Alone
Long enough ago that it feels integral to who I am, someone called me a cold-hearted bitch. I don’t remember what I’d done or said, I just remember being terrified of soliciting that response again. I didn’t actually think I was a cold-hearted bitch, I just knew I never wanted to be called one.
Over the years I’ve learned what it really feels like to hurt someone. The kind where looking them in the eye breaks you into bits and “I’m sorry” doesn’t begin to cover how much you wish you could take back the judgment, the wound, the “you can’t do it” that should have been a “you can,” the peeling of a carefully constructed exterior to reveal exactly what they hate about themselves.
I canceled a date today over IM.
I hadn’t done it sooner because I was afraid it would be mean. The move of, yes, a cold-hearted bitch. Yet I knew, from the second I said yes to his fourth request for my email address, that I didn’t want to see him again. I wasn’t attracted to him and I didn’t find him interesting, but I let myself be talked into a date by all of the “give him a chance”s people were flinging in my direction. I let his interest in me (and it was Swingers-answering machine-messages-esque interest) be reason enough for me to feel that I should be interested in him.
I’d rather be alone.
I was 15 the first time anyone talked me into dating someone. The Dangerous Ex’s girlfriend at the time did the convincing. I remember liking the guy for approximately two minutes while enjoying free beer and the warmth of his jacket. Beyond that he was rude, pushy, obsessed with football, and dumb. More recently, I dated someone who deserved better. He wanted a small life in a big place with drive-in movies and red-sauce Italian food. He was kind and loving and my head fit perfectly under his chin, but I should have let him go months before I did. Something talked me into our first date…and then I talked myself into our second. He liked me. He really liked me. And for a time that was enough for both of us.
But I’d rather be alone.
This post isn’t about the dumb jock or the sweet kid or even the slightly creepy guy I was to see on Sunday. This post is about me. About finally realizing that I have to ask for what I want. And what I want is something real, something solid, something that requires no convincing. Someone I say yes to not out of fear of being called names, but out of a desire to know more. I want someone who interests me, not just someone who tells me that I interest him. Until then?
I’d rather be alone.
No reason at all
I was glad to have Ugly Betty on demand last night as this handsome devil kept my mind off a lecherous angel.
Photo source: http://www.buddytv.com/articles/csi-miami/profile/adam-rodriguez.aspx
So…
sometimes I get drunk and make French Onion Soup. Personally, I think that this will (onedayinthefuturewithMr.RighterThanRight) make me an amazing wife, but if you’d rather think it makes me crazy, then you’re entitled.
(Both might be true.)
Because I can’t seem to put my thoughts into words – in response to Ben’s amazing post, in an attempt to encapsulate my mom’s birthday visit, in the hopes of filling someone, anyone in on where and who and what I’m feeling – I’m going to fall back on the cop out tried and true method of letters I’ll never send.
————–
Dear Kobo,
Seriously?! With the great-smelling candles that only burn in the center and leave unused wax on the sides?! I love you AND I hate you. Fix it.
Annoyed,
BS
————-
Dear Dude Who Signed an Email with His Initials,
I would LOVE to be your dance partner. Your date? Not so sure. I’m kind of over you already…but I’ll see you Sunday afternoon.
At least you’re not another 25-year-old,
BS
————-
Dear Downstairs Neighbor,
You are an effing chimney and it’s gross. Seriously, WHO SMOKES ANYMORE? It doesn’t come through my walls, but every once in a while – you know, between 6 and 10 am or 8 and 11 pm – I’d like to be able to use the air shaft to vent my bathroom after a shower. My lord, at least smoke something tolerable like weed.
Not even going to be polite about it anymore,
BS
————
Dear Upstairs Neighbor,
On Friday, when I came home sober from dinner with my mom and you came home wasted leaning on two friends, you made my night when you walked past my door and I heard you say, “A hot girl lives there.”
I now forgive you for parking in my garage space that one time,
BS
————
Dear Nordstrom Bra Fitting Lady,
I love you for the new Chantelle (on sale!) you found for me, but I hate you for deciding that I should go down a band size and up a cup size.
My gazongas love the bra but the flat-chested dancer in my head hates the tag. Really hates it.
Bodaciously yours,
BS
———–
Dear trochanteric bursitis,
My hip says fuck off. I WILL be dancing on Saturday.
The bottle of ibuprofen is coming for you,
BS
———–
Dear Denver/Portland/Palm Beach/St. Helena/Boston/Seattle/Calistoga,
I’ll see you in the next nine months.
Enjoy my travel budget,
BS
———-
Dear Head Injury,
I didn’t need to know that you’re on Facebook. Please go back to the recesses of my memory.
With nostalgia,
BS
Friday Four
I’m listening to Bette Midler, “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve” and thinking of my favorite slow-dance partner.
I’m re-reading a memo I wrote that is in desperate need of an editor.
I’m craving the rest of my halibut from Boulevard last night.
I’m coveting a great dress to get me through all four weddings next year.
“I’ll just be hanging around the mistletoe, hoping to be kissed.”
I think I should just be honest with you fine folks. Bare my soul, get the secret out in the open, throw caution to the wind, damn the torpedoes…you get the idea.
I’ve been listening to Christmas music since before Halloween.
Yes, I’m one of those people. But really, how do you not love this stuff? How do you not think of caroling (in four-part harmony with your high school chamber singers) and cookies and warm fires and pretty red wrapping paper with silver ribbons and hot cocoa spiked with peppermint schnapps and a candy cane stirrer and friggin’ Bing “All Things Good and Soothing” Crosby when you hear the sounds of the holiday season? How?
As far as I’m concerned, I can listen to this stuff in July if it makes me feel this good. Because, (to continue the soul-baring), I have not been feeling good. I’ve been sick. And tired. And tipsy. And irreverent. And annoyed. And grumpy. And fine*. But not good**.
Maybe it’s because I grew up without Christmas (shout out to all my fellow Chosen People…and then shoot me for saying “shout out”), but I just love the Jesus out of this holiday. Besides XMPR and Red Sox coverage, the Christmas stations (yes, there are several) are what I miss most about XM radio.
I own three ornaments and one stocking. This year I was thinking of treating myself to having the stocking embroidered with my name. First and middle, for those of you who know me that way (Hi Agent! And College Roommate!). I am also hoping to find an adorable miniature (real) tree under which I’ll put any presents and cards I receive. (That means I hope to receive presents^. And cards. Ahem.) God help me, this year I may even go see The Nutcracker. If I had a boyfriend, I swear there’d be a darn Eartha Kitt^^ impression going on in my apartment. As it is, I’m giving Mariah a run for her money when I belt it out in the safety of my car.
I’ve already told my mother that we’re having a family sing-along on Christmas Eve (and by “family” I mean that my dad will sit quietly and listen while those of us who can carry a tune sing). I’ve promised to bring home Love Actually for us to watch (as soon as I call the Ex-ALM and ask to borrow it). And of course I’ll bake up a sugar/butter storm.
So there, I’ve admitted it. I L-O-V-E LOVE Christmas. And I’m already celebrating.
How ’bout you?
*For the record, I did NOT mean “fiiiiiiiiiine” as in the word that follows “Baby, you’re lookin’…”
**I also haven’t been feeling like using proper grammar. Suck it.
^Handwritten cards that aren’t just a picture and/or a State of the Family note FULLY count as presents. Really. Nilsa sent a handwritten note a while back and it brought me all kinds of silly joy. And not just because that woman has THE COOLEST handwriting.
^^Minus the female impersonators.
The non-piggy flu
Oooh, hi! Yoohoo! Yes, you! Remember me? I’ve been absent and I know you all assumed the hot neighbor whisked me off to Paris for a steamy weekend twisted up in extremely high thread count sheets, but alas, I’ve just been sick. Really sick. Feeling-like-death sick.
(And besides, the neighbor grew a goatee – making him un-hot – so I’ve resorted to staring at his ass.)
I was so sick that I actually had to talk myself into wearing a bra when I went to Walgreens for tissues and a thermometer. Full-on conversation arguing both sides. Out loud.
(I won.)
But while you all were doing exciting stuff like working and, well, getting out of bed, I was busy learning things. That’s right, LEARNING.
For instance, I learned that you can go a full day watching only Law and Order or CSI and their various spin-offs. And that there’s a whole show on Bravo devoted to a woman with an indefinable accent who takes over hair salons and makes them better. And that there are times when you might consider asking an ex-boyfriend to come over to hold you up in the shower. I said consider people. Sheesh.
Now on to other things.
So yes, there was Halloween. And we looked hot. Lots of men driving by while we waited two hours for a cab told us so. And they were obviously classy guys what with the yelling and the whistling. I can’t entirely blame them, I mean, I WAS wearing red lipstick. And, um, fishnets.
See?
Someone in the course of the evening told me that your costume only works if people can get it without an explanation. If that’s true, then mine was a big fat fail, but here, I’ll try to help you out. Those light panels on my skirt are newspaper collages. Here’s one up close.
And those yellow strips on my wrists are actually fake wrist slits. And then on my head (not pictured) there was a fedora. Man how I love a fedora. Still not getting it? I’m not surprised. Don’t bother guessing, I’ll just tell you. I went as The Death of Print Media. It worked in my head, I swear. And did I mention that I got to wear a fedora?
Besides the whole sick thing, my post-Halloween week included a showing of Where the Wild Things Are (in true Dave Eggers fashion, it made me want to cry and then bite someone), some fun times chatting with a cab driver after I locked myself out of my apartment and had to cross the city (twice) to pick up spare keys from my property manager, and two mornings that began with my car going “clickclickclick” but not starting when I turned the key. Fun times, people, fun times.
I combated all this poo with the purchase of the new Michael Bublé CD. And I’m not even embarrassed. I blame the fedora.
Relationship Mementos (again)
The Dangerous Ex IMed a moment ago to tell me that he loved the song I was listening to (I live with my Adium status on iTunes).
“I know,” I replied. I’ve known for years. Since he called me to tell me how much he liked it. How it made him think of me. [I should add right now, before you gag (or mistakenly think the Dangerous Ex has something resembling a soul), that our conversation went on to include exchanges like this: "My friend said my penis and I have separate cell phones." "Wait, it let you get a cell phone?"] And whenever I hear it, his voice comes to mind.
I’ve talked before about relationship mementos, how I keep them and why. With this most recent move I had to go through it all again. And I kept it all again. I gave away Minnie Mouse, but kept Winnie the Pooh. I’d long since taken down pictures of the Ex-ALM, but I kept the funny note he sent with roses on Valentine’s Day.
I didn’t expect it to be different this time, I’m just wondering if I’m alone. Do you keep things from past relationships? If not, when/why did you toss them?
MeMe
Way back before I left for Germany, Mara over at In so many words… gave me the MeMe award, which was, well, superduperawesome of her. Perhaps it’s because she knows how I like to talk about myself. (Point of information: My favorite topic is actually shoulder freckles, but apparently that award doesn’t exist.) So, now I’m to list seven strange tidbits about moi. I have a feeling I could come up with more than seven, but many are known (see shoulder freckles, bathtubs, fear of stairs, dancing in the elevator) and you fine folks deserve something new to wrinkle your nose at when you call me weird.
1) Any kind of father/daughter thing makes me cry (think the end of the movie Blow).
2) Hazelnuts set my teeth on edge as if I were chewing on aluminum foil.
3) I love products made for babies. Wait, that sounds weird. It’s not like I’m sitting here in Pampers or anything, I promise, but Aveeno Baby Wash and Burt’s Bees Baby Bee line rock my world. These days I’ve switched to Korres products, but it’s not at all unusual to find me poking around in the baby aisle at Target.
4) I’m not a recipe cook. That is, I like recipes, I love to read them and I’m constantly collecting them, but I can’t remember when I last followed one to the letter. Probably elementary school. This means that the things I cook and bake are sometimes sub par, frequently well-above edible, and occasionally tremendous. I’d rather figure out the idea behind a dish and then tweak it to suit my needs.
5) I smile whenever I hear “Sweet Caroline.” On a bad day I sing along. On a good one, I do a little dance AND sing along.
6) My bra set off the metal detector at Dulles on Tuesday. It seems my Chantelle underwires are dangerous.
7) I still have an unreasonable crush on The Southerner.
Friday Four
I’m listening to “That’s Life” by Frank Sinatra.
I’m reading The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. Want. Dog. Now.
I’m craving whatever will make this migraine go away.
I’m coveting more vacation time.
Observations in Deutschland
Let’s start with gross generalizations because they’re the most fun.
Italian tourists are the pushiest, French tourists are the snottiest, German tourists are the loudest, and American tourists are the worst dressed. Russian tourists are pushy, snotty, loud, AND badly dressed. I’m talking to you, fuckwit who pushed in front of me at baggage claim, yelled through me to your companion, and wore the plaid pants un-ironically. Da, you.
German men don’t help with your suitcase or hold a door, but German women always do. We were told beforehand that this would be the case and were shocked by how true it was. We think perhaps it has to do with some concern about being seen as intrusive or amorous because the German people, overall, are incredibly considerate and polite.
I’m in love with this coat. And yes, I know that it’s not high fashion, but I’ve always thought of myself as far more British hunting lodge than pierced Berlin alt-goth.
Visiting Dachau, or one of the other memorial sites, is arresting, frightening, absorbing, terrible, and absolutely necessary. It was, in my own small way, a matter of bearing witness. Particularly when there are South Carolina Republicans about.
Winter is completely overrated.
The Cologne cathedral – with the organ playing and the choir singing and the light streaming in sideways through the new Gerhard Richter window – could bring me to God. For a woman who’s scared of stairs, the descent down the 533 spiraled steps of the tower nearly convinced me to make a pact with the devil.
I could write Bavaria a sonnet. The pretzels, the bread, the BEER, the people, the medieval towns, the way Munich handles its Nazi past. Just…wow.
Nürnberger Rostbratwurst are itty bitty happy-makers. Try them, you’ll see I’m right.
I have certain skills, among them navigating foreign cities. Why this did not stop my directionally-challenged mother from questioning me at every turn, I’ll never know. I didn’t question her when she said the choir was singing a major 6th chord. (Unless asking, “what’s a major 6th?” counts.)
I could absolutely pick up German if the language consisted only of nouns. I also know how to say, “dead” but I’m hoping that wouldn’t come in particularly handy.
The most overrated sight for us was the Jewish Museum in Berlin. We kept trying, but we just didn’t like the place.
On the other hand, the Pergamon made me fall in love with art again.
Quark!
This may have been the coolest thing I saw in Germany. I completely geek out on anything having to do with the fate of art during WWII.
Forget “ciao”, “tschüß” is officially the most adorable way to say goodbye.
I’ll have pictures as soon as my mom sends them to me. I might even throw in the towel on this whole anonymity thing and post one with my face.
The again, I might not.
