Archive for January, 2011

When we fall in love, when we surpass the weeee of it and step back, looking at the person, catalog their flaws and scars and realize that not only are we “in love” with them, but that we can honestly, love them with each of these flaws. That each body scar, each soul scar, is just a spice that has gone into the entire dish. Without each element, this gorgeously flawed man or woman wouldn’t be who they are, who we LOVE.

Now, what comes after we realize this? After we put our heart out there and ask for nothing in return, except respect. What happens when the respect goes out the window because the individual of our love, is so terrified by this love, that they do everything in their strength to make themselves so despicable that there is no way you could possibly continue to love them. If it was as simple as they didn’t like you, didn’t care, and just wanted a piece of ass, they would have dumped you months ago. Why the elaborate ruse? Why put that much effort into making the worst of two decisions?

10 months ago I met him, Type Geek. At first I was unenthused. He was interesting, but also, he seemed to lack depth, until I dug deeper. When I stopped seeing Cooper Fiennes I had considered bringing some other men into the fold, but then I considered it unfair to Type Geek. In side by side comparison he didn’t fare well. He was a workaholic who rarely let you in. He was shorter than what I was “looking for”. Bald, when I wanted hair to run my fingers through. A cat owner, when I hoped for someone to fall in love with my dog. For some reason, I decided that I would give him some solo Type Geek time, to see if the gem would sparkle on its own.

I’m not sure the moment I realized that I was in over my head, that I was suddenly facing a future I hadn’t planned for. When I was in his arms, when his face was beside mine, I had the sense of finding my way home. I could close my eyes and see into the future, imagine making him dinner for years to come, sharing a bed, sharing a life. Only, at some point he stopped sharing, he started erasing, with vigor.

The exhaustion has set in, I have cried myself to sleep too many nights in confusion, and I have come to realize that I have reached that point where if I continue on this path as it is, I do not deserve my own self respect. 6 days ago I left my last text. 5 days ago he texted me, telling me that , indeed, we should fuck soon. I didn’t respond. Is he back now? From his trip to wherever it is he truly went? It would seem so. Will I hear from him? At some point, I think. My presence is all over his apartment. He can’t ignore my existence forever. Will he realize his wrong doings? Quite possibly he already knows what they are, but that they are part of his plan. If I leave because I can’t handle it anymore, he hasn’t had to break my heart by dumping me. I once told him that he didn’t hold the power to break my heart, to hurt me yes, but to break my heart, no. Was that a challenge in his mind?

So, I ask all of you to send me super human strength, to keep me from texting him, from emailing him, because I miss him and the sound of his voice. Not the him that is being an utter ass, but the him that is truly behind all of the nonsense. The him that I love. The man who hides behind the boy.

10 months ago we said hello. How many days before we say goodbye?

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It’s possible that every decision I have made has been wrong. That the things I have said to him, that you the readers don’t know about, that they contributed to this isolation. The more honest I tried to be, the more open to the process, the more open to him, perhaps this closed him down more. Men don’t want honest. Men don’t want open. Men want to fuck and eat and not think about whether you are going to worry if they haven’t spoken to you in 3 days because you have some PTSD after having had several friends in your life die tragically and then, irrationally,  you worry the worst when people are unreachable, because you realize that the world is better with them in it. Because suddenly you have found someone who you can’t imagine what the world would be like without them or their unique views or sense of humor… or that thing they do with their nose. You just know that when it isn’t so hard, it feels like home, and not just any home, but a mid-century modern cube home with ceiling to floor windows, perfect light, and a kitchen you can really move in and then you realize that you’ve been homeless for so long. That makes the hard stuff… not justifiable, but easier to justify or consider or give the benefit of the doubt about. That sense of home, makes the possibility of regret that could come from walking away from it all, that sense makes it impossible to walk away if there is even a miniscule chance. ANY chance.

Maybe I am wrong. BUT, maybe I just need to have his face in my hands and look into his eyes and ask him if I am, before I throw in the towel. Before I suddenly make myself homeless.

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There might be some untruths occurring. To deal with this I have been swallowing my need to express, to demand answers and explanations NOW and waiting until the third round of business trips ends and he is sitting in front of me, the first time in over a month. This is the reason I have been silent. I haven’t been writing through my feelings. I have been cooking through them.  Making cheese and butter in my new kitchen. Rotisserie cornish game hens and pork loins. And then, I’ve been shedding a few tears when I find myself unable to find the inspiration to cook. He has brought an element of rediscovery into my cooking, becoming my food muse, and at times, when the confusion becomes deafening, my culinary skills are cut short. If I can’t cook, if sleep becomes elusive, I can find myself distracted mentally. Trying not to think of what I don’t want to, but unable to focus on anything else, my thoughts go into a haze, as a method of emotional separation. Then, some moments,  have been steeped in tears when I can’t decide what to do with my frenetic heart. When nothing else works. When it catches me before I see it coming.  Asking the universe for guidance and the patience required to wait and speak calmly in person. Asking the universe why something that is so perfect, is so imperfect, in a world that needs a little magic.

I don’t believe that love should be easy, I know that life is messy and complicated, and for that, I don’t assume that romance should be any different. But JESUS, does it need to be THIS complicated?

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Letting go and trusting is hard. I’m not sure if I am making the right decision to do so or if I am being my own most ignorant enemy. In the future though, when I am looking back over my life, will I regret time spent trying and hoping or will I regret times I have walked away with my dignity, but without really having tried? I don’t have the answers, but I also don’t have the guy. Not really. So, what am I really doing here? He is on the other side of the world, and hasn’t checked in yet. My decision, at least for now, in the strength I am finding now, is to NOT contact him while he is away. To start being the girl who isn’t the aggressor, who isn’t the sure thing. I’m tired of begging for what someone should want to shower me with. Send me flowers bitch. Sure, we all have things going on in our life, good and bad, but we also have each other and that isn’t something to ignore. I am a prize, not just someone who is worthy. I am in love with him and I will try to breathe through the coming days and trust that he does in fact want me in his life, and if he doesn’t contact me, then he doesn’t. What more can I do?

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I’m forced to consider this question after an intense conversation with my new neighbor over a brunch I hosted on New Years Day. He’s adorable and 26…looks like Bradley Cooper’s younger Doppelganger. He’s setting up a dating profile on OK Cupid, or wiggling through considering it and running from it, and I was offering some advice on the types of profiles that get responses and the type that don’t. Explaining how certain profiles may subtly attract what he doesn’t want and doing or saying something that may appear counter productive will help him attract the type of woman he DOES want.

All of this was fine and good, until we ended up in a discussion over my spicy pickled veg bloody marys about etiquette on paying for dates and outings. He wanted to know if he was expected to always pay for them all or at the least, was he expected to pay for the first ones. I explained that as much as we “hate” gender roles, sometimes they have a place in the irrational world of dating. A woman wants to feel wanted, desired and, as much as we say we don’t want to be taken care of, knowing someone wants to and could, if needed, is sexy. Maybe that is generational. When I was younger I found door holding not only unnecessary, but at times condescending. Then when I dated women, I was the one that paid and took care of. As a nurturer, letting go of this control, which is what it was, is extremely difficult when dating men. So, the point I was trying to make is that paying for the first date makes the woman feel good, unless she offers, and then it gets tricky cause you need to know the difference between her offering and when you should accept her offer and her offering and you needing to say, no, I have this. If it is going to offend her irrevocably that you won’t accept her offer, than let her pay.

Do I sound antiquated because I enjoy some compartmentalization in a world that lacks it most of the time? Always paying dutch takes the romance out of dating, removes the woo. What separates the romance than from hanging out with my guy friends? Oh, sex? Well, I can sleep with my guy friends too. I don’t always want to be an equal in the bedroom, in my romance. Sometimes I want to be treated like a unique and special non-equal.

So, then he argued that he ends up investing more in dating then. Oh really? I reminded him that all of the things that he likes and appreciates and notices about women, the things we do for ourselves but ultimately for them, because we know they appreciate it, all of these things cost. Being a woman just costs more than being a man. Now, I could choose to shave or go au naturale, to let my gray grow out and not highlight, to go to a barber, not a stylist, not to wear any make up or expensive body creams to keep my skin soft or “glowing”, I COULD buy cheap bras and cotton panties that exist for practicality, versus attractiveness, and I could wear cheap jeans and t-shirts, rather than trying on 30 dresses for that one that shows off my figure without showing too much, a wearable wink wink, nudge nudge that promises garters and stockings and sex on the kitchen table later. Sure, we could forego that for cotton/poly blend hairy legged Pollyanna with a fuzzy upper lip and natural caterpillar brows,  but I bet you all prefer the silky smooth skin of I am woman hear me purr, rather than I am woman, when you weedwack your way through the bush and find me… hear me snore.

Then there is birth control. Sure, you guys sometimes buy condoms, so do we. Then, when we get sick of condoms, we pay for birth control, we take the need for you to worry about it, deal with it, and we swallow that every day, so that we can be more spontaneous and we, as a couple, can enjoy greater pleasure during bed without stopping and searching all the time for the elusive condom.

I’m not saying that women shouldn’t contribute at all. I make Type Geek expensive home cooked meals with groceries I lug over. I buy him little gifts and send him flowers. I spend money on him in other ways, but on the dates, I like when he takes me out. I do. It makes me feel less like a friends with benefits and more like a special person that he appreciates. I can’t explain the rationale. It’s a unconcious thing that exists. Rather than change it, I am just admitting that it makes me feel good. I don’t feel ashamed that I enjoy having someone treat me now and then.

Now, lets review, what do men really do to get ready for a date? Maybe paying is a nice way to show they notice and appreciate the time and expense we went through getting ready for them. They may say it doesn’t matter, but lets face it, they notice and if choosing between the one that invests more behind the scenes and one who doesn’t… we know which girl is getting the calls.

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The year started off with blueberry dotted chipotle, cracked cayenne, and alderwood smoked sea salt chocolate cupcakes … frosted with nutella. Some Lambrusco I picked up from my new local wine shoppe, conveniently run by a woman whom I had hot sex with for 3 months back in my late 20’s. The southerner whose Baton Rouge oozed out during orgasm when she let out her Oh Gawd’s with a twang. Jesus, that women was hot, and she still is pretty good-looking, if I am to be honest. We hadn’t seen each other in 5 years, since running into each other one evening at a bar. She was surprised to see me, but pleasantly so, it appeared.

Originally I had hoped to spend New Year’s Eve in varying degrees of undress… and giddy drunkenness. Unfortunately, the universe decided that Type Geek needed yet another colossal crisis that needed solving and so he trekked through the woods and went ice climbing to a mountain peak, where he then proceeded to camp, alone, and find the answers for the questions he has been presented. I get it, they are big questions, life and death questions, with very real consequences. I am disappointed, that is natural, but I do get it.

The universe then decided to test my own resolve… by bringing an old flirtation back online… he is back in the states from Argentina, where he has been doing some graduate work. Drunk, he flirted incessantly, and sent me a photo I had sent him a year prior. He thanked me for being an exhibitionist and, in his sexually aroused state of drunkenness, was asking to come over, asking for more photos. He ” didn’t want to ruin my relationship” though, didn’t want to interfere. Didn’t he understand that he doesn’t really have that power? I declined, explaining that things have changed for me. I’m sexually exclusive with someone I love, sure he isn’t my boyfriend, but he is someone whom I care deeply for and wish to keep around for a pretty long time.

I’m beginning the year in love, in frustration, in less control than ever before. I have moved in with other people, and realized one roommate is passive aggressive and quite intolerable, the one who confessed his feelings for me regarding his favoritism on OK Cupid. I have found myself in a job that can sometimes border on unhealthy due to a member of the management team who relies on bullying, physical and emotional harassment and a tendency towards too many French 75’s while working. Then of course, there is the being in love, with someone who cares enough not to want me to go away, but is petrified of letting me in far enough that he could actually fall for me. Oh sigh.

All of this begs the question… in 365 days, where will we all be?

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