Monday, January 30, 2006

too much left to taste that's bitter 

Oh my goodness oh my goodness! (Waited years, simply eons, to use that line. Never could get the inflection right in person. Which is okay, in retrospect. Might be an unsettling allusion from a grown, (ahem)27-year old woman.)

So, we'll start...hmmmm...with S. Over the last however-long-it's-been, he and I haven't spoken much. We hung out once or twice and mostly fought, we saw each other a few times at the bar, and he never even said hello (plus one v. v. late-night call on a borrowed phone). And there are a couple reasons (mostly even semi-justifiable) why he might not, but the way I figure it, he should have said hello anyway, just out of respect, and he knew it. And his cellphone died, so I couldn't call him up and yell at him about it (hence the borrowed phone--bonus points.) And I just got madder and madder, I mean, there was steam rising from my ears. And my backbone stiffened a little and I decided, pardon my french, but, well, fuck him. He was a coward and a child, I decided.

But I never could leave well enough alone, you know that. So I did drop by his house very late one night and told him very clearly that I did not like that he did not acknowledge me, that he hurt my feelings, that I hated it, in fact. As an afterthought I played him a couple of choice cellphone messages he'd left me in the past. And that was fucking bananas. You should have seen the steam rising from his ears. It was priceless. Did you ever have a moment where you wished, for a half-second, that you had your own camera crew? Yeah. Totally.

In this I felt completely justified. After all, it's not like I could have called ahead.

This was maybe two weeks ago. I haven't seen him around, I've been pretty busy. I've been surprisingly okay about it, though. I was supposed to meet some people from work at some bar last night, but I left my ID in my other pants (yes, really) and couldn't get in. So, I decided to go hang out at my bar on Industry Night and, you know, kick it with my peeps. And I was conversing gaily with aforementioned peeps, and I see you-know-who at the other end of the bar--didn't even see him walk in. The look he gave me--well, I had to go say hello and see how was the weather with him. When I said hello, he smiled so brightly and looked at me so warmly that it was like he just lit up my whole day, literally. It was like the fucking sun to me. We chatted, caught up a little, he asked how I was, I asked how he was, and he responded "I feel like dancing with you right this second." So of course I was completely knocked out by this--I'm only human. I was seeing sunspots, I tell you. I couldn't even dance. (Me!?) I could only shuffle spasmically and gaze at him like a golden retriever at a bacon cheeseburger. (Brea will be able to reference that look.) He wouldn't let go of me, and then abruptly told me he had to leave. And I was all, "What? Just when we were having so much fun? My songs aren't even done!"

And Your Correspondant was not a happy camper.

To say the least.

So I'm blubbering all over the bar, like an idiot, but let's just assume the bartenders are used to it, shall we? Complete strangers bought me those (stupid, I hate them, I really hate the way they pressure you to buy them)roses people sell late at night at bars because they felt sorry for me. Eeeew.

I go over there anyway. I mean, what the hell was that? As often happens, I arrive there just before he does. We fight, we make up, I verbally bitch-slap him around a little to make sure he knows I may be an idiot, but an idiot with some, albeit remote, boundaries. We talk and we talk and we talk and we taaaaalk, and it should have been an endless night but I haven't been keeping up with the sacrifices to Penelope. And it felt so good, I just can't fathom how he doesn't feel the same contrast between light and dark when we're together, and if he doesn't feel it, then what exactly in holy hell is he doing here anyway? (Four months, people. Four months.) And it's painfully clear and true that he is simply the only person who makes me feel good. (Sorry, B. You do, too, but he's here and it's love and it's just so much more encompassing than eternal friendship, even.) All day I deal with assholes and needs and people who make me feel anxious and unsure of myself, but maybe that's because my confidence is shaken to the core by this romance, because if he can see into me sososo deeply and still just wants to get away from me, well, there's not much hope after that, is there? That's just damning. The prospect of not having him in my life is bleak. Grim. Despairing. Being with him is just so easy, at a time in my personal development when making small-talk with coworkers is challenging and the act of waitressing requires actual physical effort to engage customers. We can fight bitterly, viciously, and turn around and be discussing something completely else, a movie or a piece of news, something totally benign, in a matter of moments. Listen, I know he's completely fucked up, but honestly it's one of the things I love about him because so am I. We are both in these dark places that no one seems to be able to comprehend but the other. He drinks too much and he's broke and he works too much and he's crabby and he hates his mom, but I like him that way and I wouldn't change a hair on his head.

In fact, the only thing about him I would change is his mind.

He brings out the best in me. Sometimes the crazy, but mostly the best. He certainly works hard at making me crazy. We have this odd, isolated relationship. I know his favorite colors and how many brothers he has and the circumstances of his birth and that he hates raw tomatoes and the music he listened to in high school, but not who his best friend is or preferred time of day or favorite cuisine. Does he dream in color or black and white? I don't know.

We stay up until sunrise, and he begs me to stay until he has to work at 10. And I want to stay. So bad. I would give this man a kidney, at this point, and if it came right down to it, which it probably would, even a baby. But this I cannot do. And I can tell by what he doesn't say that this another time where we break up. He calls me a cab, and to my complete astonishment and utter surprise (not to mention awwwww) he has my phone number memorized, effortlessly. (I don't have his memorized, and I think we all know how I feel about him!)But he says we'll see each other again someday, and I tell him I'd prefer not to. It's too, too hard. It kills me. Better to just go back to learning to live without him. (Not to mention, one of the reasons we never go anywhere is that we can barely keep dressed in each other's company. What can I say? You would too.) And I tell him I love him, which I know he won't believe, and he starts to cry. And many other tender, regretful things that parting lovers say.

Walking out of there breaks my heart. It'll be weeks again before I stop seeing him in my dreams.


So, in other news, I started school two weeks ago, and I lovelovelove it, although I missed class last week because I wrecked my (the!) car on my way to school when I tried to jump into the turn lane early and ended up jumping the divider between the universal turn lane and the presumeably "special" turn lane. The frame is most likely twisted, not to mention all the scary shit dangling from the car, so it will probably be totaled. Which is okay, I guess, though I'm powerful sad about it. I was wearing my seatbelt, so I just have a little scratch across my collarbone instead of a ride on the ambulance when I was supposed to be in EMT school. The irony might have given me a head injury, anyway. I hit that sucker pretty hard, 30, maybe 35 mph. (I was a ways back from the light--I promise it's actually more reasonable than it sounds.) It was still kind of dumb, but hey, now I don't have to worry about replacing that burnt-out headlight I got pulled over for last week.

Always look on the bright side of life, is what I always say, except for when I can't see it, and then I say, sometimes you just have to choke a bitch.

(This last is actually really funny and not as mean as it sounds. Pman's friend Andrew says it, and he's this little skinny kinda-geeky-but-totally-rockin' guy who makes thousands drawing dragons for a living, couldn't be nicer or more kind. He doesn't really refer to actual women, more like the act of taking hold of a problem. He who split the Gordian Knot could have said that while slicing, for instance. I however, use it to refer to actual women. Sometimes. A for instance:

Friday night some pregnobot yuppie came in with her attitudinal friends and proceeded to piss me off royally. Apparently I missed the part where I was supposed to give two shits about the unborn heir to the throne and the Dowager Empress. I mean, honey, I've done it three times and moved furniture doing it. That miracle-of-life shit better be pretty damn miraculous to impress me. (How do I know it was her first? Easy. A, she was out to dinner with her spouse, and B, bitch was acting like she invented the concept.)She had me running all over the restaurant to find out if the cheese in the cheese fondue was pasteurized. The cheese in the fondue.

Okay. I'm no rocket scientist, nor do I know the Pasteur Method in all its tedious glory, but I'm pretty sure if it comes out of the oven, molten, in a metal pot, not quite molten but still very very hot (2nd degree burns, I'd say) then you're probably fine. Second, this is America. You're lucky you're not getting cheese food product. Where the fuck are we, France? No, DENVER. Third, if you're really that concerned about the baby, you might want to take your knocked-up ass on out of the smoking bar. The ashtrays aren't for your gum, slacktard.)

I'd better quit while I'm ahead. Seacrest out.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

from now on our troubles will be out of sight 

Today is the first day of winter. But, O, it has been winter in my heart for some time now.

S. called on Friday and we made plans to see each other on Saturday.(!)He came to my work and waited for me to close up shop.(!!) He told me that he loved me so much, had loved me from the moment he met me, but truly was not able to handle the whole three-kids thing. He said that just wasn't how he imagined his life turning out and he needed to let me go. We decided if it was our last night, we wouldn't leave things left unsaid. We danced, we cried, we held each other. If you are going to have One Last Night with someone, I would recommend that one.

So it's kind of okay. I miss him like crazy, and it sucks that the hurdle we can't get over is one that is so impossible to fix (what am I to do about my kids? I can't exactly make them disappear) but at least it isn't something about me intrinsically, and at least I know that whatever the outcome, he always felt the same as I did. I was right all along about him. And it may be over and it may have been difficult and frustrating and doomed, but I was truly loved. It was real.

And so that will have to be enough right now.

He told me that in his perfect world, I would have met him first and I would be having his babies right now. Brea kind of took exception to this, she thought it sounded arrogant, but I know what he means. He told me once that he was looking for the girl who would change his life, and I think I did, if not in the way he thought.

I wished that night would last for days, that the gods would stop the sun in its tracks to give us time, like when Ulysses returned to Penelope.

I went to a work party last night, and as I walked in, one of the guys said, "Hey! Where's your boyfriend?" and I almost turned around and walked out again. Saturday when he was there I'm sure my feet were two feet off the floor. I had caught S. staring at me while I did my paperwork. He said he'd never really seen me concentrating on something before. I guess it doesn't make sense to tell about it but it warmed me.

So, goodbye, S. Via con Dios. Thank you for everything you said and the way you made me feel and the way you were powerless to stop yourself from loving me. I hope you get everything you want and I hope you are happy and I hope you find another girl who makes you believe you could be loved.

Pman and Alex and I decided yesterday that when I move out, I'm moving out alone. The kids are going to live with their dads. I have so many feelings about this that I'm not sure where to begin. If I took the kids I would have to work 23 hours a day to keep body and soul together. It makes me feel like such a bad mommy that I would even consider it. But I've been a stay-at-home mom for six years now, so I guess I can take six months off for school, at least enough time to get myself settled and find out if this is the career for me. I can't waitress forever. Thank heavens my kids have dads who will step up, who will give me the gift of time and space and allow me to not have to be totally and solely responsible for my kids 24/7. And no one would bat an eye at this situation if I were a dad instead of a mom. It might be nice to be the fun parent instead of the taskmaster for once, to get to know my kids as individuals instead of always shepherding them as a group, and to enjoy them rather than cleaning up their messes for a while.

But I still feel really guilty.

And no, I'm not really feeling the whole Christmas thing right now. The idea of Christmas is mostly making me feel despair right now.

But today is the first day of winter, the shortest, darkest day of the year. Maybe despair is the appropriate thing to feel today, because maybe tomorrow will feel a little brighter. It can only get sunnier from here, right, guys?

And if I don't see you before then, Feliz Navidad, y'all.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

think of all the fellas that i haven't kissed 

Greetings and salutations. Welcome to the S-blog. Don't think I don't realize that the only knitting content on this blog for the past three months is the scarf I knit for him.

But you've stayed with me this far--aren't you dying to see how it turns out? Me too.

I have forgiven him for the unforgiveable thing. By the way, it wasn't another woman. Be serious. And I guess we shouldn't write this thing off until one of us marries someone else, or dies, or gets fed up and runs off with the Merchant Marines. Here's what happened:

(Background info: I've found a new sidekick/drinking buddy, and he has a terrifying ability to egg me on, which is precisely what I need, right?)
So I went over there last night (Don't ask, you know I'm weak. Don't question me.) and after a few hours of fighting and tears, we decide to call it a night. He is adamant that we will never be together again. It dawns on me that perhaps I was a little hasty in stringing him up for The Transgression, and maybe I should work on that whole shoot-first-ask-questions-later thing. It's five in the morning. He asks me to please stay. I'm already half-asleep, but I'm babbling on (I'm one of those people who talks until they literally fall asleep. Teddy does it, too. It's hilarious.) about That Night and some of the things I was trying to tell him then. I was talking about how neither of my husbands have really been dancers, although they've occasionally made efforts with varying degrees of success, and how lonely I've been over the past eight years, feeling like I've never had anyone to dance the slow dances with, and he leaps out of bed. I'm all, and where the fuck are you going?

He turns on the light. He starts shuffling through his CDs. He starts playing the Dire Straits' "Romeo and Juliet," which I know he thinks is the finest rock ballad of all time (I know a few people who agree with him, actually.) He climbs across his king-size bed (He has this massive bed in this wee little studio apartment. It's like Max's boat, sailing away across a year and a day.) and pulls me out of bed, in my undies, no less. And starts to dance with me.

Here I should mention that he is my exact same height. Maybe half an inch taller. He's basically precisely my size. And he's actually a very good dancer.

So, anyway, as soon as I realize what's going on here, I lose it. I lose it completely. I am crying so hard I'm just shuddering, and tears are running down over his shoulder. He's essentially just holding me up at this point, trying to soothe me. And I'm just wrapped around him, because I fit his body perfectly, weeping into his neck. And it's possibly the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me, ever.

(Not that my exes didn't try. And succeed spectacularly, often. Pman knows me really well, and has impeccable taste when it comes to choosing things I might like. It's not meant to be a comparison or a dig.)

But what can compare? He was listening to my lullaby chatter, realized how he'd hurt me, and spontaneously decided to give me that dance. At five in the morning. In my underwear. There's just some little dark corner of my heart that's never seen the light of day, and he knows that part just by looking at me. It's crazy.

It sounds so much like something I would do.

And so we didn't talk about it anymore. We will, he says, but he's kind of worn out from the last week, and if his week without me was anything like my week without him, well, I understand. He told me how he wants to call me all the time, too.

(I work in a restaurant. I cry when I see anyone in chef's whites. Bad combo.)

I'm pretty much incapable of stopping before anything but total annihilation for this guy. And thank the dainty goddess for that. Seriously. What a relief to know I can still love this way.

But all his protests that we are not together? Well, if he wanted me gone, our little American Bandstand moment (Romeo and Juliet? Could you just fucking die or what?) was pretty much the worst way to go about that plan. He could lead me around by a ring through my nose after that. He's either gonna have to have me killed or put in prison to get rid of me now. (Which I think is totally fair. Either he loves me like crazy, too, or he's just running around enchanting the dickens out of guileless young maidens like myself, in which case he deserves whatever he gets.)

You know how coaches teach visualization techniques, picture the ball going in the hoop, nothin' but net kind of stuff?

I can see him in my life so easily. And I'm not doing it to psyche myself up. I just do. I can see us at movies and parties and driving in the car and getting too drunk at the holiday work party and making out in the coatcheck room and staying in dive motels on road trips and him washing and me drying and then I get kind of dizzy and have to drink some water.

I know his expression when he's sleeping, probably better than I should. I know his expression when he's received a gift he loves, and it's so shameful to say but he will probably make the difference between a Merry Christmas and a hellish one for me. I want to kiss him at midnight on New Year's Eve and then never stop kissing him. I want him to give me a birthday present. I want to give him a birthday present, and his birthday isn't even until June.

I still get kind of itchy when he talks about his future children (I'm not prone to hives, thank heavens) but being without him is simply miserable, physically painful, Annabella Sciorra in the pit of despair in What Dreams May Come.

Ack. Secret Penpal, exactly who did you hex?

And it's still entirely possible that I have completely lost touch with reality and I'm typing this from the rubber room where I spin out a whole life for myself inside my head. But I will leave you with this one more shmoopy moment, and then it's on to the Airing of Grievances.

I've worn the same perfume for about 15 years. When I was about ten or eleven, my dearly-departed grandmother would let me wear a spritz of her perfume on special occasions. My favorite of her enormous collection was Poison (Dior if you're keeping track) because, get this, I thought it smelled like grape juice. I've never been without a bottle since then. Oh, sure, I've flirted with other fragrances--loved that Victoria's Secret vanilla stuff they used to sell--but my heart and my pulse points belong to Poison. I couldn't change it now, even if I wanted to. My hats, scarves, purses all smell like it. And to my children, it is the smell of Mommy. Anyone who's ever known me well would think of me immediately if they ever caught a whiff of it in the mall. It is one of the things that makes me ME.

So, I carry a bottle in the infamous makeup bag, naturally. Last night, when I was trying to keep my long hair away from my very runny nose, I reached for my makeup bag for a ponytail holder. Apparently I sniffed, or inhaled slightly? when I opened the bag. And S said, "Pardon me, don't think me rude, but why did you smell your makeup bag when you opened it?"

Then I handed him the bottle. He said in the softest possible voice, "It smells like you." I told him the above story, dead granny, smell of Mommy, one of the few rock-solid things about my being, blah blah.

And then he hugged me so hard he almost knocked me over.

Don't know what it means, don't know what it signifies, don't care.

That man is just like summer vacation to me.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

that's when those blue memories start calling 


Anyone know what yesterday was?

If Alex and I had stayed married, it would have been our 8th anniversary. On one hand, it's moderately depressing--it sneaks up on me every year--but on the other hand, we went out and celebrated our "unversary" last night, much to the amusement of the other bar patrons. We even danced to our old song. No romance here, just a love grown so old it's familial. He's my brother and my ideal dad and a very good friend, and it means the world to me that he still has my back. Especially these days. What a warm thing, that we didn't work out as mates but we still care so deeply. X, if you are reading this, thanks for last night. I don't feel any better (in fact now I'm hung over, too) but at least I feel less alone.

The really funny thing was that we ended up at a strip club. We would never have made plans to go there or anything, but we sort of got swept up by a party of people and we were too intoxicated to much care where our next bar stools would be. Thankfully, this place has some unmirrored bar real estate, so I could avoid looking at anything but the guy tending bar (who I used to go to high school with) and bottles of Stoli.

I have to say, I love strippers as people. Nekkid ladies just embarrass me, but you can count on a stripper to rock her sisterhood. Run into a stripper in the ladies' and guaranteed she'll compliment you or ask how you are even if she doesn't know you from Eve. That having been said, the strip club absolutely horrifies me. It brings out the Doris Day in me. Alex and I were so busy running down our love lives and sharing confidences that we didn't pay any attention to the girls, so that was nice.

I started my new job yesterday, at a Seattle-based upscale chain with a horse as its mascot. I think I'm really going to like it. I was intimidated by the amount of preperatory materials they gave me, and the food and beverage menus are enormous, but basically it's still just waiting tables, no matter which way you point the cocktail napkins. And at the very least, I have a decent uniform--no more covering my cleavage with my hand when I bend over. So there's that going for me.

Yesterday--which was insanely busy, by the way, with delays all over town and frustrations around every corner--was also the day I locked my keys in the car. I had a very strong urge to be a girl about it, and very nearly lost my shit, started crying, and either made Keith or some big strong man help me. It's what I would have done a year ago. Instead, I freaked out for a few minutes, and then thought, "Wait! I'm at SuperTarget!" I bought a can of WD-40 and a $2.99 prybar and jacked my own goddamn car. Hear me roar, damn it.

But the very worst thing, the worst ever, that happened yesterday was that S. and I broke up. For good, I think. We were only officially dating for less than a week (the movie was great) and that's how long it took him to completely sabotage it. He did something really bad. Nearly-unforgiveable bad. He-definitely-should-have-known-better bad. Class "A" (jewelry) offense, nearly. I'm not a very fancy girl--I don't believe in gilding the daisy, rather--but some transgressions require reparations. He said he was very sorry, and that's all I'm likely to get. He just doesn't seem to have it in him to make amends. Whether he just doesn't care enough about me, or just doesn't know how to make it right, I don't know. What has two thumbs and isn't holding her breath? This girl.

So I broke up with him. Not bartering the self for the relationship, and all that.

People, I am heartbroken. I couldn't overstate it. I am so sad. I cry in my sleep, I cry in the car, I cry over Christmas songs, and I get a little light-headed and dizzy when I see chefs in their whites.

I'm not feeling eloquent today. It just feels like nothing now can ever come to any good.

All I want for Christmas is a relationship that doesn't defy the Geneva Conventions. We are going to have words about this, Santa.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

i might be great tomorrow but hopeless yesterday 

Cadillac Ranch

First off, my Pen Pal did a little Druidic voodoo to bring me luck. Is this not the most badass thing you've ever seen? Thing is, it totally worked. Like, immediately. We will now all turn east and bow to the Pen Pal.

Now, updates.
Kids are fine, Pman is relatively fine, job search seems to be winding down, my friend Arie is moving to Longmont, social life is sort of out of hand.

What's that you say? You're simply dying to know what's happening with my ill-starred romance? You're the one person I'm on speaking terms with (besides my mother) who isn't sick to death of the topic and who doesn't become violently ill at the sight of the letter S? Well, okay then.

Day 10.

After a week of him dodging me, I finally go over to his house to return his book and give him the scarf I made him (Yeah, I know. Shut up. I couldn't help it.) and a piece of apple pie. (Shut up. We had SO much.) It's dry and painful and very very sad and I feel crushed when it's over. Literally crushed, like maybe a gargoyle fell off the top of the building and struck me in the chest.

I run back to the car where Arie is waiting, making those awful weird facial contortions you do when you're trying like hell not to cry and run your mascara.

He seemed genuinely pleased by the scarf, but, well, you know.

Arie and I ritualistically delete all his numbers from my cell, saving only the pictures I took of him in the scarf because there's no number attached. I've been preparing myself for this day, and as hard as it is, there's a small measure of relief knowing it's out of my hands now. My vestigal pride won't let me contact him now--I'm too far out on the plank. But it's a little okay--I'm trying to hate him so I don't like him so much. Brea and I decide he died at sea (How romantic! Like Shelley!)so I don't feel like such a moron for pining for him.

Day 12.

Pman and I have an honest talk--perhaps a little too honest--and I head out to meet Arie for some much-needed "fresh air." Now, I know we both hang out at the same bar--we always have, just usually different days and times--and I'm aware there's a possibility he might be there--but a quick check of the time tells me if he's likely to be there, he'll be there already when we get there. So I'll have plenty of time to turn straight around and run if I see him when I walk in.

Besides, it wouldn't be that bad if I ran into him, right? It's not like I'm following him or anything, and to be frank yet mysterious, there are several reasons why I would get custody of this particular establishment. But I promise at this point I am still committed to walking away, if nothing else because it seems clear he wants nothing to do with me.

So the coast is clear when we show up, and we settle in to a conversation with one of the (off-duty)bartenders who, coincidentally, is the kid brother of the boy I dumped in high school for Isabel's dad. Half an hour later, sure as shootin', of all of the gin joints in all the world...well, you know.

And he's wearing the scarf.

He smiles sheepishly and waves, and I try my hardest to make myself not register his presence. He and his friends take the table as far as possible from where I sit. They leave half an hour later, and I resign myself to a future of uncomfortable run-ins with him. I amuse myself by collecting money from all the Comedy Works boys for the jukebox, because the jukebox is one of my top ten all-time inventions, right up there with the camera phone and the washing machine.

As I'm taking Arie home that night, guess who calls me. He tells me he just wanted to say hi, and hopes I'm doing well, etc. And then he calls me back again. And then one more time. I go over to his house and bring G. Love CDs to amuse him. I feel...victorious.

Because he called ME first. He tried to pass it off saying he got an unidentified call, thought it was me, and was simply returning my call. (Bullshit.) Laying aside the fact that this doesn't make any kind of sense, I know his number nearly by heart not from dialing it, because I don't, but from simply seeing it on my screen. I've deleted him half a dozen times before, but I still know when his number comes up. I seriously doubt he'd mistake some random call for my number. I'd be willing to put down cash that he knows my number perfectly well.

We dance. It's lovely. That morning I had a weird dream with him and Brea and Rose and fish and chips. It doesn't make any sense, but I like having him in my dreams anyway.

He tells me we're breaking up tomorrow. I secretly roll my eyes.

Day 13.

Damn it. I left my makeup bag at his house and start to feel the oppressive glare of Kryptonite. I'm helpless without my perfume and nail file, besides, my daily meds are in there! (And no, they're not psychotropic.) I call several times but don't feel guilty because I really NEED that bag to be within my aura at ALL times. Arie says, "You did that on purpose."

I tell her, "No, I left my earrings there on purpose. The bag was an accident." He finally calls me back--he left his phone at home that day--and I just tell him I'm coming over, don't care what he's doing or wearing but I need that bag. Arie and I roll through Burger King and I take her home, and he calls me about four times, before I get there.

And it's perfect. I bring some CDs he wanted to borrow (I'm learning the angles, here. He'll have to return them someday...) It's just the most romantic evening, most of which I won't be sharing with you today. But. He tells me he's worn the scarf every day since I've given it to him, the second-nicest compliment about my knitting I've ever gotten. We dance some more. He spins me. I hand him a CD he's never heard before, knowing he'll love it, he resists because he doesn't know it, I insist, and he loves it. He still says we're breaking up tomorrow, but do I want to go see a movie first?

What? A date? Well, not a date, he says. I secretly roll my eyes. I've totally got him. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but...you know.

I think I've cracked the code. All I basically have to do is refuse to go away. He's surprisingly stubborn, resisting me this long even, and it might be a lot longer before I gentle him, but he's incredibly insecure and vulnerable, and I think every sweet thing I do for him thaws him a little bit. And since basically all my free time is spent telling everyone I know how great I think he is, complimenting him comes naturally.

He doesn't compliment me often, but I understand why. Tonight he does. (And I'm keeping those to myself.) He tells me he thinks I see the him in him, with which I agree, because I feel the same way about him. You know, he's a Cancer, and while I take my astrology with an enormous nugget of salt, he does cook for a living, he lives and dies by his music, and his wardrobe is notable mostly because all his clothes are very very soft. And he's very tactile.

We are never in the same room without touching, basically. The other night was an aberration that was deeply uncomfortable for both of us. And this is why we are always alone together. We met at our bar once, a while ago, and just being in the same room, the bartender saw it immediately, as did one of S.'s coworkers, who has looked at me in a very appraising way, eyebrow raised, ever since. I'll bet he's dying to know what's really going on, but I wouldn't ask S. if I were him, either.

So this is essentially the most manipulative, warlike scarf ever created in the history of man. And make no mistake, this is war. I mean, it's love, but it's also battle. The scarf that won the war. If the British had scarves like these during the Revolutionary War, we'd all be finishing up our kippers right now.

Come on. You didn't think it was a coincidence, did you? If there ever was a boy whose heart would be melted by a soft, long, moss-green scarf in the coldest week of winter so far, knit for him by a girl who adores him, this is the guy.

So, bingo. It's all part of the master plan.

He's told me several times that he doesn't feel that way about me, that he's not that into me, etc.

Well, I looked into his eyes last night and I call bullshit. (We spent a goodly part of time gazing, in fact.) There is no possible way on Earth this man will not be mine. I know that look and although someday he might not be that into me, this was NOT that day. And he called me first, when he could have let it ride. Boyfriend is goin' down.

He will be mine, oh yes, he will be mine.

It may still take lots of time and patience, but I am not taking no for an answer. That look is unmistakeable if you've ever stared into it or felt it in your own eyes. If you have no clue what I'm talking about, then you'd better make your prayers to the Good Fairy that one day, you do.

It just occurred to me that S. finding this website is one of the most potentially terrifying things I can think of.

I'm in ecstasy. It probably won't last, so let me enjoy it today.

Friday, November 18, 2005

every step i took in faith betrayed me 

Day 3.

Luckily (perspective is a funny thing, huh?) my two little ones woke up with a scorching case of contact dermatitis, enormous blisters and all, causing much excitement throughout the household.

If I saw other children walking around town looking like this, I would think, "Oh. Right. Plague. Hmmm...."

And when your formerly Caucasian child has an epicanthic eye fold...well, I was grateful for the heavy-duty distraction.

Those bitch-ass motherfuckers at my last job bounced my last paycheck.

Looking for a job seems like just too much exposure, too much risk. All I really want to do is hide under the covers with my knitting and snarl at people who try to take the remote control. I've sort of had my fill of rejection, lately, and I just don't have the energy to bounce back.

The really ironic, painful thing about this breakup is that he's the only one who might understand exactly how I feel, but clearly we don't chat much lately.

Universe, if you're listening, I could use a little magic right about now. If you aren't in the middle of something, you know.

P.S. Yay Ambien!

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

my eyes are not the reverence of you 

The End of the Affair: Day One

Fuckfuckfuck. I am in serious pain. In the movies this is where he would show up at my window with an old-skool boombox, or maybe we would accidentally be handcuffed together.

I hate movies.

I hate everything.

My stomach hurts.

I hope the children will let me lay down and die in peace.

It won't get any worse than this, unless he starts dating my sister, but it won't get better for a while, either.