Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Questions. No answers.

I'm sabotaging this, you guys.

Luke is a saint. And I'm trying to ruin this.

I know that this makes no sense. Knowing that you're doing something - something that isn't in your best interest - but doing it anyway. Like pushing away the best guy of all of the guys who have ever shown even a sliver of interest in you. Who is the best of the lot BY FAR.

I can't articulate my problem.

I don't know my problem. I don't know the solution.

Just after The Groomsman pulled the plug on our...well, it was never our anything.

Let me rephrase.


Just after The Groomsman decided that we should not date anymore, I started considering therapy. (Reconsidering therapy, technically.)

For a lot of reasons. Family and work and growing up and grief and insecurity and perfectionism. And because I suspected that one of the reasons that The Groomsman never felt a "spark" was because I refused to let one develop. I wanted nobody more than I wanted him, yet I consciously kept him out. My walls stayed up.

I'm doing it again.

Except Luke is trying harder.

And I'm resisting harder.

I don't know how to fix me. I don't know how to trust him. I can't convince myself that this is okay.

It might be time to find someone with the answers. Or someone who can help me find them.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Banging head against desk

I'm in a writing funk.

Being busy at work does nothing to inspire my creativity. Nor does my endlessly confusing faucet of feelings drip-drip-dripping a new feeling towards Luke every 17 minutes. (I can't even write about one feeling I'm having towards him before I'm on to the next one.) Nor does worrying - endless worrying about commonplace things like bills and jobs and Being A Real Grownup.

My life isn't boring right now. But it is lacking in something - drama, a common villain, an unrequited love for me to moon over every bloody day. (Speaking of - who is sofuckingglad that they don't have to read about The Groomsman anymore? Because I'm sofuckingglad that I'm not writing about him anymore.)

Yeah. So.

Hang in there, I guess.

I'll come around.

Until then, stay tuned for interesting posts full of interesting facts about me including: an inventory of my personal nail polish stash, how I found the perfect pair of ballet flats and why I shouldn't drink coffee at 4 pm.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Robot baggage

He notices
That I’m
Behind this wall
This high wall
Topped in barbed wire
Patrolled by trained killers
He notices

He knows
(I suspect)
That I’m holding back
That our enthusiasm
Is not equal

He admires
My sarcasm
Quick wit
My tools for deflecting

He shouldn’t
Be expected
To bear the weight
Of this baggage
My baggage
(Origins: unknown)
Even though I’m
Fairly certain
That he would
Given the opportunity

This robot
Walls up
Baggage plentiful
Distrusting and afraid

This robot
Has an awfully lot to work out
In very
Short order

Saturday, March 27, 2010

I am a teasing vulture

Okay. We need to talk about a few things.

About how I agreed to a date with Luke last night that somehow turned into a double date. With his brother and his sister-in-law. Both of whom I like, thankfully. Because I’d much prefer a little awkward over totally awkward and mostly torturous.

I told Luke that I was up for anything. Which I generally am. I didn’t know that anything included a double date. With his family. OMG.

In reality, it turned out to be fine. We did dinner solo and then met Luke’s brother and sister-in-law for bowling. Which I suck at. Which I told him that I suck at, but was totally up for trying. He laughed and promised that he sucked, too.

That made me feel better.

Until we got to the bowling alley and he pulls out his fucking bowling ball. THE ONE THAT HE OWNS. How much can you suck at bowling if you made the investment of your own personal bowling ball?

Seriously, you guys.

His sister-in-law sucked as much ass at bowling as I do. Bless her. And Luke’s brother was more of a bowling supastar than he is, so I won’t bust his balls over the whole thing.

Well, actually I might.

Okay, I definitely will. I'm just waiting for the perfect moment to call him out on the fact that he OWNS HIS OWN BOWLING BALL. And plays himself off to be some sort of once-every-five-years-and-only-then-for-charity-fundraisers bowler. LIAR!

Here’s what else I’m going to bust his balls about: the Godiva frequent shopper/reward/special customer/OMG-he’s-totally-the-flowers-and-chocolate-dude card on his keychain.

I saw it yesterday. And subsequently died – partially from amusement, partially from horror.

But I haven’t called him out on that yet, either. I’m totally going to. How can a girl like me pass up such a ripe opportunity for teasing?

Maybe I should start a list.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

No, seriously. I will steal your babies.

I babysat Aviva’s niece recently. I don’t think that I mentioned it.

I grew up in an area with a sizeable Jewish population. Aviva’s family is very involved in the Jewish community. I swear, if I know a Jew who lives/lived in or around where we grew up, Aviva or Aviva’s mother or Aviva’s sister-in-law knows him or her. They’re invited to a boatload of bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs and weddings. And some of these bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs and weddings? Frigging huge. (Not like other cultures/religions don’t have enormous events. Am I being insensitive here?)

And when these events reach a certain size, pretty much everyone who Aviva’s family know – neighbors and friends and acquaintances and whatever – is invited.

Which is how I get asked to watch the baby.

I’m the only gentile that they know.

Okay, no. That’s exaggerating. But, really, they know that I’m not getting invited and I’m a mildly capable babysitter, so I get the call.


Seriously. A few hours with a baby all to myself? I would pay them to let me watch her. (Even though it is usually the other way around. Which is awkward. Aviva’s brother all “here, take this,” and I’m all “no, you are not paying me for this. We’re friends, we go way back.” And then he’s trying to stuff money into my purse and, ugh, hate those last few minutes before I leave.)

She’s 13 months old now and very, very busy. She’s in everything and a complete wild woman and, OMG, so much fun.

Except their house? It isn’t babyproofed? Not really? With the assistance of three 3-pannel baby gates, they’ve made some sort of a baby cage in their den. And, I guess she must spend all of her time in there, because the rest of the house doesn’t exactly seem age-appropriate for the little monster. With the glass tsatskes and the uncovered outlets and whatnot.

Anyway. Not judging. Just observing.

We had so much fun. Except for the part where I didn’t get her to bed until 10:00. (Babysitting fail!) But she was completely pleasant in her refusal to go to sleep. No tears. I couldn’t complain.

The best part of the night was when I was laying on the floor with her, sometime way after when I should have put her in bed. I was on my stomach, my head propped up on my fists, watching for a sign that she was at least tiring a little bit and that there was some hope that I’d get her to sleep before midnight. She was bumbling around her baby cage being very busy and banging blocks together and pressing buttons that play creepy, hypnotic toy music and all of that. Not tired. Not even a little bit.

She’s crawling around and doing her thing and, suddenly, she stops right in front of me. Drops the ball that she has in her hand. And she sticks her chubby hand out and, where my back is exposed, she wipes her hand across it. Once. Twice. Three times.

It took me a second to figure out what she was trying to do.

Wipe off my tattoo.

Apparently she’s a pretty clean-cut kid. Minus the bedtime rebellion.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Hide your babies

This picture ended up on Heather's wedding photographer's blog.

Is the Baby Crazy not written all over my face?

If you listen closely, you can probably hear my biological clock ticking, too.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

I wonder if I'll come to regret this

I turned down a job interview.

I'm really in no position to do so, but I did it anyway.

It wasn't going to work.

Hourly, I would make at least 30% less, per hour, than I do at the other 'brary I work.

Logistically, the schedule would interfere with my other 'brary job.

Realistically, the commute would be well over an hour.

And it is only 20 hours per week. The expense of the longer commute. Buying my own health insurance. It doesn't make sense. There are too many negatives. I don't want to waste anyone's time. I don't want to put myself into a situation where I have to choose one shitty situation over another.

The pieces didn't fit. It wasn't right.

I declined.

I have no idea if that was the right decision. But at least I made one.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Fresh, new, different

I don't do this. I don't engineer a Saturday night with my girlfriend specifically to discuss my relationship with a boy. If he's important, they'll know that he exists. But we don't analyze it. I don't recite conversations. We don't try to delve into the male mind. We don't scrutinize. I don't attempt to voice my feelings.

I keep that in. And then vomit it up all over the internet. (Blogging is the best, no?)

I don't do this. I don't tell my mother that a boy sent me flowers at work. I don't let her get excited about things like this. I don't let her hopes get as high as, sometimes, I allow mine to get. Because they do. She does. She gets excited. She claps her hands and exclaims "I'm going to have grandbabies!"

"I think the flowers were good, honey. He is putting his intentions right out there."

And then she tells my dad. Who asks, randomly, "has he ever been married?"

I've never asked.

I don't do this. I don't tell my coworkers if I am or if I am not dating someone. I'm not trying to be secretive. I am trying to protect myself. Because, with as giddy as I am at the beginning, I can be equally crushed at the end. I don't want to explain why I don't talk to him anymore. I don't want to admit the failure.

But the flowers, delivered to my desk, they announce. They scream my secrets. They force me to admit a truth. It isn't a truth that I am embarrassed by. It is a truth that humbles me. That I don't quite understand. That I feel a little unworthy of.

I don't do this.

I don't date boys who are really, really into me.

I don't tell everyone.

I don't admit that I'm scared at how quickly it is moving.

I don't get flowers at my desk.

I've never been on this road before. It's unfamiliar. So far, though, I like the scenery. And the road is smooth.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

This time, I'm giving the advice

In my line of work, I am often thrust into the role of disinterested ticket broker.

Someone gets a mass of tickets (usually from someone who owes him a favor), which are passed off to me for distribution. Tickets are dispersed in one of two ways: to fellow employees or to customers.

It, my friends, is the worst torture known to man.

Generally, when I’m handed tickets to an especially popular event, I get power hungry. Oh, the influence! Oh, how people will kiss my ass! I am drunk with power for approximately 20 minutes. Then I remember what a bloody pain ticket distribution is.

If I’m dealing with my coworkers, I send out an email. “I have just received a number of complimentary tickets to [insert event here]. Let me know if you’re interested in attending!” Actually, that’s pretty much what I do with customers, too. It’s just less likely that I’ll use the email as an the opportunity to make fun of Asshole Coworker (which I generally do in situations where I’m sending out an all staff email).


As far as free tickets go, people are incredibly predictable.

I have the Will Go To Anything Guy. Who wants tickets because they’re free.
I have the Bring The Whole Neighborhood Woman. Who wants 12 tickets. Always.
There are the Oh, Yes Please And Thank You, I Am Free That Evening folks who request tickets and don’t end up going.
And the High Maintenance Higherups, who won’t consider anything but a prime seat.
And The Grateful, Kind Ones. The people who use the tickets. Say thank you. And are generally awesome.

Ticketing is currently on my shit list because, at 2:00 on Thursday, I found out that we had two suites (read: 40 tickets) to an event on Friday night. My boss decided that we would offer the tickets up to staff members and that I would go to the event and be the SuiteBitch. I spent the next day coordinating tickets. Shuffling tickets from one person to another. Moving people from one suite to another because someone is in a fight with someone else about something. Fielding irritating questions about the quantity and quality of free food and alcohol that would be provided.

And then I spend my entire Friday night bouncing between those two suites. Smiling and pretending to be the gracious hostess. While listening to the occasional complaint. And tallying the no-shows. (And, to be honest, watching Meg’s friends go gaga over their first experience in a luxury box – which was legitimately fun and nice to do.)

My tender and affectionate readers, you always provide me with so much advice. I am going to provide you with some unsolicited advice. Because I can! (And also because I can’t think of a better way to wrap this up.)

The next time someone offers you tickets, ask yourself this: am I committed to going to this event? Is this event something that I really want to go to? Am I actually going to use these tickets for myself instead of pawning them off on Am I decent enough not to bitch about where my tickets are located or who I’m sitting by? Is the number of tickets I’m requesting necessary and appropriate? If you answer yes to all of these questions? Go for it. Free tickets fucking rule.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Roses are red, knuckles are white

Red roses. 18. At the corner of my desk. Pushed back. So they don't get knocked over. So I don't get asked about them.

They were delivered to my office this morning. I blushed, profusely. My work dad asked about them. My asshole coworker asked about them. And counted them. And smelled them. And harassed me about them. The ladies of my office cooed. I didn’t know what to do.

From Luke, of course. The thoughtful, nice boy who is moving lightning fast.
I sent a few panicked text messages to my friends. “Enjoy it,” I was told, as though I wasn’t. I don’t know where they got that from. Certainly not from my text message, which read something like “OMG. I just had flowers delivered to my office. Fuck. This is intense.” I mean, really. Where would they get such an idea?!

* * *

Heather’s friend Rivka recently went on a fairly successful date with Luke’s friend.
That’s how she ended up in my car last night, accompanying me to the bar were Luke and his friends gathered to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.

It was good to have someone, someone impartial, to see us. To tell me what she thinks. To listen to me admit, on our ride over, that I’m not sure. “He’s incredibly nice and sweet and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him,” I sighed. “I’m just not sure.”

“He really likes you.” She told me in the car on our ride home. After he spent the evening at my side. After he walked us to my car. After he kissed me goodnight. “He told me. He told me that he really likes you.”

Not that he hasn’t told me the same thing. It’s just different, I guess, hearing it coming out of someone else’s mouth.

“He really likes you,” she told me again, via text message, today.

I know.

I know he does.

And I’m scared.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Attempting to go green

When I think of St. Patrick’s Day, I think of the awful Saturday evening I let Colin walk all over me. I think of how heavy and sad I was that night, watching him from across the room. Pretending that we were cool when we weren’t.

(The disappointment of that evening produced one of my favorite posts.)

I should have known then.

Correction: I should have known way, way before then. But I didn’t. And I continued to let him rough up my heart after that day. Why is that? Was my self-esteem really that low? Was I really that stupid?

I haven’t celebrated St. Patrick’s Day since that awful one with (well, actually, mostly without) Colin. I don’t care. I turn my nose up at the mention of the “holiday.” It reminds me of feeling insignificant. I’d rather stay home.

Luke has been asking me to stop by the bar he’ll be at tonight. Heather sent me a text message a few hours ago asking if I’d meet her out somewhere. I haven’t been to bed before midnight tonight. I want – I need – to go to yoga. I don’t even own anything green.

You know what?

Fuck it.

The lack of sleep. The yoga class. The green that is missing from my wardrobe.

I’m going out. To Colin’s favorite bar, of all places. And then I’m meeting a boy who I’m not sure about because I can.

I hate St. Patrick’s Day.

But maybe tonight will change that.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

I'm sorry. I know I'm overthinking this.

I did end up cancelling my date on Friday night and, yes, I am a shit. Instead of going on a date with Luke, I went to Mom and Dad’s and ate Chinese food and blogged, while looking and feeling like a complete trainwreck.

I rescheduled with The Luke for last night. I, being high maintenance, completely hijacked his plans and turned “I was thinking dinner and a movie?” into “meet me in This City at This Restaurant and we’ll see a film at This Theater because they have seats made of memory foam and the eyelashes of kittens.”

Yeah. So he might think that I’m a little pushy.

Because maybe I am a little pushy.

Which: whatever. It was only for our own good. And I let him pick out the movie.

So, the evening was good and I was out too late and the choice of city/restaurant/theater was spot on (I = genius). I definitely like him when I’m with him. And, when I’m not, I psych myself out and question everything and anything and, especially, my feelings.

I don’t want to lead him on.
I don’t want to miss out on someone who is unquestionably nice and totally decent and has potential despite the fact that I am not currently paralyzed by lust.
I don’t want to make a decision one way or the other so maybe I just won’t.

Somewhat Related Observation: Luke seems to have this fascination with my personality, which perplexes me a little bit. Okay, so I’m a little sarcastic and my sense of humor is bone dry. We’ve covered this. Stop commenting on it EVERYBLOODYTIME because, hi, it requires you to comment on my sarcastic every four minutes. Plus it makes me slightly self-conscious. Like, are you just patiently waiting for me to get my Full Bitch on? Because I don’t actually think that I have Full Bitch potential. But maybe I do. And I’m just such a bitch that I don’t even realize it.

I’m holding my cards pretty damn close to my chest. He is not. It makes me nervous, how much he puts it out there. Like, I’m certainly fine with you thinking that I am nearly perfect but don’t tell me? Because I don’t know what to do with that information. Except completely fucking freak out because I’m afraid that I don’t like you enough and that the current his like: her like ratio is too imbalanced for this to ever work and, somehow, I’ll end up hurt because that is what happens when I interact with males. I get hurt. Even by ones who might like me more than I like them.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

I need to know a few things

Have we met?

Do I know you well?

Will I recognize you?

Will it be a puzzle that we put over dinner one night - a friend who was on the same softball team as another friend who had a barbecue that we both attended?

Who knows you but hasn't yet introduced us?

How long will it be?

Do I overlook you?

Are you one of those
Stubbornly stuck
In my head
And memory?
How long
do I have to wait
until you
until WE
prove my sentimental heart
a little less
than I think it is today?

Are you the guy who didn't like me enough?
The one who made me cry?

Or the one in my high school class?

Are you the one I can't make a decision about?

Are you, or can you be confused with, David Beckham?

Are you the coworker with the adorable glasses
and the dry, dry sense of humor?

Will I know you when I see you?

When I know, will I know that I know?

Will you make sure that I don't get away?

Friday, March 12, 2010

The one time when being a complete dork MAY pay off

I went through this phase - okay, I have not completely grown out of it, but I swear I'm better - when I really liked wedding blogs. I don't really know what it was about wedding blogs that appealed to me, but I found them full of hope and promise and gorgeous eye candy. (I'm fairly certain this phase originated in a slow period at work.)

There are still a few wedding blogs in my Google reader, mostly photographers. I like mindless staring at pretty things.

One of the photographers is local.

A few weeks ago, she posted on her blog that she was looking to fill a few part-time positions.

Two of them absolutely screamed Colleen. She would be perfect for either. I sent her the link, with no explanation of how I ended up there (some things even your best friends don't need to know).

I never heard back.

I didn't mention it to her again. Colleen is pretty sensitive about where she is in her life; I didn't want to push it. Yet, at the same time, I couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing out on a good opportunity.

[Backstory: Colleen is an immensely talented artist. She had a huge, huge scholarship to a prestigious art school that she turned down because, the summer before we were supposed to start school, she was crippled by anxiety and depression. She worked for a while in a creative capacity, losing that job after more anxiety and more depression. Now she's back on track, taking art classes at the local community college and working for a car dealership.]

I mentioned it to Lucy last weekend. "That would be AWESOME for her," she gushed. "Forward it to me. Forward me the link! I'll send it to her, too."

And so I did. And so Lucy did.

"I'm not talented enough," Colleen told Lucy.

Lucy reminded Colleen of her talents. And of how well she works in a creative environment. And told her what a good opportunity it would be. "And you're the most romantic person I know," Lucy said, "why wouldn't you excel working the wedding industry?"

Somehow, after a glass of wine, Colleen wrote a cover letter. And sent it.

She had an interview lined up within a day.

Lucy and I are THRILLED. I called her after work today and the only thing we talked about for the 25 minutes we were on the phone was what a good thing this could turn out to be for Colleen.

Not that we're talking about this with Colleen. In the interest of putting as little pressure as possible on her, we're playing this cool. She told us both. We both expressed our pleasure that she landed an interview. But we're certainly not offering to quiz her with interview questions.

We will merely squeal about this behind her back.

She doesn't need the pressure.

If she thinks about this too much. If she gets too nervous. She just won't go. She needs to go.

It doesn't matter if she gets this job or not. I'm really proud of her for making the initial effort. It is incredibly good for her.

When Colleen told me about the interview yesterday, I asked her what made her finally apply.

"What are the chances that you and Lucy would send me the same job? It was totally a sign that I should apply."

Did I mention that Lucy and I never told her that we discussed it? Or that Lucy framed her email so that it looked like she randomly stumbled upon a job that she thought would be great for Colleen that just happened to be the same job that I found that I thought would be great for Colleen...even though neither of us has ever sent her a job posting before?

Okay. So maybe we're the slightest bit manipulative and dishonest.

But with only the best intentions.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Mean, shallow, scary

I have a date tomorrow with Luke, the kid from the bar and the dates who I fear is too damn nice for me even though OMG, WHO DOESN’T LIKE SOMEONE BECAUSE THEY ARE GENUINELY NICE?

Me, apparently. I guess I’m that girl? (That question mark is supposed to be there? Because I don’t want it to be true?)


Apparently, when you do this dating thing, you learn a bit about yourself. Important things. Like that you’re mostly attracted to assholes and that is probably why you’ll die alone or possibly with your little sister by your side (because, judging by Meg’s past choices, I’m pretty sure this asshole thing is genetic). Lovely.

How awful would it be for me to cancel tomorrow’s date? Not that I don’t plan on going out with him again – I do legitimately want to give him a shot – but because I’m quite worn out from the week and I’m really showing it. Like, I look like a hot mess and there is no chance that I’ll recover in time for tomorrow night. Like, I don’t want him to see me like this.

Hey! Guess what?! I’m shallow, too!

Seriously, though. Is that really bad? Cancelling because I look like a cross between a Zombie and the 8th grade version of myself?

I just want to be cute. And bloated and frizzy and are-those-under-eye-circles-or-are-you-wearing-football-eye-black? is not the slightest bit cute. It’s repulsive. I don’t want to frighten the poor man. He already has enough problems, being all incredibly nice and polite and thoughtful and all.

So, I think that’s what I’m going to do. Cancel. Reschedule for another day, early next week, when I’m rested up from the weekend and look a little less like Godzilla.

It’s for his own good.

And I’ll come up with a really good excuse.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

If I do this, I would like to do it right

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about relocating.

I’m trying to get used to the idea. I’m trying to stop being so adverse to the possibility of moving. Staying here means staying on this treadmill – running my ass off and going nowhere.

The stagnancy is exhausting.

It might be time to look elsewhere.

This country is somewhat large. I kind of need to narrow my focus. “Not here” and “am hired for a job there” cannot be my only criteria.

Skating: Reasonable distance to a rink. A rink with a skating club. And coaches. And preferably a few other competitive skaters over the age of 20.
Accessibility to The D: I need to be able to fly/drive home without huge hassles or ridiculous costs.
Friends/Family: Having one or the other or both is a plus. Having neither is okay, too, because then I won’t have to worry about becoming an obnoxious parasite who doesn’t have anyone else to hang out with.
Soccer: I need to be able to play soccer. Outside or inside. Competitive or recreational. I don’t care about the specifics, I just need to be able to play. For social reasons, if nothing else.
Weather: Cannot be too oppressively hot. Would prefer four distinct seasons. Snow is fine.
Hockey: Not essential, but preferable. Women’s ice hockey isn’t exactly mainstream. If there’s a way for me to keep playing hockey, I’ll consider it a perk.
Transportation: Ability to have a car is better than not. How would I theoretically play hockey if I don’t have any way to get my massive amounts of equipment to a rink?
Economy: Must be better than Detroit’s. Oh, wait. I’m trying to narrow things down here. Nevermind.

There's more, right? I must be overlooking something. A lot of somethings.

Otherwise, friends, we've learned a lesson today: making lists like this is a really good way to determine how lame you are.

Tuesday, March 09, 2010


I want
and less responsibility

I want
to not want
for my hockey season to be over

I want to do something
with my
to-do list
besides add things to it

I want
to sustain

I want
to not
even consider
quitting skating
because it feels like a job

I want
a day
or a month
in which
I don't wonder
what is wrong with me


I want to feel like myself
I'm not quite certain that I recall
What that feels like

while we're at it

I want
to know
where the remote control is

Local news does nothing for me

Monday, March 08, 2010

Name dropping

On Saturday night, in the spirit of widening my social circle and embracing my renewed friendship with Heather, I went with her to her friend Rivka’s house for a little girls' gossip/party/chocolate/wine/whine night of glory.

I’ve met Rivka at a handful of Heather’s wedding functions; by no means do I know her well. Early on in the evening, I decided that I liked her group of friends well enough. It was a nice mix of people and personalities: I didn’t feel like I was the one outsider among many Rivka clones or anything of the sort.

We settled in around Rivka’s kitchen table. The talk, a millisecond later, turned to boys. Always boys.

Not longer after that, the conversation fractured to a handful. All about boys. Always all about boys.

Heather and I were participating in another conversation but we both caught an aside that Rivka made to her friend, Katy.

“Did I ever tell you that that boy you were seeing – Colin McFuckhead – friended me on Facebook?”

“WHAT?!” Heather has the loudest voice. And she played soccer with me an Colin.

There was this moment of pure awkward where my eyes bulged and Katy’s head whipped around to look at me.

“I already made that mistake,” I said, dryly. “A long time ago.”

Katy didn’t make a conversation of it, thank goodness. She offered a short, pathetic half-excuse about how they’d gone to high school together and she ran into him while going to see the boy she was really interested in (who she is now dating) play soccer. She didn’t give any details. I didn’t ask any questions.

“Now whenever I see him at soccer, he just pretends to not see me,” she said to Heather. “Does he do that to you?” I don’t know why she was asking Heather but I didn’t mind. Extrapolating details from my past about my relationship with Colin isn’t my favorite thing. Especially in a group consisting largely of strangers.

Katy steered the conversation to another topic, quickly. Bless her.

It rattled me, though.

It really rattled me.

I kept looking over at Katy. Trying to figure her out. Was she like me? Could we be classified as the same type? Was he completely noncommittal with her? Was she bothered by how much he drank or by how much he worked? How long did they last? Who ended it?

Bitch probably thought I was insane.

Truthfully, I felt a little insane.

When I went home, I dreamed about Colin. Dreamed that he was calling to apologize.

Which, sometimes, is something that I wish that he would do. Apologize – saying all the right words and doing all the right things – so that I no longer want to punch him and so that we could be cool with each other. That our interactions could be something other than him attempting to avoid me or starting awkward conversation and me shooting him hostile stares or giving him one word answers.

It isn’t going to happen.

But sometimes I still miss him.

Friday, March 05, 2010


Tonight, I’ll be 19 again.

I’ll pick Lucy up. I’ll drive (I always drive). If we were going someplace unfamiliar, I would have her navigate. But we’re not. We might as well be going home.

My purse will be stuffed. Camera. Camcorder. The tickets. A black Sharpie.

(There was a point in my life when I always had a black Sharpie with me.)

We used to do this all of the time. Little venues. Unknown artists. We’d know all of the words and wait for a picture at the end of the show.

We lived for nights like tonight. Timing our days around when doors opened. Destined – by our strong wills, lack of responsibility and the blessing that is general admission – to get the best seats.

We were fangirls. Too shy and too young and too absorbed in the majesty of live music in a smoky club.

Nothing else mattered.

Tonight, we’ll recreate 2001.

And, as I drive us home, we’ll giggle about how cute the artist was and bitch about how obnoxious the college kids standing behind us were.

And then we’ll complain about our jobs and student loans and how much our backs hurt.

Not everything can stay the same.

Thursday, March 04, 2010

Truth (the one that I can't remember)

Here is the thing.
One person isn't going to make or break me.
One person.
One status.
One aspect of my life.

My vision tunnels, sometimes.
I feel pathetic, occasionally.

But I'm a lot of things.
Single, yes.
That is one adjective.
On a list of...

I'm not incomplete.
I'm just single.

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

Feeling whiney

I’m frustrated.

It’s March. I’m 10 months removed from graduation.

I’m still at the job that I was running from when I first enrolled in graduate school. I’m still jugging the same elementary tasks. I’m still bored. Except now I’m shuffling papers and making my boss look good with a master’s degree. Instead of just with that oh-so-useful BA that I also didn’t need in order to succeed in this position. (Yay! Liberal arts! Everyone needs an English major on payroll!)

Oh, woe is me. I am suffering needlessly in a full-time job that offers me benefits and pays my bills. Yeah, I know. It is likely that, had I socialized with any of my classmates, I would know of a few who, 10 months later, are underemployed or unemployed or otherwise screwed.

I am lucky. I have a full-time job to pay my bills. I have a part-time job to get experience.

But I don’t want to do this any more.

I catalogue through my options. Every day. And three times on Thursday (when I work 7:30 am – 9:00 pm, thus leaving me plenty of time to mull over the current state of my life and career). Relocating. Two part-time jobs. Locating, wooing, marrying filthy rich man who has a nice family and a fondness for dogs. More school. Joining a circus.

I’m standing at a bus stop and I have no idea what bus is going to come. When it is going to come. If it is going to come. It is cold and rainy and miserable; I am cold and rainy and miserable. I have other priorities. I have other goals. And it all depends on what bus comes.

I’m stuck here. Waiting for a ride.

Waiting for direction.

I’m running out of patience.

Tuesday, March 02, 2010

What do YOU get texts about at work?

Meg: 4:50 pm I had a La Doctora* appointment after work today.

Meg: 4:51 pm Got a med student. I think it was her first time. fml.**

Meg: 4:53 pm
When she was done, she struck up a conversation about the latest trends. Tattoos. Piercings. Shaving. Dying. Etc.

Meg: 4:54 pm
I have come to the conclusion that Mom's is essentially wearing mom jeans on her crotch.***

*La Doctora is what we call our gynecologist (or, in my case, my nurse practitioner), 'round here.

**Fuck my life. But you guys know that, right?

***Meg called Mom to tell her this. Her response? "I am a fashionista from head to toe."

Monday, March 01, 2010

Why I cannot have a dog (or a kid)

Mom and Dad are in Palm Springs this week. I'm staying at their house with Ellie and Blue.

(I thought I was going to get out of Dog Duty, since Meg is on spring break this week. But she's coaching at a tournament. And I'm answering the bell, again.)

Whenever I stay with the dogs, I spend the entire time feeling guilty for leaving them alone for long stretches of time. To make it up to them, I spoil them whenever I am home.

See: Sunday.

I skated in the late morning. After driving the 40 minutes back home, I got the dogs, turned back around and drove to Lucy's house. We had arranged a doggy date with Wolf and the girls at the dog park.

That's good ownership, kids. I drove 40 minutes, put the dogs into my car, turned around and drove 20 minutes back in the direction that I had come from. So that they could run around in what amounts to a fenced-in soccer field with a few trees and some poop bags.

But the dogs really, really loved it. Ellie doesn't get the chance to really run very often. She's known to run away, so she's tied up most of the time. Her chain is really long, but definitely not the same as running free. She likes running free.

She also likes other dogs. And other people. She happily ran in packs with other dogs. Then stopped to schmooze with the owners of the other dogs. And then rejoined the pack.

Blue, on the other hand, is more of a solo act. She is content letting me throw her a tennis ball, over and over and over, while pretending that the other dogs don't exist.

While we're at the dog park, my uncle calls. "Come over and watch the USA/Canada hockey game with me!"

I feel bad. So I go.

Obviously, the dogs come with me. And run around in my uncle's backyard like fools, playing with his dog and the neighbor's two beagles.

I expect them to be exhausted once we get home. Still, Blue is all up in my grill trying to get me to throw her ball. Seriously? At least they were going to sleep well that night. Which they did. In bed with me. Where else were they going to sleep? On their beds, where they sleep every other night? Please.

Fast forward to today. I am gone from 7 am to 7 pm. I feel guilty.

But I have an idea. And it is a good one.

At the end of the street, there's a big park. Inside the big park, there's a play structure. The play structure is all fenced in. Perfect for simulating the dog park! I am proud of my amazing idea.

Here's where the difference between the play structure and the dog park arise: the dog park has a gate on the fence. The play structure only has a little opening. But I'm going to stand right at the opening to keep the dogs from getting past me. Problem solved.

I am so convinced of my sweet idea that I let Ellie, the runner, off of her leash first.

Seriously, you guys. I haven't even turned to Blue to unhook her leash before Ellie gets out.

Speedy little fucking trickster.

She's hauling ass through the park. Which is not a small park. Which sits on the edge of this huge fucking wilderness area with all sorts of trails and woods and rapists.

Obviously, the dog goes straight for the woods.

Obviously, Blue (who is still on her leash) and I (who is wearing a pair of sweatpants four sizes too large for me) chase after her.

Ellie thinks this is a fun game. A fun chasing game! The part where it is almost dark makes it even better! Maybe if I speed up, I can get around this corner and Aly won't know if I went left or went right!

I swear, you guys, this dog is the devil.

But at least she stayed on the path.

Blue and I are doing our sprint through the woods. For the most part, I can keep my eye on Ellie, but I'm totally nervous that I'm going to lose sight of her and completely lose her and devastate my parents because I was stupid enough to try to entertain their dogs by simulating a dog park while they were in Cali.

I should mention here that the snow in the woods? Deep. Five inches, maybe? And crunchy. Less running, more high-stepping. In my Ugg boots and my pea coat and sweats that I stole from Meg.

We ran for probably two miles.

I fucking wish that I was exaggerating right now. As do my quads.

Ellie rounds this corner and the path splits THREE ways. I am forced to stand there, really, really, really quietly and try to figure out how I'm going to explain this to my mom.

And then the little bitch comes bounding out of the woods and heads right for me and looks at me like "oh, I knew I was missing something" as I put her leash back on.

Yes, dog. You were missing something. Common sense. An owner. A bum foot that would allow me to catch you before I ran two miles. Fear of the coyotes and/or abominable snowman that I was absolutely sure were going to come out of the brush and kill us. A soul. Etc.

Here is the moral of today's stories: I shouldn't be allowed to own a dog.

I clearly spoil them too much.

And then I lose them.
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