A very wise friend of mine has been attempting to help me make sense of a very disturbing relationship dilemma in which i've found myself. Alternating between devastated and, well, devastated, the love i thought was "grown-up," real, and indestructible has turned out to be just the opposite. My girl has offered some sage explanations.
People (both men and women), it seems, sometimes create a vision for their life, complete with lodging, lineages, even transport. The stereotypical house, car, and kids is alive and well, i'm afraid. The plans are made, signed and sealed, and not up for discussion. And then the quest begins to find the right person, a soulmate i suppose, that you can plunk down in that dream life. This person matches all the decor and lives life by the same soundtrack. The person must have the exact same visionary life. That is how you know they are the one.
Now, i'm not opposed to dreams. I have them myself, of course. But my dreams are fluid, murky, without real definition and form. For instance, my future ideal family doesn't have a predetermined number of members, doesn't reside any one place in particular, and doesn't do certain things on the weekends. I've always thought that when I meet the person i'm meant to spend my life with, we'll work out those details together. Combining efforts seems way more interesting to me, not to mention sustainable as people's dreams change as they are sure to do. I like the adventure of it. I look forward to negotiating those details in true Libra fashion. Love is the binding force in my vision, not how well the person fits into my master plan of global diva domination. (JK...i don't really plan to take over the world with diva force...unless anyone is up for trying that with me.)
The love i thought i shared with my beau is in question. And it hurts. Turns out, he is unsure i fit in his vision. And that makes my vision (of an exciting life discovering even more about him and loving him even more) seem like it ain't gonna happen.
I could be wrong, but relationships of the past appeared to begin by finding someone you could stand and taking it from there. Love used to be all you needed. Identical plans is the new collaboration.
Shame, really. My vision was just starting to take on some lines and color. Not sure how this one will turn out because, as previously stated, it isn't up for discussion. Good thing my beautiful future is flexible like a yogi, taking on new positions even more challenging than before. Wish me luck though...this will be a tough one.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Don't Make Me
The other night I attempted to get dumped by inviting my beau to a folksy, estrogen-heavy performance by Toby Lightman. He usually reserves Monday nights for himself as a rule. He claims he is required by his laundry machine, though I believe he keeps his distance to avoid the inevitable CSI Miami episode. For this reason, it was particularly generous of him to drive me, in the rain, to Arlington and sit through equal parts acoustic man-bashing and sappy love ballads.
I was thrilled, giddy with her clever lyrics, thoughtful sentiment, and country/bluesy twang. He appeared to be ready to trade me in for a tattooed death metal drummer chick or throw himself from the nearest monument...i can't be sure which.
As in that weird movie Mating Habits of the Earth-Bound Human, i guess it is true that while dating it is not necessarily the activities we enjoy, but rather the company.
I did appreciate the company thoroughly. And for only a barbeque dinner in exchange, i think i made out like a bandit.
We joked that when the time comes for me to endure uncomfortable male activities, perhaps DC Meatfest or the National Beer Guzzling/Chest Beating Festival, he'll have an ace in the hole with which to convince me. In the meantime, I promise to only play the cd i bought last night solo so not to invoke any traumatic flashbacks.
Don't Wake Me by Toby Lightman
I was thrilled, giddy with her clever lyrics, thoughtful sentiment, and country/bluesy twang. He appeared to be ready to trade me in for a tattooed death metal drummer chick or throw himself from the nearest monument...i can't be sure which.
As in that weird movie Mating Habits of the Earth-Bound Human, i guess it is true that while dating it is not necessarily the activities we enjoy, but rather the company.
I did appreciate the company thoroughly. And for only a barbeque dinner in exchange, i think i made out like a bandit.
We joked that when the time comes for me to endure uncomfortable male activities, perhaps DC Meatfest or the National Beer Guzzling/Chest Beating Festival, he'll have an ace in the hole with which to convince me. In the meantime, I promise to only play the cd i bought last night solo so not to invoke any traumatic flashbacks.
Don't Wake Me by Toby Lightman
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Do the Jane Fonda
I joined a gym the other day. I even met with a personal trainer. What I thought was going to be a complimentary ass whopping turned out to be a sales pitch for mega-expensive PT sessions. Having never been a member of a gym before, I had no idea this was a risk.
Pinching chubby spots, the trainer’s brow furrowed. “What do you eat?” he asks.
“Pasta and cream sauce,” I reply. The brow tangles even more.
“Do you drink alcohol?”
“Yes, bourbon.” He shakes his head.
“How much?”
“A lot.”
And so the conversation went… He scribbled down notes and returned to me with a hopeful look. “I think I can help you,” he grinned, “but you’ll have to be on a diet and work out all the time.” Disappointed, I slump over to the elliptical machine.
What I think was missed in my PT evaluation was that I wasn’t at the gym with aspirations of supermodel stick-figureness. I like my curves and, even more, I like my lifestyle. I’ve already reconciled the fact that my love of pasta will never allow me arms like Madonna and I’m ok with that. Furthermore, I’m chronically lazy; the Mistress of Excuses, the Princess of Bad Influence.
What I’m looking for in an exercise program is the exact least amount of effort I need to put forth to keep eating and drinking whatever I like and stay relatively the same size, accounting for age and seasonal changes. I don’t need rock-hard abs or buns of steel…I just want to look ok naked and have a happy life. I need more than a celery stick, a cigarette, and a laxative (thanks for that C.V.) to be at my best. I’m not fooled by those starving, unhappy faces in magazines.
And for $75 an hour, I think personal training is for the birds. I usually don’t spend $75/hour having fun, after all.
I fired my PT before he even got to make me sweat. Not because I don’t think he could have transformed me into a 5’4” brick house, but because it just doesn’t sound like much fun to eat lettuce instead of noodles and run in place instead of sipping champagne with my friends.
I do plan to show face at the gym every now and then though. They do have some (almost) fun-looking classes and yoga. As long as nobody (and by “nobody” I mostly mean meathead D-bags looking for a screw) talks to me, I think I could be self-persuaded to lift a weight in addition to my pasta fork. Wish me luck!
Jane Fonda by Mickey Avalon
Pinching chubby spots, the trainer’s brow furrowed. “What do you eat?” he asks.
“Pasta and cream sauce,” I reply. The brow tangles even more.
“Do you drink alcohol?”
“Yes, bourbon.” He shakes his head.
“How much?”
“A lot.”
And so the conversation went… He scribbled down notes and returned to me with a hopeful look. “I think I can help you,” he grinned, “but you’ll have to be on a diet and work out all the time.” Disappointed, I slump over to the elliptical machine.
What I think was missed in my PT evaluation was that I wasn’t at the gym with aspirations of supermodel stick-figureness. I like my curves and, even more, I like my lifestyle. I’ve already reconciled the fact that my love of pasta will never allow me arms like Madonna and I’m ok with that. Furthermore, I’m chronically lazy; the Mistress of Excuses, the Princess of Bad Influence.
What I’m looking for in an exercise program is the exact least amount of effort I need to put forth to keep eating and drinking whatever I like and stay relatively the same size, accounting for age and seasonal changes. I don’t need rock-hard abs or buns of steel…I just want to look ok naked and have a happy life. I need more than a celery stick, a cigarette, and a laxative (thanks for that C.V.) to be at my best. I’m not fooled by those starving, unhappy faces in magazines.
And for $75 an hour, I think personal training is for the birds. I usually don’t spend $75/hour having fun, after all.
I fired my PT before he even got to make me sweat. Not because I don’t think he could have transformed me into a 5’4” brick house, but because it just doesn’t sound like much fun to eat lettuce instead of noodles and run in place instead of sipping champagne with my friends.
I do plan to show face at the gym every now and then though. They do have some (almost) fun-looking classes and yoga. As long as nobody (and by “nobody” I mostly mean meathead D-bags looking for a screw) talks to me, I think I could be self-persuaded to lift a weight in addition to my pasta fork. Wish me luck!
Jane Fonda by Mickey Avalon
Monday, March 30, 2009
Notes from a Cathedral
I went to a fascinating lecture on Friday night by the author of the NY Times best seller Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert. I knew it was going to be great…first, because it was held in the National Cathedral, a place where I expected to feel uncomfortably awestruck (like an atheist who accidently ends up in an evangelical revival) but instead felt absolutely comfortably awestruck. It is a beautiful, beautiful place. Secondly, because Eat, Pray, Love is one of the best, most honestly written books I’ve ever read; a book that clearly touched the heartstrings of American women in a way they wish their men would (there were over 2,000 people in the audience, 99% women).
Gilbert is effortlessly clever, unrehearsed, and refreshing in her honesty. She didn’t talk much about the book that made her famous. Instead she talked about being a writer and being a woman. After her journey through Italy, India, and Indonesia to try to reclaim mental health, she predictably returned to the U.S. relaxed and confused by American’s sense of unnecessary urgency, relentless self-criticism, and exhausting work schedules. (If you’re an American who has spent real time abroad, you have returned confused as well, wondering how your own priorities got so off-kilter.) She smartly disclaimed that she didn’t want to come off as one of those people who spends 3 months in Bali and then asks all her neighbors in the U.S. why they are so stressed. But she did wonder why we feel compelled to “reduce stress” or “manage stress.” Why not instead “eradicating stress,” eliminating stressful thing altogether. Easier said than done, obviously, but it is a nice mantra.
She also talked about having kids, an issue that presented itself to me several times over the last few days. My beau’s sis had a baby, I found out my ex’s family are expecting a new member, I hung out with new parents who were grateful to have a night without the little one, among other events.
I’ve always been of the strong opinion that momhood isn’t for me. Kids scare me. They have big soft heads that bobble around, swinging dangerously towards objects like the corners of tables. Not to mention being prego for ages…your body is taken over by a sizable parasite, your hormones go ape shit, and you can’t even have a drink to calm yourself. All that work and what do you get for it? You get flipped the bird by an angry teenager and sucked dry of money. Then you get a mother’s day card. My terror of childbearing is real, however misinformed and dramatized.
According to Gilbert, 10% of women historically don’t have biological children. Though these women don’t leave a genetic legacy, they support those that do financially, emotionally, babysitter-wise. More than once an aunt has saved the day by sending money to an impoverished college student. More than once a godmom has been the understudy of the lousy babysitter who canceled last minute. It seems that those women who don’t have their own kids might be an evolutionary requirement, vital to the survival (or at least, the mental stability) of the species. That takes a load off me. Just in case I really can’t swallow the jagged little pill that is motherhood, I can still be a kick-ass godmom and Auntie Rach. It isn’t selfish and it isn’t abnormal. It is just a decision like any other.
Also, Gilbert said that she saw a study that said that women who don’t have kids are actually just as happy as those who don’t in their old age. Turns out, the things that really determine a women’s happiness in old age is poverty and health. So as long as I save for retirement and eat healthy, I should be fine either way, thank goodness.
Anyway, whether you’ve ended up on the bathroom floor in a puddle of your own tears before or not, I highly recommend reading Eat, Pray, Love.
Gilbert is effortlessly clever, unrehearsed, and refreshing in her honesty. She didn’t talk much about the book that made her famous. Instead she talked about being a writer and being a woman. After her journey through Italy, India, and Indonesia to try to reclaim mental health, she predictably returned to the U.S. relaxed and confused by American’s sense of unnecessary urgency, relentless self-criticism, and exhausting work schedules. (If you’re an American who has spent real time abroad, you have returned confused as well, wondering how your own priorities got so off-kilter.) She smartly disclaimed that she didn’t want to come off as one of those people who spends 3 months in Bali and then asks all her neighbors in the U.S. why they are so stressed. But she did wonder why we feel compelled to “reduce stress” or “manage stress.” Why not instead “eradicating stress,” eliminating stressful thing altogether. Easier said than done, obviously, but it is a nice mantra.
She also talked about having kids, an issue that presented itself to me several times over the last few days. My beau’s sis had a baby, I found out my ex’s family are expecting a new member, I hung out with new parents who were grateful to have a night without the little one, among other events.
I’ve always been of the strong opinion that momhood isn’t for me. Kids scare me. They have big soft heads that bobble around, swinging dangerously towards objects like the corners of tables. Not to mention being prego for ages…your body is taken over by a sizable parasite, your hormones go ape shit, and you can’t even have a drink to calm yourself. All that work and what do you get for it? You get flipped the bird by an angry teenager and sucked dry of money. Then you get a mother’s day card. My terror of childbearing is real, however misinformed and dramatized.
According to Gilbert, 10% of women historically don’t have biological children. Though these women don’t leave a genetic legacy, they support those that do financially, emotionally, babysitter-wise. More than once an aunt has saved the day by sending money to an impoverished college student. More than once a godmom has been the understudy of the lousy babysitter who canceled last minute. It seems that those women who don’t have their own kids might be an evolutionary requirement, vital to the survival (or at least, the mental stability) of the species. That takes a load off me. Just in case I really can’t swallow the jagged little pill that is motherhood, I can still be a kick-ass godmom and Auntie Rach. It isn’t selfish and it isn’t abnormal. It is just a decision like any other.
Also, Gilbert said that she saw a study that said that women who don’t have kids are actually just as happy as those who don’t in their old age. Turns out, the things that really determine a women’s happiness in old age is poverty and health. So as long as I save for retirement and eat healthy, I should be fine either way, thank goodness.
Anyway, whether you’ve ended up on the bathroom floor in a puddle of your own tears before or not, I highly recommend reading Eat, Pray, Love.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Verizon has a consipracy against me
Over the last few months, i've attempted to join whatever century we're in now and sprinkle my life with a few electronic devices. I've always been years behind when it comes to gadgets and things with cords.
I didn't get a DVD player until just a couple years ago, after my mom realized how un-cool I was. I am forever in debt to my former music mentor from Colorado for gently encouraging me to give up my boom box by gifting me an iPod (filled with cool new music). He rightly predicted I wouldn't have a computer at home with which to charge the Pod so he included the wall charger. Brilliant! When the cable I was stealing got shut off, I signed up for Netflix and called it a day. I couldn't loose that crappy used cell phone in a cab to save my life. Spending money and time on such luxuries as wireless internet, communication by phone, and a working thermostat seemed a bit beyond my reach. I was doing fine without so why complicate my life?
I'm not sure if it was winter boredom, my new job at a software company (where EVERYONE has an iPhone), or my sports-loving beau who waits for me patiently with nothing but Bust magazine and Olive to keep him entertained...something inspired me to get wired.
In the last few months, i've added a digital converter box and space-age rabbit ears (I couldn't quite bring myself to get cable yet and the government was offering coupons), wireless internet (which I share with my neighbors to keep the cost down...less money spent on bills means more money to spend on denim), a new cell phone, and an Internet-based home phone so I can more easily work in my pajamas. I had to get two power strips for all those damn cords.
I have had several meltdowns over faulty equipment, low signal, and criminal billing practices. This shit simply isn't my thing.
While I am (sometimes...when it is working) happy to be able to stream old CSI Miami episodes wireless on my laptop while simultaneously watching the new CSI Miami episode on channel 7-1 WJLA-HD or whatever, I do question the necessity of it all. There are times I want to gather up all those ugly boxes with annoying blinking lights and their tangle of miserable cords and ritualistically burn them.
Olive and Beau do seem content watching March Madness while I blow-dry so perhaps it is worth it. Just no more effing cords please.
P.S. Thanks for the YouTube video, Tex. It made me feel the tiniest bit better about all the obscenities that have come from my mouth in your presence while trying to get all my fucking pieces of shit working.
I didn't get a DVD player until just a couple years ago, after my mom realized how un-cool I was. I am forever in debt to my former music mentor from Colorado for gently encouraging me to give up my boom box by gifting me an iPod (filled with cool new music). He rightly predicted I wouldn't have a computer at home with which to charge the Pod so he included the wall charger. Brilliant! When the cable I was stealing got shut off, I signed up for Netflix and called it a day. I couldn't loose that crappy used cell phone in a cab to save my life. Spending money and time on such luxuries as wireless internet, communication by phone, and a working thermostat seemed a bit beyond my reach. I was doing fine without so why complicate my life?
I'm not sure if it was winter boredom, my new job at a software company (where EVERYONE has an iPhone), or my sports-loving beau who waits for me patiently with nothing but Bust magazine and Olive to keep him entertained...something inspired me to get wired.
In the last few months, i've added a digital converter box and space-age rabbit ears (I couldn't quite bring myself to get cable yet and the government was offering coupons), wireless internet (which I share with my neighbors to keep the cost down...less money spent on bills means more money to spend on denim), a new cell phone, and an Internet-based home phone so I can more easily work in my pajamas. I had to get two power strips for all those damn cords.
I have had several meltdowns over faulty equipment, low signal, and criminal billing practices. This shit simply isn't my thing.
While I am (sometimes...when it is working) happy to be able to stream old CSI Miami episodes wireless on my laptop while simultaneously watching the new CSI Miami episode on channel 7-1 WJLA-HD or whatever, I do question the necessity of it all. There are times I want to gather up all those ugly boxes with annoying blinking lights and their tangle of miserable cords and ritualistically burn them.
Olive and Beau do seem content watching March Madness while I blow-dry so perhaps it is worth it. Just no more effing cords please.
P.S. Thanks for the YouTube video, Tex. It made me feel the tiniest bit better about all the obscenities that have come from my mouth in your presence while trying to get all my fucking pieces of shit working.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Let me count the ways
My sister is getting married this Spring. It is all very exciting because her beau is rather charming and fits in well with the family descended from pirates. Sis asked me for some music recommendations. This was touching since we have very little in common and I had no idea she even knew about my lust for quality tunes. I was shocked she wanted my input on her most important of life events.
She said she wanted romantic, yet interesting…something more than the usual Shania Twain gag-inducers usually played at Nebraska weddings. I devoted myself wholeheartedly to the project, not only to supply this wedding some suitable slow dances, but also to impress my only female sibling (a difficult challenge, indeed).
I’ve been working on it for weeks, arguing with myself about just how cheesy I wanted Wedding Mix 2009 to be, adding and then removing tracks that in one hormonal level sounded sweet and the next sounded revoltingly insincere.
Below is a sampling.
Fresh Feeling by Eels
My beau shared this one with me recently and it makes me smile every time I hear it. My personal favorite...
Make You Feel My Love by Adele
Just so beautiful. I can imagine them dancing to this at the wedding (which will result in a Kleenex stock increase...there's your insider tip from someone who knows NOTHING about the stock market.)
Shameless by Garth Brooks
This is a staple at Casa de Pirate and country-lovers will rejoice.
You Turn Me On by Ugly Americans
Darn cute and heaps cheesy. I've loved this one since high school.
Dream by Alice Smith
Simple, honest, passionate...just how love should feel.
And, of course, the usual classics: Method Man and MJB, Sade, Harry Connick, Jr. I need to burn the disk and ship it off to NE soon, but i'm still taking recommendations. I figured after the recent Valentine snog-fest, someone might have a love song to melt the hearts of my soon-to-be-inlaws. Am I missing anything?
She said she wanted romantic, yet interesting…something more than the usual Shania Twain gag-inducers usually played at Nebraska weddings. I devoted myself wholeheartedly to the project, not only to supply this wedding some suitable slow dances, but also to impress my only female sibling (a difficult challenge, indeed).
I’ve been working on it for weeks, arguing with myself about just how cheesy I wanted Wedding Mix 2009 to be, adding and then removing tracks that in one hormonal level sounded sweet and the next sounded revoltingly insincere.
Below is a sampling.
Fresh Feeling by Eels
My beau shared this one with me recently and it makes me smile every time I hear it. My personal favorite...
Make You Feel My Love by Adele
Just so beautiful. I can imagine them dancing to this at the wedding (which will result in a Kleenex stock increase...there's your insider tip from someone who knows NOTHING about the stock market.)
Shameless by Garth Brooks
This is a staple at Casa de Pirate and country-lovers will rejoice.
You Turn Me On by Ugly Americans
Darn cute and heaps cheesy. I've loved this one since high school.
Dream by Alice Smith
Simple, honest, passionate...just how love should feel.
And, of course, the usual classics: Method Man and MJB, Sade, Harry Connick, Jr. I need to burn the disk and ship it off to NE soon, but i'm still taking recommendations. I figured after the recent Valentine snog-fest, someone might have a love song to melt the hearts of my soon-to-be-inlaws. Am I missing anything?
Monday, February 2, 2009
Going out of style
I'm all for public access to information. Everybody should be able to read books for free, which is why I’m so disappointed in the DC Public Library system.
Today, in an effort to renew some interest in my job, I decided I should read some books related to my field. I have a list of recommendations from numerous conferences and seminars and some of them even sounded interesting. So, I went to the public library’s website. I was thrilled to find they had an online search option. This would save me from hauling it all the way over there if they didn’t have what I was looking for…brilliant!
One of the books I wanted was an interesting twist on how to change public attitude with simple marketing schemes: The United States of Arugula. I searched for “Arugula.” Sorry, term not found. I tried “United States.” Nope, never heard of that either. I search for some other books with no luck. Already irritated, I call. The man who answers is able to look up the books effortlessly and promises to hold them for me. I give my name with a sigh of relief. Things are looking up.
I head over after work to pick up my books. I stop at the information desk and ask if my books are there. With an annoyed pencil tap, an evil librarian, the likes of which stereotypes about cranky librarians were created, snapped that NO, my books obviously weren’t there and that I should try another identical information desk.
I get there, hand over my library card, only to be told that I haven’t returned the Amy Sedaris cookbook I had loaned over the summer. I am instructed to find the missing book on the shelf or be turned over the to the authorities for book theft. I frantically find cookbook and return to desk. Strange…turns out the book was returned after all. Woman shrugs.
May I please have the books saved for me? Certainly not! They are no where to be found. But, I can have another ignorant shrug. Perfect!
Dismayed, I walk back to the original desk, the one with the smug librarian. There are the books with my name in bright purple marker rubber banded around them, right next to Evil’s mouse pad.
If it wasn’t for my pre-existing soft spot for librarians (thanks to three years living with an actual smart one), I may have strangled someone. I grab the books, check out, and vow never to set foot in that shame hole ever again. No wonder there are only homeless people sleeping on all the tables instead of real patrons. Where are the days of helpful librarians, cheerful book displays encouraging reading, and book drops that don’t have electric fence around them? Shame that even information, it seems, is going out of style.
Today, in an effort to renew some interest in my job, I decided I should read some books related to my field. I have a list of recommendations from numerous conferences and seminars and some of them even sounded interesting. So, I went to the public library’s website. I was thrilled to find they had an online search option. This would save me from hauling it all the way over there if they didn’t have what I was looking for…brilliant!
One of the books I wanted was an interesting twist on how to change public attitude with simple marketing schemes: The United States of Arugula. I searched for “Arugula.” Sorry, term not found. I tried “United States.” Nope, never heard of that either. I search for some other books with no luck. Already irritated, I call. The man who answers is able to look up the books effortlessly and promises to hold them for me. I give my name with a sigh of relief. Things are looking up.
I head over after work to pick up my books. I stop at the information desk and ask if my books are there. With an annoyed pencil tap, an evil librarian, the likes of which stereotypes about cranky librarians were created, snapped that NO, my books obviously weren’t there and that I should try another identical information desk.
I get there, hand over my library card, only to be told that I haven’t returned the Amy Sedaris cookbook I had loaned over the summer. I am instructed to find the missing book on the shelf or be turned over the to the authorities for book theft. I frantically find cookbook and return to desk. Strange…turns out the book was returned after all. Woman shrugs.
May I please have the books saved for me? Certainly not! They are no where to be found. But, I can have another ignorant shrug. Perfect!
Dismayed, I walk back to the original desk, the one with the smug librarian. There are the books with my name in bright purple marker rubber banded around them, right next to Evil’s mouse pad.
If it wasn’t for my pre-existing soft spot for librarians (thanks to three years living with an actual smart one), I may have strangled someone. I grab the books, check out, and vow never to set foot in that shame hole ever again. No wonder there are only homeless people sleeping on all the tables instead of real patrons. Where are the days of helpful librarians, cheerful book displays encouraging reading, and book drops that don’t have electric fence around them? Shame that even information, it seems, is going out of style.
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