Excuses, excuses

Ideally, I’d give you a grand excuse for my 18-month absence.

I was backpacking through Europe when I misplaced said backpack and was forced to repay my extravagant food vendor bills by herding goats and collecting eggs on a lovely farm in the countryside!

After watching an episode of Hoarders, I decided to remove myself from materialism and simplify, removing all excess and extravagance including medical care, razors, friends and tomato basil soup!

I had two babies, back to back, and was rendered useless in all tasks except diapering, undiapering, purchasing diapers, and feeding the rugrats mush!

Or perhaps I cryogenically preserved myself a-la Vanilla Sky in hopes that I would fall into a wonderful lucid dream … or just wake up to discover that the graying life as we all know it –the seemingly unsalvageable economy and depressed job market– was all just a dream gone wrong!

*  *  *  *  *

The reality is that I’ve made several attempts to resurrect this blog in my hiatus.  At first, it was due to poor time management and guilt; after all, one of the original intentions in starting this blog was to hone my creative writing skills and perfect that lighthearted, witty brand of self-deprecatory anecdotes that seem to stumble into my life once every three pharmacy visits.

The guilt dissipated for the most part, though it is apt to make guest appearances, and was replaced by early onset senility and about seven different password changes because I just could not, for the life of me, remember what I had come up with the fateful day I clicked “sign up now!”  I suppose if I stuck with something “normal” (relatively speaking) rather than “DistressedHoneybadger284720″ or “HelloKittyScaresMe123WTF” or whatever fleeting thought occurred to me in that moment, I’d have a better chance of recalling the right combination of letters, numbers and symbols.  Perhaps I will learn one day.

The largest contributor to my silence has been my anxiety and fear that I would not be able to maintain a creative voice; that I would feel burdened by my inability to write on cue and thus punish myself for these inadequacies.  What if I have trouble translating my observations and thoughts creatively?  Will I have time for constant, inspired updates?  Who the hell would read this?  Will I be able to maintain personal privacy while providing stories for your (and my) enjoyment?  Is there a prescription for writers’ performance anxiety?

While I have not found a suitable answer for any of these questions aside from the Rx* I’ve decided to move on and deal with the guilt and anxiety the way every human being does: by burying it into the deepest recesses of my mind and dealing with the ensuing mental meltdown when they unceremoniously erupt, most likely in a very inopportune moment.  Yes, I certainly KNOW better.  However, I am doing this for several reasons: one, to remain connected to the every day, average Jane/Joe who reads this; two, to deal with my immediate feelings in the easiest way possible (procrastinating and hiding!); and three, to incite entertaining, manic blog posts for your enjoyment.

The things I do for you.

Thus concludes my first post in a very long time.  Hopefully it won’t be my last.  God knows that I have at least ten stories up my sleeve at any given moment; the question is whether I will be able to tell them properly. Only time will tell.

Now if I could just recall that password…

*the solution to writing anxiety lies in your local supermarket’s liquor aisle; any large receptacle suitable for holding liquids, from flutes to growlers to 5 gallon paint buckets (clean ones– I have standards); and a sober, nonjudgmental friend who is willing (or easily bribed) to edit your posts for egregious outbursts that could cause future harm or regret.

I’m happy. But when did “good enough” become not good enough?

She’s back!

I apologize for the blogging drought as of late! A quick run-through of the past few weeks:

• spring cleaning (a week of purging hell),
• spring weeding (gardening is NOT my forte),
• spring twitterpating (!!!), and
• summer planning (yay, trips).

Between the long work days and nightly phonecalls, updating this blog has, quite regrettably, fallen to the bottom of the list.  Don’t worry… I will work on my time management and update this as often as possible!  The stories will be back with full force in no time flat.

I suppose my first update should be about my brand new relationship status.

That’s right… I somehow suckered an amazing guy into being my boyfriend, and let me tell you, this relationship is already unlike any that I’ve had before.  I’m pretty sure I cashed in all my karma chips for him.  In the beginning, I found myself falling into familiar defensive behavior: I was cautious, self-deprecating, deflective (not a typo; I didn’t mean to type “defective” .. although now that I think about it, perhaps I should), and probably not showing myself to be as bright and shiny as I really am.  Somewhere along the way, though, I just stopped caring about that because dammit, I owed it to myself to enjoy this to the fullest, and I owed it to him to be completely open and honest.  And so it began.

It has taken awhile, but now that it has finally sunk in, I’m excited to share with you how incredibly happy I feel.  Don’t you worry, the quality of this blog won’t change much.  After all, my mother will always badger me, conversations with friends will provide me with fodder, and I will most likely continue to find myself in uncomfortable/generally awkward situations.  I’m not planning on airing many specifics about the relationship itself, because you know what?  He’s mine. I haven’t even told the parents yet (even though previous blog posts would suggest that doing so would be the smart choice) because then he wouldn’t be MY boyfriend anymore; he’d be OUR boyfriend.  So what?  I’m feeling a little selfish.  I’m just not ready to share him quite yet.

While I am perfectly content with the relationship, other women in my position might not be.  They might produce laundry lists detailing requirements for their Perfect Man; I would expect that “allergic to the whole world” and “kind of a dork” aren’t in their top ten.  A friend of mine (single male) recently sent me the following link about settling for Mr. Good Enough, asking me how I felt about it.  I remembered reading about the author on CNN and various other news sites, and learning about the intense backlash that arose in response to her apparent suggestion that women should settle.  But look past the negative implication of the word itself and think instead about it in conjunction with women’s demands in their search for the perfect mate.

Females have such ridiculous requirements when it comes to their vision of The Perfect Man.  Stereotypically, the most common demands are for men to be able to cook and clean, be good with children, be rich, funny, athletic, poised, and to be be tall, dark and handsome.  You might as well face it now: guys aren’t going to hit every point.  Women need to curb their expectations and stop overlooking perfectly good men just to hold out for that fairytale relationship.  It’s crazy, unrealistic, and frankly, extremely juvenile.  Are we, as grown women, really expecting (and wanting) that prince who has been searching for that one princess soulmate (::cough:: aimless bachelor) on his white mare to rescue her from her certain doom (singlehood)?  Really?  Ironically enough, in deriding the author for taking a step back during our ever-evolving, twenty-first century feminist movement, and simultaneously revealing their views that women should indeed choose only the best of the best –their pedestaled Prince Charmings– women have revealed, sadly, how little they have moved forward after all.

I don’t tend to pass on email forwards, but I received one recently that I feel is appropriate given the subject of this entry:

Once upon a time in a land far away, a beautiful, independent, self-assured princess happened upon a frog as she sat contemplating ecological issues on the shores of an unpolluted pond in a verdant meadow near her castle.  The frog hopped into the princess’ lap and said: “Elegant Lady, I was once a handsome prince until an evil witch cast a spell upon me.  One kiss from you, however, and I will turn back into the dapper, young prince that I am and then, my sweet, we can marry and set up housekeeping in your castle with my mother, where you can prepare my meals, clean my clothes, bear my children, and forever feel grateful and happy doing so.”

That night, as the princess dined sumptuously on lightly sauteed frog legs seasoned in a white wine and onion cream sauce, she chuckled and thought to herself: I don’t freakin think so.

THAT is what I think of your princes.  It’s not that I’m bitter and cynical; I just believe that women all too often lust after too much of the wrong thing.  I don’t agree with the critcism over the author’s use of the term “good enough” or her encouragement to women to settle for less.  She isn’t telling women to date men who are emotionally undeveloped or incomplete; she’s reminding our sex to reevaluate what is important to us.  Lessen the demands.  Be content with having someone who meets so many of your expectations but just happens to be disorganized, an awkward dancer, or a non-chef.  Who cares, so you’ll get takeout more often.  Is that so bad?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date.

Gesture away

After a long and trying day, I came home to find a lovely gesture on my doorstep.  Such thoughtfulness!  Such perfect timing!  And a much nicer thing to fall asleep to than that go-go boots comment.  Yikes.

V-day is for everyone

This Valentine’s Day, I will be spending the extended weekend in a cabin in the mountains, playing in the snow, soaking in the hot tub, and spending some evenings imbibing delicious beverages before a glowing fireplace.  No need to envy the romantic implications, however; this will not be that kind of trip.

As my group of college friends embarks on our fourth annual President’s Day weekend reunion, I will also likely be chronicling beer pong tournaments, backyard sledding, spontaneous wrestling bouts between a pair of brothers, and general drunken fiascoes that will undoubtedly unfold during the trip.  I know I will have a great time catching up with old friends and making new ones –several new significant others will be in attendance!– so the only thing that might be slightly off is the presence of my ex.  Make no mistake… even though some have suggested that being friends may not be a good idea at all, I have no doubt that we will be civil with one another.  However, when alcohol enters the picture, he has a tendency to say awkward things, usually in large group settings.  I hope to distance myself from as much of this as possible, both figuratively and literally.

I have avoided talking about the ex for several reasons.  First and foremost, I don’t much feel the need to look back and remind myself how or why things went wrong.  What matters is that I got out, am now taking care of myself more than ever, and am thrilled by my renewed, bright-and-shiny self.

Secondly, I believe that my life has afforded me enough hilarity that will, along with my incessant self-deprecation, provide fodder for many ridiculous anecdotes and observations.

Finally, despite having talked to some friends about what happened, I don’t feel the need to air specifics on a public forum, especially when they involve other parties (I obviously have no qualms about sharing my personal story about flashing the entire state of California, however).  Though I’ve made an attempt to remain relatively anonymous in my postings thus far, I’m sure all the pieces will come together one day, and I balk at the idea that I might say something critical and of a personal matter about a generally good person who made generally bad choices.  Words published to the internet rarely stay buried long, everybody knows this.  Why is it that so many people post things in a fit of passion and rage, only to regret it later?

This post is not necessarily about past relationships, although the topic was bound to come up sooner or later anyway.  Given the rapidly approaching love-holiday, I found myself with some reflections on matters of the heart… namely, my experience with love, my expectations, my struggles, and my thoughts on the future.

*  *  *

In college, many of my friends believed that I would be the first to get married.  Whether this was a function of the length or the quality of the relationship, I don’t know… but as more of our friends got engaged, it became increasingly apparent that we just weren’t there, in spite of our many years together.  As frequently as I helped my friends scour wedding forums and flip through bridal magazines, it never quite felt real for me, and even wondering to myself, Is this something I’d do for my own wedding? felt so hollow and meaningless… even a little taboo.  The truth was that I had fallen into complacency and had forgotten all too quickly what I needed and wanted in a relationship.

What I did know was that all relationships ebb and flow, and with our infrequent fights and similarly easygoing attitudes, I thought that everything would be fine.  While no relationship is perfect, I believed that two people in a comfortable, natural state would always find their equilibrium.  When I finally began to see that things weren’t normal, I was too embarrassed and stubborn to do anything about it.  I didn’t want to come away from the relationship empty handed, and often told myself, You have given too much to give up now.  What I gave myself, in reality, was the finger.  And then I gave another year.

The day that K got married, I saw how happy her husband was, how he couldn’t take his eyes off her, how he couldn’t wait to say I do, and how proud he was to call her his wife.  I was struck by how deeply and obviously in love they were (and are!).  It was so eye opening.  So obvious.  It was such an intimate visual representation of all that I had been missing, that it was simultaneously one of the most beautiful and one of the most disheartening moments in my recent past.  I saw immediately that I wanted what they had, this thing that, until now, had only existed in movies that silly females swoon over.  Who knew that sort of thing actually existed?

While I’ve managed to revive much of the confidence and spunk that I thought had expired, I’m still not 100 percent.  I will have to contend with that sliver of doubt that’s always tapping me on the shoulder, reeling me in, and raining on my parade.  This time, it’ll be the, Sure, he likes you now… but will he change his mind tomorrow? Some days, I think a speck of fear is healthy for a couple; the mere idea that one could lose the other at any moment ensures that they never take one another for granted.  Most days, however, I know that my fear results from the prior chain of events, and is something that I’ll have to grow out of before long.  Yes, I am still a little gun shy, maybe slightly defensive and quick to brush certain things off as “too good to be true.”  Either way, I recognize that the key to my own growth and success in love boils down to… well…  having faith in love.

I doubt that Valentine’s Day itself will affect me much, if at all.  I won’t reminisce over past V-days, nor will I place hopes on future ones.  To be frank, I plan on wasting my day away on the mountain, teaching one of my friends how to snowboard, and maybe trying a jump for the first time.  Sure, I am a big softy and I will likely experience those warm, fuzzy feelings when I witness the couples exchanging glances the day of.  And okay, I’ll be honest, I had brief moments of curiosity, anticipation, even panic, about this overly emphasized day… but it’s all behind me now.  I will be sending out some cards this year– to the besties mostly, for being such amazing girlfriends to a deflated woman in need of some real love and laughter over the past year.  <3 you beeches! :)

When it rains, it pours

A good friend of mine told me recently that I should be dating many hot men simultaneously (okay I added the “hot” part for effect.  Besides, it was implied).  He seemed concerned that I am not being open enough? broad enough? selfish enough? in my pursuits.

I know my friend only has my best interests at heart; he is the one who pushes to try new things and see old buddies, and is one of those people who will remain fiercely loyal to and protective of his crew until the end of time.  He has been there from day one, watching the events of my sparse, yet tumultuous dating career unfold. Enjoy being single, he said. Let the boys fight over you for a little while! He reminded me of all the effort I put into making my last relationship work and that I deserved a break, deserved to let the guys do the work for once.

In some ways, I suppose he is right.  I know I certainly deserve it.  And if I recall correctly, I advised a recently single girlfriend of mine in the same manner. Live it up! I encouraged her. Be sassy and wonderful and date around.  Enjoy your twenties!

So why can’t I imagine doing the same?

Despite all the intrigue that the lifestyle holds and the general thrill of being desired, the thought of undertaking such an endeavor makes me feel uneasy.  I know that most people (…you know, normal folks) are totally capable of dating several people at once.  I applaud their persistence and openness to opportunity, but I just don’t have it in me.  Maybe I’m prudish.  Maybe I’m old fashioned.  Maybe my neurons aren’t firing properly (the most likely scenario).  Or maybe it just boils down to a fear of the unknown, as I have never forayed into such situations before.  Whatever it is, K and I have determined that I’m a serial monogamist: tunnel visioned when it comes to men… where everyone else fades into the periphery and all I see and know and want is The Guy I’m With.

Great for relationships, yes… but being that I am not currently in a relationship, all this means is that I’m failing at being the conventional hot young single thang.  Then again, when have I ever been conventional anyway?

I suppose I should just take solace in the fact that I don’t fit into that mold.  Yes, objectively I’d say that women should want to date around and figure out what works best for them.  But why should I do that just because it’s what others do?  Aside from it being a potential cesspool of stress and drama (both of which I loathe), I have no doubt in my mind that I am happy with how things are at the moment.  I am enjoying the unexpected moments of flattery– reminders that I am in such a better place in my life now.  I like the anticipation.  The smiles that appear on my face at random.  I love waking up in the morning and looking forward to the day, wondering if today’s the day.

So why push it?  Why disrupt a perfectly good thing to chase after other particles that float into my line of vision?  Sure, I would probably enjoy it.  Hell, I might even be good at it.  All I know is that right now, I just don’t prefer doing it this way.

Honestly, nothing beats feeling this great.  Whatever this is, it’s a whirlwind of crazy, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.

Talls, you said it best:  It’s life.  Crazy, amazing, infuriating life.

Weddings and babies and pressure…oh my

I attended a wedding banquet with my mother earlier this month.  As these wedding banquets are held primarily for the newlyweds’ parents to show off to their friends, nearly every guest was over the age of 50.  The food was okay, the company was awkward and the conversation was a bit forced.  Still, I did my due diligence and, so as not to embarrass my mother, laughed at their jokes, answered their questions, and politely batted away their attempts to set me up with their sons and nephews.

The following day, there was a telephone message on my parents’ answering machine from a banquet guest’s mother.  My own mother called me downstairs, grinned, and pointedly asked me if I remembered a young man sitting near us.  I had been dreading this.  I sighed and told her that I did in fact see the quiet gentleman in his mid-thirties, sitting at the next table.  My mother then twittered excitedly (like a bird, not the website), WAH YOU NOTICE HIM!  YOU MUSS BE INTERESTING! I told her very firmly that I was not interested in him, and explained that every sober woman of my generation has the ability to sense a pair of eyes boring holes into her person.  The guy had been looking at me for something like forty-five minutes while I sat at my table, alone, and rather than approach me to say Hello, asked his mother to figure it out for him.  Now, I understand that some people are timid; there is nothing wrong with that quality.  Some women like shy men who can’t take their lives into their own hands.  I just happen to not be one of those women.  Confidence is important.  My guy has to have a pair.

After I reiterated the NoThankYous, my dad decided to jump into the conversation.  ”Does he have a house?”

I told him that was irrelevant, that I was not interested in this man.  You’re being too picky.  You are getting old now, do you understand?  There is nobody your age left to marry. I stared at him in disbelief.  I am only in my mid-twenties.  Who cares if he’s 35 or even 40?  You are lucky that anybody is even interested in you.  You are too old, you need to settle for someone. Apparently my qualities aren’t good enough to wrangle me a decent one.  Clearly I am too old and undesirable to be able to find a man of character.  Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad!  ::thumbs up::

I got a perfectly timed phone call at that moment and so managed to escape the firing squad.  Although it still hurts that my father thinks so lowly of me, I do ultimately recognize what I am worth, and am not the least bit worried that I will marry someone worthwhile one of these days.  What’s the rush?

I’d also like to take this moment to add that my dad had been hounding me about grandbabies all weekend, so his madman ramblings were probably partly motivated by his own biological clock.  Still no excuse to be jerk, however.  That said, I am currently not on speaking terms with him.  Before you shake your head disapprovingly, please know that I am not playing a game with him; I hate games more than anyone.  I just don’t see why I should choose to call somebody and talk about the weather when this person makes me feel useless, unattractive, and self-conscious.

I have made it a habit to banish negativity from my life; family not excepted.  It has only been about ten days, and I will probably forgive him soon since I am pretty lousy when it comes to holding grudges.  But I certainly will not forget his words, and will remember to hold things much more closely to heart in future conversations with him.

At least I’m not anemic

Today I tried to give blood.

It was a mobile blood bank at the HOA club nearby (heretofore known as Da Club) and since I had missed the last few blood drives (bad weather, a late evening in the office, general laziness), I thought this would be a great way to start off the new year.  I mean, why not give?  It will help somebody out, my body will continue to make blood, it will cause me minimal pain, and I won’t have to move boxes in the office for a few days.  I don’t see any problems here…

When I arrived, I registered at the front desk, grabbed a t-shirt for the bro, and waited for the phlebotomists to poke me with a needle.  Let’s be honest, it’s not a pleasant experience.  I was anxious to get it over with so that I could home and eat another dinner.  You know, to replenish myself… it had nothing to do with my gluttony or anything.

The phlebotomist ushered me into a tiny room, where he checked my health survey, took my vitals, etc.  When I weighed in, the scale read “E” and I gasped in mock horror.  Oh look, you broke it, he said.  You must weigh more than 350 pounds! I laughed, but in truth, had eaten so many carbs in the past couple of days that I certainly felt like I was carrying 350 pounds of undigested pizza, pasta, bread and bloat.  In my mind, out-carbing the scale was not an unreasonable explanation.

He finally did the finger stick to check for anemia.  I was unable to give blood in college once because of my low iron and had worried about it sporadically ever since.  Fortunately, the droplet was nice and fat (like a jelly donut!) and floated gracefully to the bottom of the beaker.  As he noted the results on my donation receipt, I asked how I might find out what my blood type is.  I had been curious for so long, but never remembered to ask when the techs were checking my blood.  He assured me that I would be receiving a postcard with all the pertinent information in the next week or two, and suggested that I dial the hotline with any questions.

Or, he continued, you could give me a call in a couple of days and I can look it up for you… here is my number. I nodded and thanked him.  He must have recognized that his words failed to register with me, and added quickly, as he handed me the receipt, I’d be happy to go over it with you… maybe over dinner or something.

Completely thrown for a loop, I managed a smile and thanked him.  While I was flattered, the entire thing was so seamlessly executed that I found myself wondering how many times he’s used that line before (not that it matters).  I know, I’m a cynic and a total buzzkill.  It’s my defense mechanism rising to my rescue… because God forbid that a guy show genuine interest in me.  I tried to fire my defense mechanism months ago, as it worked overtime during the last several years and I am no longer in need of its services… but it has been loyal to me for such a long time that it insists on sticking around a little while longer, just in case I need some backup.

Receipt in pocket and needle in arm, I thought about what had happened just moments before.  This was most definitely a first for me.  It was intriguing, yes, and the assertiveness was surprising.  But flattery aside, my head wasn’t really in it, and while it wouldn’t have been a horrible idea, it wasn’t a particularly good one either.  Peripheral flattery will come and go, but to be in a nice, steady place is a rarity for me.  I’m not disrupting that for anything.

As I pondered and came to conclusions about things, another phlebotomist adjusted my needle and restuck me several times to maximize the flow of blood.  Sadly, my tiny, shriveled vein, pissed at having been mauled, decided to stop cooperating after giving about one-third of a bag.  I felt pretty useless.  I wonder what they do when they don’t fill the bags completely?  I doubt there’s even enough for them to test, much less use for transfusions.  How disappointing!

On a positive note, at least I don’t have anemia.

Thoughts for the next donation (no sooner than eight weeks from today):
(1) Drink copious amounts of water for two days before the draw;
(2) Make sure they draw from my right arm;
(3) Wear a tshirt.  Rolling sleeves over a swollen arm is not fun; and
(4) Grab a cookie before leaving the trailer.  Where was I on that one?

I just realized that, because I failed in my blood-giving endeavors, I most likely won’t be getting that postcard in the mail.  Here’s to waiting another two months.  I  hope I remember to ask.  And I hope I remember that cookie!

All the “not-in-a-relationship” ladies!

“Single” is an ugly word.  Not because it describes the lack of a partner, but because it screams “…and looking!” which isn’t always the case.  I suppose it’s only ugly to those of us who are of marrying age, who have extremely nosy relatives with a lot of free time and way too many foreign friends who have 38 year-old single and-still-living-at-home sons they’d really like to see married already.  Look, I appreciate the gesture, but I have no interest in dating nervous men pushing midlife who have never had a girlfriend.  Despite my gently worded NoThankYous, they always manage to gossip and scheme with one another.  AH! SHE IS SING-GO!, they would say.  MY FREN HAS A SON.  ACCOUNTAN!

At this time, I’d like to explain to you that I only have two unmarried relatives left: one is my brother, who is six months out of college and still far too young to be pestered about such trivialities, and the second is a female cousin in her thirties who only loves the church (seriously).  This means I get to be their pet project.  God help me.

When a woman goes from being in a relationship to… well, not… she tends to feel the need to purge the negativity and rebrand herself as young, sassy, and ready for anything.  I don’t need him anyway!, she might declare fervently as she eyes the Louboutins.  She might make a dramatic physical change to symbolize her transition into a new life, shop to fill the glorious new void in her closet, prowl the bars for a pick-me-up.  As my relationship neared its end, I lost about ten pounds (mostly from stress, only partly from self control), bought a flight to the Caribbean, found myself some nice 4-inch heels and chopped off 12 inches of hair, so it would seem that I was following protocol to a tee (tea? T?).

I also decided to start a blog, which I have successfully avoided writing in for some time now.  Since shopping is putting a hole in my wallet and I have no more hair to cut, I think it’s time I got this baby rolling.  I also have a joint-blog with my friend K (twotwentysomethings), which I believe will be much more informative, anecdotal and useful than this one.  Sadly for you, oohlalani will be my personal soundboard when I want to post a snippet of a funny conversation, describe the grocery store checker’s [possibly infected] nose ring, complain about my dog pooping in the house, or recount how my wrap dress flew open in the middle of downtown during the lunch hour (I’ll save that one for a slow day).

Now that I have the introductory post under way, I can’t imagine that I’ll wait TOO long until my next post…