butts and a giant pile of ash on my hardwood floors. Luckily, its not in the same place as the sticky beer residue. And insteady of vaccuuming THAT mess, I figured some Pledge and a paper towel would do the trick.
It did.
Housecleaning ftw.
Oh, this also seems like a good time to mention that the carcass of a giant dead flying insect is still hanging out in my floor lamp. This was a product of Giant Bug Incident 2010. My floor lamp is unusable. I wonder when I'll ever have the energy to take care of THAT situation.
Maybe I'll just get a new floor lamp.
Giant Dead Bug ftw.
So today, finally, I came home from work and felt the urge to clean something. I started by unclogging my kitchen sink. Having a clogged kitchen sink was a really good excuse to not do dishes. But now I'm out of clean dishes. Also, the food on my dishes has started to smell like a combination of sweat and mildew.
While I waited for the trusty Drano to work, I put away my clothes. I use the term "put away" as loosely as possible, for clothes that smelled clean got shoved in drawers, but mostly everything just got thrown in the laundry basket for later washing.
Finally I tackle the dishes, and I learned something new: Frank's Red Hot will stain good dishes if left to its own devices for too long. Now all of my plates have a red stain.
Why all, you ask?
It may or may not be because all I've eaten for about two weeks are LOTS of Jose Ole Taquitos. Covered in Frank's Red Hot. There also may or may not have been gross dried chunks of sour cream on all of my plates. Because when I started getting sick of the Taquitos, instead of buying something different, I may or may not have just bought a giant tub of sour cream to add some new flavor to the Taquito/Red Hot combo.
So yes, literally every plate I own was covered with this gross and/or staining combination of condiments. Oh, except for the one pot, which had moldy macaroni and cheese in it. When I dumped the mac and cheese out of it I just poured water in it and put the lid on, and then let it sit there for a few days. Or a week.
Needless to say, the foul stench that bombarded me when I finally took off the lid made me violently gag, run from the room, smoke two cigarettes, and chug a Miller High Life before I could confront it again.
Once the dishes were done (mostly) I decided to haul my recyclables down to my car so I can drive them to the recycling center tomorrow. Why, WHY is it that no matter what I do, a puddle of nasty beer collects at the bottom of my recycling bag?
I am anal retentive about dumping my empties. And when I have guests, I ask them just to set their empties aside so that I may properly dump them myself. Evidently I'm just wasting my time. I pulled the bag out of the bin and was at first relieved to note that nothing was leaking. I set the bag down to fill it to capacity with as many beer cases as possible, and wouldn't you know, when I picked it up again there was a huge puddle. FUCK.
I tried to get it outside as quickly as possible, but I live four flights up. Halfway down my hall I knew I'd never make it. Old beer was pouring out the corner of the bag. So I trekked back to my apartment for another bag, to double up. Despite my best efforts, my nice hardwood floors are covered in a sticky mess of stale beer that I am entirely too lazy to Swiffer Wet tonight. On top of that, on the way downstairs with my double bagged mess, it STILL leaked a bunch, and onto ME. So now I smell like stale beer. Which I suppose isn't that different from usual.
I finally decided that enough was enough for one night (even though I'm pretty sure I made a bigger mess than I cleaned up). I've been lounging on my couch, drinking Miller High Life and creating yet more recyclables to cause me distress later this week.
I WISH that were the end of this story, but no. I either have a problem with depth perception or some sort of mutant strength I wasn't aware of before. I reached for the ashtray that sits on my coffee table (a constantly full ashtray) and managed to push it HARD off the table and rolling to the floor. Now there are cigarette butts and a giant pile of ash on my hardwood floors. Luckily, its not in the same place as the sticky beer residue. And insteady of vaccuuming THAT mess, I figured some Pledge and a paper towel would do the trick.
It did.
Housecleaning ftw.
Oh, this also seems like a good time to mention that the carcass of a giant dead flying insect is still hanging out in my floor lamp. This was a product of Giant Bug Incident 2010. My floor lamp is unusable. I wonder when I'll ever have the energy to take care of THAT situation.
Maybe I'll just get a new floor lamp.
Giant Dead Bug ftw.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Hipsters Du Jour
Working downtown, as opposed to the suburbs where I live, is a real give and take.
I have to give A LOT of extra energy ignoring/avoiding the unreasonably high ratio of crazy people on public transportation and walking the streets of downtown Cleveland.
On the other hand, I get to take A LOT of looks at the unreasonably high ratio of attractive bike messengers that swarm around the downtown area.
One such attractive bike messenger, who I have eyed on more than one occasion, came into my office today to deliver sushi to one of the attorneys. He immediately smiled and mumbled and looked awkward, and I smiled and mumbled and looked awkward in return. He gave me my change and lingered around for bit, looking busy. Rather than taking this opportunity to chat him up, I immediately bolted away with the food, towards the attorney's office.
As soon as I got back, I saw the ominous swinging shut of the door. He had JUST walked out. Dammit. Missed my opportunity. I could have said ANYTHING at all, but instead I said a whole lot of "blaroguhhhh hrmm blah" and nothingness.
Not that I've completely lost my ability to talk to boys. I can almost always secure an initial chat and some digits. It's usually after that that everything falls apart for me. I make a good first impression. Second impressions usually show off my lameness/awkwardness/nerdiness/sickliness.
I had an encounter on Wednesday with a fellow named Steve, an encounter that was entirely of my own making. (I guess this makes the bike messenger the Hipster Du Jour and Steve the Hipster Du Wednesday).
I was out in my hometown with my closest friends in the world. They're aware that I'm slightly boy crazy at the moment and weren't surprised when I honed in on my target while he was still approaching the bar. My best friend, TJ, said, "Oh look, it's an A. Special!" By this he means the boy possesses all, or almost all of the following characteristics:
-Extremely thin
-Tight black jeans
-Shaggy dark hair
-One or more exposed tattoos
Steve and his buddy got beer and immediately went outside to smoke. This seemed like my cue. I followed them to the patio and lingered awkwardly near them until I was noticed. Unfortunately, it was Steve's less attractive and more annoying friend that noticed me and started talking (he would come to be known as Carl. Awful). Slowly but surely, after directing most of my questions and comments toward Steve, I managed to break away from Annoying Carl.
Annoying Carl looked annoyed.
No skin off my back. Steve introduced himself as Steve. I won't divulge his last name here, but I WILL say that he shares the last name of an American President. When I pointed that out, Steve casually said "Yeah, he's my great great grandfather."
*Cue drool and goggling eyes on my part, even though it's a President no one really remembers, but that they occasionally name schools after*
REALLY? I squealed.
No, he said, but isn't that a lame way to impress girls?
I wanted to ask him if he noticed my drooling and goggling eyes but refrained.
Eventually, after some Wes Anderson quoting and music bitching, we exchanged phone numbers. He warned me that if I text him he won't respond. He's had the texting feature turned off.
Whaaa? No texting?
My next tactic: Oh are you on Facebook?
....Whaaaa? You try and avoid using computers?
So...if I want to contact you...I have to do it the old-fashioned way? I have to actually CALL YOU AND TALK TO YOU ON THE PHONE?!?
Panic.
I can't recall the last time I had to work up the courage to telephone a potential love interest. Technology has made that fear obsolete. Texting makes everything seem casual, friendly, breezy. Like Monica Gellar: "III'm breezy!" Except she wasn't.
Over the course of this pursuit all my friends left. And I had to drive back to the west side. As Steve and I were saying our goodbyes, he asked me over to his place (he lives right across the street) to listen to some records.
Yes, records. Amazing.
So I went. We listened to some music that I didn't know, but what I DID learn was that Steve owns a leg lamp. Turns out, Steve knows every line from A Christmas Story. And that's A-OK by me. Because so do I.
Will anything come of this? Will I muster the courage to call him on the phone? Will he beat me to the punch? Stay tuned...
I have to give A LOT of extra energy ignoring/avoiding the unreasonably high ratio of crazy people on public transportation and walking the streets of downtown Cleveland.
On the other hand, I get to take A LOT of looks at the unreasonably high ratio of attractive bike messengers that swarm around the downtown area.
One such attractive bike messenger, who I have eyed on more than one occasion, came into my office today to deliver sushi to one of the attorneys. He immediately smiled and mumbled and looked awkward, and I smiled and mumbled and looked awkward in return. He gave me my change and lingered around for bit, looking busy. Rather than taking this opportunity to chat him up, I immediately bolted away with the food, towards the attorney's office.
As soon as I got back, I saw the ominous swinging shut of the door. He had JUST walked out. Dammit. Missed my opportunity. I could have said ANYTHING at all, but instead I said a whole lot of "blaroguhhhh hrmm blah" and nothingness.
Not that I've completely lost my ability to talk to boys. I can almost always secure an initial chat and some digits. It's usually after that that everything falls apart for me. I make a good first impression. Second impressions usually show off my lameness/awkwardness/nerdiness/sickliness.
I had an encounter on Wednesday with a fellow named Steve, an encounter that was entirely of my own making. (I guess this makes the bike messenger the Hipster Du Jour and Steve the Hipster Du Wednesday).
I was out in my hometown with my closest friends in the world. They're aware that I'm slightly boy crazy at the moment and weren't surprised when I honed in on my target while he was still approaching the bar. My best friend, TJ, said, "Oh look, it's an A. Special!" By this he means the boy possesses all, or almost all of the following characteristics:
-Extremely thin
-Tight black jeans
-Shaggy dark hair
-One or more exposed tattoos
Steve and his buddy got beer and immediately went outside to smoke. This seemed like my cue. I followed them to the patio and lingered awkwardly near them until I was noticed. Unfortunately, it was Steve's less attractive and more annoying friend that noticed me and started talking (he would come to be known as Carl. Awful). Slowly but surely, after directing most of my questions and comments toward Steve, I managed to break away from Annoying Carl.
Annoying Carl looked annoyed.
No skin off my back. Steve introduced himself as Steve. I won't divulge his last name here, but I WILL say that he shares the last name of an American President. When I pointed that out, Steve casually said "Yeah, he's my great great grandfather."
*Cue drool and goggling eyes on my part, even though it's a President no one really remembers, but that they occasionally name schools after*
REALLY? I squealed.
No, he said, but isn't that a lame way to impress girls?
I wanted to ask him if he noticed my drooling and goggling eyes but refrained.
Eventually, after some Wes Anderson quoting and music bitching, we exchanged phone numbers. He warned me that if I text him he won't respond. He's had the texting feature turned off.
Whaaa? No texting?
My next tactic: Oh are you on Facebook?
....Whaaaa? You try and avoid using computers?
So...if I want to contact you...I have to do it the old-fashioned way? I have to actually CALL YOU AND TALK TO YOU ON THE PHONE?!?
Panic.
I can't recall the last time I had to work up the courage to telephone a potential love interest. Technology has made that fear obsolete. Texting makes everything seem casual, friendly, breezy. Like Monica Gellar: "III'm breezy!" Except she wasn't.
Over the course of this pursuit all my friends left. And I had to drive back to the west side. As Steve and I were saying our goodbyes, he asked me over to his place (he lives right across the street) to listen to some records.
Yes, records. Amazing.
So I went. We listened to some music that I didn't know, but what I DID learn was that Steve owns a leg lamp. Turns out, Steve knows every line from A Christmas Story. And that's A-OK by me. Because so do I.
Will anything come of this? Will I muster the courage to call him on the phone? Will he beat me to the punch? Stay tuned...
Thursday, May 6, 2010
This Is (a) Spinal Tap
I officially got diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in December of 2008. This diagnosis wasn't at all a shock, as I'd been told many times, based on my symptoms, that this is most likely what I had coming. Many people who are sick will explain that feeling of relief of just finally knowing exactly what it is that's wrong with them; my reaction was similar.
MS is a tricky disease to diagnose. Most of its symptoms aren't exclusive to MS; my symptoms were all in my eye, and the issue had its own name: optic neuritis. Therefore, the diagnostic process is often spread over months, symptoms, and procedures.
First, my neurologist (who looks A LOT like James Taylor) took an extensive medical history, followed by an MRI. Now, I realize that MRIs are pretty common, non-invasive procedures but the task seemed daunting to me. I went for my appointment alone and slightly shaking.
I thank the medical gods for my MRI tech. He was a young man covered in tattoos, with gauged ears. I loved him instantly and without him I may have freaked the fuck out being stuck in that box for an hour and a half. He constantly checked in with me over the headphones, made sure I wasn't panicking, and always gently reminded me to HOLD STILL.
He asked me to request music, and I was so nervous that the only thing I could blurt out was that I liked the Beatles, so the Beatles is what I got. It was nice to have something so familiar blasting around me, masking the mechanical whirs and clunks of the machine.
After what seemed like an eternity, the tech buzzed in and said "When this next song is over, you're done," and then I heard the opening lines of Hey Jude start playing. I had two thoughts simultaneously: 1. Fuck this is a long song and 2. That he couldn't have picked something more perfect to get me through this experience.
Unfortunately, the MRI was not the last step on the way to official diagnosis. Dr. James Taylor informed me that, while the MRI showed lesions on my brain, these lesions were not enough to make a definitive diagnosis of MS.
Fuck. What next?
Two words I've never wanted to hear directed at me unless someone was about to start singing Bitch School: Spinal tap.
Panic ensues. Terror that I have never felt about anything else that's happened to me, INCLUDING being told I probably have MS. Fear and anxiety about the pain and the size of the needle and what if they paralyze me and how bad will this hurt and what are the side effects and do I have to be awake?
My terror was so great that I put it off for as long as I could. I scheduled it two months in advance (I had to finish the semester, amiright?) before undertaking this journey into the center of my spine. Plus, Dr. James Taylor informed me that the only side effect is potentially a debilitating headache. A headache that could be SO bad I'd miss work and school for a few days, a week at most.
So I waited. The date of my appointment loomed over me, and every day was full of more and more stress and fear. As the date approached I couldn't sleep, barely ate, and had some SERIOUS stomache issues.
I hadn't cried in front of a doctor in over a decade. The day of my appointment, at the age of 25, I openly wept in front of Dr. J. Taylor, a handful of his nurses, and in the arms of my father. I went into his office and prepared for the procedure (this meant stripping from the waist down, sitting on the bed, and leaning over; a truly vulnerable position). I cried the whole time and the nurses kept telling me I had to calm down, my heart rate was too high, I was too stressed out. Of COURSE I'm stressed out, you assholes. You're about to stick a giant needle into my spinal cord, a thought that is, to say the least, extremely disconcerting. (An understatement).
Finally, I relax. I breathe. Doc Sweet Baby Jane numbs the skin on my lower back. It isn't until now that I'm told that they don't stick the needle in and extract the spinal fluid; instead, they let it drip out of you. That needle will be in my spinal cord anywhere from 5 to 10 minutes. Dear God.
I tell them to go for it. The needle goes in. And never, ever, ever will I be able to forget the sound of my own spinal cord being punctured. It was a nice, crisp *POP*.
And then the waiting. The fear of moving so as not to disturb the needle. The things I'm telling myself to stay calm. And then Doc speaks up.
He begins to explain the aforementioned headache that may or may not ensue. He says that after a spinal tap, the puncture on my back itself will heal in no time. The puncture to my spinal cord, however, won't necessarily heal right away, and my spinal fluid may continue to leak out into my body for hours, possibly even days, after the procedure is done. This leakage may cause a depletion of the spinal fluid that surrounds my brain, causing a headache.
In essence, my fucking brain might sink.
Gee, Dr. Fire and Rain, I'm sure glad you waited until my precious precious bodily fluids were dripping out of my body before telling me this. Luckily, by the time my rage had fully formed, it was time to remove the syringe.
The aftermath wasn't as terrible as I imagined. My lower back hurt like a bitch for a few days, and yes, I intermittently was stricken with a headache, a headache that only goes a way when you lie down (because then the brain gets to relax on that cushion of amazing fluid again).
Worse than the actual physical pain was the generaly weirdness I felt for about 24 hours. My body felt strange, and I don't know if it was due to the emotional stress I'd put on it for weeks, culminating in this invasive and intimate procedure, or, if my body truly understood that it was missing something vital. We lose blood, plasma, hair, and tears regularly. But a spinal tap depletes something special, protected, sacred.
I can handle 50 more MRIs. As a result of my diagnosis, I give myself injections every single day. But never again do I want to be invaded in the way the spinal tap invaded me.
Please, leave my nervous system the way it is, MS and all.
MS is a tricky disease to diagnose. Most of its symptoms aren't exclusive to MS; my symptoms were all in my eye, and the issue had its own name: optic neuritis. Therefore, the diagnostic process is often spread over months, symptoms, and procedures.
First, my neurologist (who looks A LOT like James Taylor) took an extensive medical history, followed by an MRI. Now, I realize that MRIs are pretty common, non-invasive procedures but the task seemed daunting to me. I went for my appointment alone and slightly shaking.
I thank the medical gods for my MRI tech. He was a young man covered in tattoos, with gauged ears. I loved him instantly and without him I may have freaked the fuck out being stuck in that box for an hour and a half. He constantly checked in with me over the headphones, made sure I wasn't panicking, and always gently reminded me to HOLD STILL.
He asked me to request music, and I was so nervous that the only thing I could blurt out was that I liked the Beatles, so the Beatles is what I got. It was nice to have something so familiar blasting around me, masking the mechanical whirs and clunks of the machine.
After what seemed like an eternity, the tech buzzed in and said "When this next song is over, you're done," and then I heard the opening lines of Hey Jude start playing. I had two thoughts simultaneously: 1. Fuck this is a long song and 2. That he couldn't have picked something more perfect to get me through this experience.
Unfortunately, the MRI was not the last step on the way to official diagnosis. Dr. James Taylor informed me that, while the MRI showed lesions on my brain, these lesions were not enough to make a definitive diagnosis of MS.
Fuck. What next?
Two words I've never wanted to hear directed at me unless someone was about to start singing Bitch School: Spinal tap.
Panic ensues. Terror that I have never felt about anything else that's happened to me, INCLUDING being told I probably have MS. Fear and anxiety about the pain and the size of the needle and what if they paralyze me and how bad will this hurt and what are the side effects and do I have to be awake?
My terror was so great that I put it off for as long as I could. I scheduled it two months in advance (I had to finish the semester, amiright?) before undertaking this journey into the center of my spine. Plus, Dr. James Taylor informed me that the only side effect is potentially a debilitating headache. A headache that could be SO bad I'd miss work and school for a few days, a week at most.
So I waited. The date of my appointment loomed over me, and every day was full of more and more stress and fear. As the date approached I couldn't sleep, barely ate, and had some SERIOUS stomache issues.
I hadn't cried in front of a doctor in over a decade. The day of my appointment, at the age of 25, I openly wept in front of Dr. J. Taylor, a handful of his nurses, and in the arms of my father. I went into his office and prepared for the procedure (this meant stripping from the waist down, sitting on the bed, and leaning over; a truly vulnerable position). I cried the whole time and the nurses kept telling me I had to calm down, my heart rate was too high, I was too stressed out. Of COURSE I'm stressed out, you assholes. You're about to stick a giant needle into my spinal cord, a thought that is, to say the least, extremely disconcerting. (An understatement).
Finally, I relax. I breathe. Doc Sweet Baby Jane numbs the skin on my lower back. It isn't until now that I'm told that they don't stick the needle in and extract the spinal fluid; instead, they let it drip out of you. That needle will be in my spinal cord anywhere from 5 to 10 minutes. Dear God.
I tell them to go for it. The needle goes in. And never, ever, ever will I be able to forget the sound of my own spinal cord being punctured. It was a nice, crisp *POP*.
And then the waiting. The fear of moving so as not to disturb the needle. The things I'm telling myself to stay calm. And then Doc speaks up.
He begins to explain the aforementioned headache that may or may not ensue. He says that after a spinal tap, the puncture on my back itself will heal in no time. The puncture to my spinal cord, however, won't necessarily heal right away, and my spinal fluid may continue to leak out into my body for hours, possibly even days, after the procedure is done. This leakage may cause a depletion of the spinal fluid that surrounds my brain, causing a headache.
In essence, my fucking brain might sink.
Gee, Dr. Fire and Rain, I'm sure glad you waited until my precious precious bodily fluids were dripping out of my body before telling me this. Luckily, by the time my rage had fully formed, it was time to remove the syringe.
The aftermath wasn't as terrible as I imagined. My lower back hurt like a bitch for a few days, and yes, I intermittently was stricken with a headache, a headache that only goes a way when you lie down (because then the brain gets to relax on that cushion of amazing fluid again).
Worse than the actual physical pain was the generaly weirdness I felt for about 24 hours. My body felt strange, and I don't know if it was due to the emotional stress I'd put on it for weeks, culminating in this invasive and intimate procedure, or, if my body truly understood that it was missing something vital. We lose blood, plasma, hair, and tears regularly. But a spinal tap depletes something special, protected, sacred.
I can handle 50 more MRIs. As a result of my diagnosis, I give myself injections every single day. But never again do I want to be invaded in the way the spinal tap invaded me.
Please, leave my nervous system the way it is, MS and all.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Oy Vey, Cliche!*
*I'm not Jewish.
I took a dude home from a bar last friday night and can't remember his name. This would be understandable if, say, we drunkenly had sex and he left in the middle of the night or early hours of the morning.
Instead we stayed up past dawn talking, passed out, and he spent the day at my house on saturday, drinking, talking, and watching hours of Kentucky Derby footage. (We were rooting for Noble's Promise).
Yeah. I'm pretty sure it's Paul.
I took a dude home from a bar last friday night and can't remember his name. This would be understandable if, say, we drunkenly had sex and he left in the middle of the night or early hours of the morning.
Instead we stayed up past dawn talking, passed out, and he spent the day at my house on saturday, drinking, talking, and watching hours of Kentucky Derby footage. (We were rooting for Noble's Promise).
Yeah. I'm pretty sure it's Paul.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Exploits with Edmund Sweet, Part 2
This is a picture taken when Edmund and I were dating.*
*This is a lie. I have no idea who these people are, but this picture came up when I searched Google images for our names.
An actual description of Edmund would include how tall he is, his large green eyes, and his distinctive nose. During the three months that we dated, he began called me his strawberry cream filled carrot popsicle. It doesn't roll off the tongue, but at least it was a unique nickname, developed from the fact that my lipgloss tasted like strawberry and my fingers looked like baby carrots (his description, not mine).
The day we broke up I showed up to his mansion (yes, it was indeed a mansion) and found it desolate. After calling his phone, which he never answered, I wandered around the property to find him sleeping on the floor of the garage. Behavior like this always seemed strange to me, but it's amazing what a person will get used to when they're madly in love with someone.
I woke him up, and he promptly broke up with me. We wandered around his property, me crying, him attempting to remain firm in his decision. Then I drove home. The breakup drive home is one of the worst feelings on record, and this was before I had a cell phone to call and cry at my friends.
Would this be the last time I saw Edmund Sweet? 'Course not, or else I wouldn't have started my new blog with an exploration of our continually fucked up relationship.
That summer is a strange haze for me, a summer that became
known to me and my friends as "The Summer of Sin and Debauchery" due to the copious amounts of liquor we drank, the number of random people we hooked up with (usually just each other), and the number of days lost in a stupor at TJ's house.
I can't recall exactly how my next encounter with Edmund began, I only remember what occurred once it was already happening. I can't remember the conversation that lead me to his house a few weeks later, to take him to the mall so he could buy new jeans. I can only remember finding him drunk and alone at his house (no one else ever seemed to be at his house). I don't know if it was out of my desperate love for him or purely out of weakness that, despite his state, I took him to the mall anyway. This was a mistake.
Edmund was very drunk, falling down drunk, yelling at strangers drunk. Not violent, but stubborn. It was both embarassing and confusing. Fate smiled upon me when I ran into a friend who has the patience of a saint. She dragged him into American Eagle and managed to find him some jeans while I stood by in horror.
I also recall running into some girls he went to school with. The conversation seemed tense and awkward and at the time I figured it was because Edmund was drunk. I later found out he was dating one of the girls present, who was stunned to find him at the mall. Drunk. With his ex-girlfriend.
It's to that girl I say forgive me. Edmund existed on a different level from the rest of us, and that day was not my doing. Nor was the ill-fated trip to Illinois and the aftermath that followed.
I was just a girl in love.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Exploits with Edmund Sweet, Part 1
Everyone has that stupid ex that just keeps rearing its ugly head over and over again. Mine is named Edmund Sweet, the first man I ever loved, at the ripe age of 18 (very close to a decade ago). Due to the modern marvel that is the internet, and more specifically, Facebook, Edmund and I have been Facebook friends for over a year with little to no contact. Now, I'm an obsessive Facebooker, constantly posting links, videos, quips, and observations. Everyone on my friends list knows almost everything about my lame day-to-day existence. For over a year Edmund has (presumably) been catching wind of what my life is like, generally. And it wasn't until today that, like a bat out of hell, he commented on an update I posted about having had a "lost weekend". Not only that, but posted a separate wall post asking me how I've been. It all seems innocuous enough...but I know that Edmund Sweet always means trouble, and I always let him.
Edmund and I met in the spring of 2001, shortly before I graduated high school. I should have known he was problematic immediately, as I met him in the basement of my boyfriend at the time (don't stop for a minute to worry about that boyfriend. We only dated for a few weeks and I was mostly using him to get over someone else...like ya do.)
The falling in love part is not what's interesting about my relationship with Edmund. It was everything that occurred after we broke up. Edmund was always a bit of a trainwreck. He'd dated a lot of girls, had a very sketchy relationship with his rich father, was raised in an incredibly religious household, and had already totaled two cars by the time he was 17.
He always seemed a bit...shady, for lack of a better word, and this shadiness grew into a paranoia for me. I didn't trust him, but I completely adored him (he's still the only man that has ever sent me flowers).
Near the end of our relationship, we went to a party that a friend from high school was throwing. Barb threw the sort of parties you see in movies about high school and wonder why, when you get to high school, you never attended a party like that. Barb's parties were full on house parties, complete with hot tub, public making out, and barfing over railings. So Edmund and I go. We mingle. We drink. A LOT.
This would mark our very first instance of public drunken scenes. Edmund proceeded to down an entire bottle of cheap vodka, fall down some stairs, and make out with someone that wasn't me. Right in front of me. Perhaps I should have handed his ass to him right there, but the situation was more confusing than that. I walked in on him making out. With my best friend. My gay, male best friend. I should have been horrified, and I was, a little, but everyone was so hammered that it hardly mattered. After Edmund passed out, I spent the rest of the night poking my finger in his mouth to make sure he didn't choke on the gum he fell asleep chewing.
Did I mention Edmund had to take his SAT's the next day?
*the names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent
Edmund and I met in the spring of 2001, shortly before I graduated high school. I should have known he was problematic immediately, as I met him in the basement of my boyfriend at the time (don't stop for a minute to worry about that boyfriend. We only dated for a few weeks and I was mostly using him to get over someone else...like ya do.)
The falling in love part is not what's interesting about my relationship with Edmund. It was everything that occurred after we broke up. Edmund was always a bit of a trainwreck. He'd dated a lot of girls, had a very sketchy relationship with his rich father, was raised in an incredibly religious household, and had already totaled two cars by the time he was 17.
He always seemed a bit...shady, for lack of a better word, and this shadiness grew into a paranoia for me. I didn't trust him, but I completely adored him (he's still the only man that has ever sent me flowers).
Near the end of our relationship, we went to a party that a friend from high school was throwing. Barb threw the sort of parties you see in movies about high school and wonder why, when you get to high school, you never attended a party like that. Barb's parties were full on house parties, complete with hot tub, public making out, and barfing over railings. So Edmund and I go. We mingle. We drink. A LOT.
This would mark our very first instance of public drunken scenes. Edmund proceeded to down an entire bottle of cheap vodka, fall down some stairs, and make out with someone that wasn't me. Right in front of me. Perhaps I should have handed his ass to him right there, but the situation was more confusing than that. I walked in on him making out. With my best friend. My gay, male best friend. I should have been horrified, and I was, a little, but everyone was so hammered that it hardly mattered. After Edmund passed out, I spent the rest of the night poking my finger in his mouth to make sure he didn't choke on the gum he fell asleep chewing.
Did I mention Edmund had to take his SAT's the next day?
*the names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent
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