One more time

I want to  know you one more time, again.

I want to remember that you’re my best.

I want to look you in the eyes again,

As I lay upon your chest.

There’s another version of us, babe.

We’re together all the time.

I want to find that place, babe,

The map is blazed upon my mind.

I want my kisses to say sorry, babe,

If we should ever meet again.

Our universes are colliding,

And I know if we touch,

They will spin.

Out of my control, I love you

Though I don’t remember why-

My memories of you surround me

Like the clouds and sun and sky.

Advertisements

Leave her? Or die first?

We have this sick relationship. You know it and I know it and that is what makes it so special. We are lovers, off and on, mostly off, for the better/worse part of a decade. And you are married. And you have cancer. And you’ve knocked her up again. And you miss me, and I miss you.

Things didn’t go as you’d hoped when you found my replacement and married her in a quick and catholic way. She is a school teacher, but unfortunately, that doesn’t translate into the sweet, kind, sexy type, but the anal-retentive, strict bossy type that gets on your son’s nerves and makes him lash out. You tell me no one is able to love your son, and as a dying man, that is what pains you the most.

“How can someone love me, and not my child?”, you ask me. Although you remember that I struggled in this way as well. I had a younger, cuter version of your son to deal with, but he did get on my nerves. But I was drunk then, and am sober now. Sobriety gives me a slight confidence that I would perform better in any situation now as compared to my drinking years.

“How come no-one will take care of me, like I take care of them?”, you ask me. Your wife is at home with your new and growing brood, and you are dying of melanoma and working in a lab to cure sickle-cell disease, some 70 miles away. When will your vision, affected by your ocular tumor, be so impaired  that you can no longer drive? When will they find out that you are automating your processes, so that your strained eyesight is not quite so fallible, as disabled cells fill vials and come into contact with liquid saviors?

“How come no-one will take care of me”…you ask, which is when you really tell me that you still feel unloved, after all this time on earth, by a woman.

“What would be different?”, you ask me, “if we got back together?”.

I would be worried that you would die, I think. I would be worried that I would need to be stable and able to take care of myself and children and you and I don’t know if I can. But this is the love of my life, or one of them. At different times, I would have said, “everything would be different and everything would be ok, because we would be together.”

Have I grown so calculating that your marriage, your cancer, your children…can stop me from loving you, obsessing over you, and crying over you? Or is this a new strength…If it is, does it mean the end of our fantasy of being together, the “I miss you’s” at Christmas, or at 1am, anytime, striking only every so infrequently but very hard, urgent, like tomorrow MUST be the day we see each other and make everything else that’s ever happened go away. Does it mean the end of that?
There is a well-established other dimension in which we are together, You. I don’t know if we’ll ever see it here. But don’t you feel that place exists?

“If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied, and illuminate the “No’s” on their vacancy signs…If there’s no one beside you, when your soul embarks…then I’ll follow you into the dark.” (Modest Mouse).

As always, to be continued.

When Dick Hits the Fan. Or, When Reeses is Not an Orgasm

My mom is in Hospital. I think it sounds better to say “In Hospital” then the American “In the hospital”. It doesn’t matter which “THE” the hospital is…BI, B&W,MG,Insert acronym HRE…she is IN HOSPITAL. She is going to be ok, but it produced in my a heightened state of anxiety.

This being Halloween weekend, the only options are to eat vigorously to speed up the impending winter blues, while stifling the current generalized anxiety about my mom. Halloween candy, an apple, regular food. Just MORE.

And my other longing, which I have NOT succumbed to: Texting the Ex. Exes for that matter. I could do a coin flip and take either one.

It dawned on me as I took a walk, literally eating a (HIGHLY OVERRATED) Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup whilst waiting for my dog to take a piss on an unlucky lawn, that I really need to get back to fucking. It is calorie free, and when I am in my “Fuck mode” I do prefer to barely eat. That empty feeling is so sexy. I realized, on this walk, that if I am not careful, I am bound to behave and to appear to be behaving…as an unfucked woman.

How to describe? I don’t know I haven’t thought of the character type in ages, but I’d conjure up my current negatives towards the profile: a bit too much harping, overcautiousness (Because after all, if one is not fucking, one is not creating little embryonic “Back up children” on the monthly..and those you do have are all the more precious), the eating of things that a dainty girl entangled in love could not dare allow herself to eat on a regular basis. That means YOU, kale.

I AM starting to date. But I have found someone that I am eager to jump into a brunch-date with, but not in bed with, yet. I’m trying to go slow. Be someone who doesn’t give the “Girl Milk” for free. And not turning into a cow at the same time 🙂

So there are the fantasies of the exes. You haven’t really lived until you’ve lost. And oh, the dicks I have lost. Most of you also have this sexual catalogue of what has been available to you, and where you would locate the file if you needed it again. I am probably not the only one with my favorite ex’s cellphone number religiously catalogued between my daughter’s social security number and my birth date. #NeverForget. But I really shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t.

Goodnight.

Harvesting Love Advice

IMG_6701                                   I went to my garden today, which is in a community-garden, where the majority of my “dirt-neighbors” are from old countries- Russia, China, Vietnam. The sky was gray, and the autumn leaves had lost their primary color and were no longer brilliant, just sad. A patient today who suffers from depression told me that “in the winter, depression is better, because i know everyone else too is also suffering.” In the garden, it may have been this way too. Mandated to clear all structure, fencing and other manmade influence from the garden before the annual tilling, we were all there to strip to the bones all of our humanly efforts. The place that brought me the most peace would now only live on in my heart. And on Instagram. Until next spring.

I located my closest garden-plot neighbor, a 68 year old fine Russian man, who was skillfully uprooting parsley from another neighbor’s plot. Crouching down next to him, I told him about my latest adventures in love. He has told me about his lapsing and remitting adventures in sobriety, and his interest in museum and ballet, and of his former mistress dying before he had a chance to say goodbye on the phone in Russia. He tells me that he is not my very good friend and does not know me so well, but he knows me very well and is one of my best friends. I do not know his last name.

He tells me that I am no longer 18. That I have to be very careful, so careful. That I have a very big weapon against men, my beauty, and that all men, therefore, will be attracted to me.

I blush obligingly, but nod for him to continue.

The gardening is where I harvest all of my fatherly advice. It is the place where I feel the most fathered in the entire world.

He tells me that passion will fade, and I need to find someone with an extremely high intellect. He tells me I am an unusual woman, and that to get one touch of me takes some years off a man’s life.

He says that in Russia, for a man and woman to truly know each other, together they must eat 40 lbs of salt. That is a lot of time.

He tells me to be careful, very careful. I tell him many great things about the current love interest. He tells me to be careful.

He also tells me to find someone who is slightly more intelligent than I am, someone that I respect for their opinion and to always express great interest in their opinion. For after beauty and passion fade, this is what men will desire.

He said all this to me, while digging out arugula and leeks, snipping off the roots and putting them in a bag for me, while we squat conspiratorially in the garden.

We hug goodbye, and he kisses my hand. I can’t believe he is 68. He tells me, if he were 30 years younger, even he would be asking me to “spend time with him”. I tell him that in a parallel universe we certainly would. This is the letting go of a relationship in a proper way. We are burying our roots and covering them with much straw, and in the spring, we will be young again and continue these conversations.

Coffee Dates

Is it just me, or is the concept of a coffee date as a first-date a very asexual one? I don’t drink alcohol, so I wonder if that edges people to invite me to coffee-as though the first date simply MUST incorporate drinking a beverage as the highlite.

regardless of the fact hat drinking alcohol and drinking coffee are likely to lead to altogether different possibilities.

Am I not “dinner-date material”…or is everyone on Match.com etc getting caffeinated on their first dates?

if I have to bother getting dressed up and finding a babysitter, or more likely-feeling guilty and leaving my kid home while I have a run out-shouldn’t I get a bit of dinner for it? The stakes are the same!

Until this resolves, I may have to resort to buying the top most expensive scone concoction on the bakers menu…and of course, eat nothing but a crumb!

The Creepiest Match Profile Award (of the Day)…

Ladies, we have a real winner today. I do not know why the below-quoted man bothered to email me, because I would not respond to someone who’d write THIS in a million years:

“I’m hoping that by posting a sincere and brutally honest profile maybe, just maybe I will be rewarded by a few sincere honest replies by women who have at least taken the time to read it through. Be careful you may be a bit SHOCKED, this is uncensored material…! Online dating seems like an interesting study in contrasts and incorrect assumptions; however, I am curious as to what part of my profile content would make a woman interested. Talking to some here has been curiously confusing! Women who think “average” is 60-100lbs overweight, women searching for a mate, by looks, based on a character from the movie Twilight, those who think men are a means to further their future monetarily or women looking for a father figure for their tribe of horrible children they created with the first 3 husbands. So for those of you who fit the criteria of that listed above please hire a nanny, join a sugar daddy website, take off your vampire makeup and turn the TV to “The Doctors” instead of “Ophra” I’m uninterested. I am not bitter or angry with women, quite the contrary, I am simply sick of the idiotic childish tactics “SOME” women here on sites like these “and I mean SOME women” do to attract a mate and what they sacrifice to get one…”

BYE Felicio!!!

Firstly, I think this is such a rancid attitude and I have read enough profiles to conclude that the more bitter towards women you are in your opening “About Me” paragragh…the more fucked up you are and you’ll probably not be getting OFF the website-world anytime soon. How repulsive.

Secondly, my strategy IS to find a replacement dad for my tribe. Although its just one kid and she is not horrible. But, what is actually wrong with that? It’s one of my top 3 reasons to get my ass on dates right now…to see what my chances are of having a “NORMAL LIFE” for what remains of my fertile timespan. I am 32, so I am putting a lot of though (but, no “vampire makeup”) into this.

We shall see.

Next?!

So that happened:

I just got completely pissed on by a guy on Match. Oh, and he was one of the one’s who’s profile says “Im just nice. I just wanna nice girl. Nice nice nice nice bars, bars, friends, nice, snuggle”. That was his profile when broken down to the bare syllables.

Well, he messaged me in the most annoying frame possible, with “How is Match treating ya?”….which I don’t have to explain, do I? I mean, how is this electronic love portal itself, this box of sparks, this computer conglom????treating me???

Um, the same as my oven and toilet. Like its my BITCH!

jk I don’t talk like that. But still…

I read the above mentioned profile and wrote back “I don’t think we’d be a very good match, given the amount of times you referenced bars in your profile, as I am an alcoholic.”

Well, he just gets all offended, and the wind-up took a good 2 hours (Men are notoriously stupid, and bad at typing)…

He wrote: and I quote:

“You are right – those whopping two times the word “bar” appears, including in the paragraph where I blatently explain how I don’t miss going to them much anymore, is definitely an indictment of my lifestyle. I must clearly be some party-fiend booze-bag with no maturity or responsibility. Thanks for the insulting insinuation and being completely judgmental and putting me into a box, even though you have never even met me. How would you like it if a guy said something like “considering you let yourself get knocked up out of wedlock at 20 years old, I doubt we’d be a good match”?

Good luck in your search.”

Oh the smackdown!!!! It’s pretty sad and funny to me. I guess some people don’t realize that when I come out as a recovering alcoholic, and suggest they might be too much of a drinker for me, that I  am standing up for myself and sparing myself the hassle of dealing with a drinker. I NEED to meet a guy who does NOT have 4 of his 5 pictures on Match featuring him, on a boat with a beer, or on a beach with a beer, or at a bar with a beer. Or, additionally, standing not with a beer, but with a dead fish in his hands by the gill.

That is all.

Dating Issue(s)

Long rambling free write

I am “stuck here” at my daughter’s dance practice. Maybe that mean’s I will have a chance to read and write and be a human…the internet service is nonexistent. It has been a very rainy day, this last day of September, and I spent it all at home.It was insidiously muggy and hot, for such a bleak outdoor rainshow. Leaves, tree limbs, rain and acorns falling…each pretty stupendously. Its not till fall begins that we realize the mortality around us…leaves falling rapidly, like trees shedding their hair in clumps, like cancer patients, not like “dear old dad”.

Speaking of…Is it still ok to have my daddy issues at age 32?

No one talks about them anymore. They are relegated to jokes, porn perhaps, and an occasional therapist’s office…But if you’ve ever felt your nose against the cold glass of a traditional family, you’ll know that sometimes it gets even colder out here as time passes on, and men pass by, and no one stays.

Maybe now I’ve written enough bullshit to say whats really on my mind. Why the daddy-issues reference.  Well, ever since I have been online-dating, I have come across several characters that just make me feel very vulnerable. Very excited and very let down. Very turned on and very disgusted. Like, I wish there was some dad-figure that had a truck parked in my driveway and an aura of “Don’t fuck with my daughter, she is very precious”, etc etc. I wish I felt precious. How is that.

Last night I was face-timing this lawyer who I had hyped up all day on facebook to my friends. “They may all be rich and married, and actually own their house, and have a college savings plan for their kids”, I’d think as I’d post, “But I have pure, unlimited potential. Who KNOWS how great (Hopefuly exactly the same as their) my life can be. So many men to choose from”.

But when I spoke with this guy, this lawyer, this chaperone of female astronauts at galas, who has shocked hands with Bill Clinton and bussed papers from Ted Kennedy…He could not bear to talk about anything but sex. To him, I was very “Yummy”. That is a nice thing to hear a few times, but when I tried to change the subject and get a little into “What’s your family like, how many siblings do you have”…He recoiled. He is adopted, after all. Maybe that’s why he looked so uncomfortable and yet so unconsciously so. Anyways, men with power have a sickening effect on me, they can be very persuasive even by phone…and when our “conversation was over” i hung up thinking I should have been getting $3.99 per minute for all that.

Today I have felt rather sick and depressed, basically mourning my own questionable judgement in men. I want to cancel my date. I want to call my big ex and have the same exact dirty conversation I just had with the colombian lawyer, except with the pretense of love. I want to call another ex, and easily convince him to park his 4-door truck in my driveway and give me the pretense of protection-that mirage of protection. Protection against what, I don’t know…