spooning

There, between the books on making him come to you by ignoring him and books on having better relationship via communication and openness sat the book on Spooning.

In the section titled Self Help.

It was short, humorous, and probably the most accurate book on the shelf.

The most helpful thing for anything is often cuddling. A Spooning book to walk you through the rough moments of where to put that extra arm, who is in back, that's useful information.

Imagine, if you can get so much positive out of a hug that lasts at least 30 seconds, what you can get out of a spoon?

No White Flag

Whenever I have a romance collapse I play Dido's White Flag.
Over and over.
In the song she sings about how she will always be in love with this guy, even though it's hopeless, she will never give up on her love for him. There will be no white flag. Never would she stop feeling this love for this man. It's desperately depressing.
I played this song on repeat after one of the many times Harry hurt me.

Wait, who's Harry?
Exactly.

A few years ago I was driving down my street several weeks after a heartbreak had left me in a state of total emotional wreckage. I was spending another day with this dead thing laying in my stomach, the decaying corpse of my dreams rotting inside of me and making me sick.
White Flag came on the car radio.
I sang along... and it was a turning point.
For me this song was about Harry.
And anyone who knew me now, other than a few old friends and my mother, would have no idea who that person had been.
Who's Harry? Someone I would never get over.
Except that I did. Just like I would this one. And the next one.
The song I identified with the person I would never get over helped me see that someday I would this time too.

I have since then created a playlist of songs that make me think of guys I'm no longer heartbroken over. Songs that remind me of people I wanted so much to spend my life with, who suddenly don't even hold up to the current crush. It's a running list of "Our Song"s; songs that were on our "relationship soundtrack"; break up songs that remind me of someone "special".

I can remember a time, not so very long ago, that I couldn't even listen to Matt Nathanson's Higher without sobbing... let alone use it to feel better about my latest mistake. Now it graces my playlist sandwiched between Pink's I Don't Believe You from my turbulent and multiple break ups with Johnathan, and a song my one time fiance sang to me the night I fell in love with him.

As I let go yet again of something I thought was going to be something I'll put another song into heavy rotation.

Acts of God and stuff.

No one seemed to have noticed me holding the napkin on my wrist to stop the blood. We all think that we get away with more than we do when we are drinking, but I have to assume with  that if either of them had noticed they wouldn't have just let it pass without comment.



But before I tell you that story, I have to tell you this story.
What you have to understand about me for the full effect is that, even now that I don't get black out drunk anymore, and even before I ever drank at all, I wake up in the morning knowing pretty much nothing. Prior to opening my eyes and looking around I never know where I am, and it's not unusual to not have a firm grasp on Who I am. It's been that way since I was 11.

I wake with no sense of reality.

It's common now for me to remember who I am based on opening my eyes and seeing my child sleeping next to me and identify myself by knowing I am his mother. In the years of waking up alone, or worse yet, next to someone less familiar, it's been a different story.
Whether at home, a friend's, my parents (where I stay often), anywhere I wake up I have to give myself seconds to place the world around me. I often use the landmarks throughout the room to identify not only my location, but also myself. Those are my clothes, I'm Me.
There was an incident in my early 20's where I went to bed in borrowed PJs, in a room I had not been in before, after dark. I really didn't see much as I got into the guest bed.
Upon waking it took several minutes to remember anything at all, as I wasn't wearing my own clothes as identifiers. I had in fact gotten up to look around and touch some of the items around the room to try to place myself or anything at all.

Not until I stumbled upon my clothes from the night before did my name return to me.
Did I mention I've never been a drug user?

What that has to do with the story above, I've decided not to share after all. The consistent disorientation on waking is fantastic enough to stand on it's own, without the details of that particular episode of confusion I intended to share.

But back to the story of the blood, right?
It might not have been so awkward if we hadn't already 'broken up'. We called the brief story of us a failure on Tuesday, but decided that we would still spend the weekend together because we had all these fantastic plans. By fantastic plans, I mean I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to sleep with him a little longer.
The crux of the breakup had been a text message that read "Please be careful."
Just a week before we had the drunken talk that led to me asking if we were exclusive and him immediately and enthusiastically saying we were.
So here I was, merrily cruising along in a new relationship with a hot, flamboyant, sweetie when who would have suspected an Act Of God?
Now Acts Of God are so rare, that people tend to kind of cruise over without worry when they sign their insurance agreements that disclaim responsibility for Acts Of God.
But, here I was on this gloomy Tuesday looking out my window at a potential one. Not one that meant sprint or get eaten by a dinosaur, but a hazardous situation.
Having ascertained that I was in physical danger I had texted a few friends to plan my way out of the situation. One of those people was of course my new boyfriend, just three blocks away.
Each of the 5 friends I texted offered in one way or another to help me out.

He sent me a text that said "Please be careful."

I read this text several times over the next 6 hours before I finally texted him again. Having held out to see if he would check on me, I finally relented because we had plans that evening and I wanted to know if he intended to keep them, not knowing how my day turned out.
I'd spent those hours thinking about how rarely, in today's day and age, you might get the opportunity to save your (mostly responsible) girl from actual physical danger. Like, isn't the answer almost never?
I'd reached the conclusion easily enough that if you didn't jump on that rare opportunity, she isn't really your girl.
I was hurt and angry and disappointed by this realization and subsequent ending. Those things were not going to get in my way of great sex.

We met up and I ate all of this amazing pizza from the best pizza place in town.
I'm allergic to dairy and corn. I always get this bizarre sort of high when I eat food I'm allergic to and then mix it with alcohol. So, cheese...
Throw in some unavoidable sleep deprivation that week.
I took full advantage of the open bar.

So, I was not even a teeny tiny bit shy about the extravagant PDAs all over town that night. I flaunted this hot man at my side. We held hands, made out, acted like we were young and in love, instead of having a final weekend fling.
I'm sure that I stumbled into the kitchen of his house when we ducked in at midnight, giggling and playing up all the sexy.
Until that moment I got a glimpse of The Babysitter.
It's amazing how seeing one of your kid's school employees can make you wish you hadn't..
Hadn't told the bartender to just give you a couple of whatever shot he had closest. Hadn't come in with your makeup smeared to hell. Hadn't walked in with the obvious intent of staying. Hadn't considered that you would look like this guy's hook up now, since you wouldn't be seen together in the future.

The obvious move was to try to chat in a perfectly sober way.

I decided that I could pull that off more easily if I removed the Budweiser wristband from my arm. I tugged on it a few times casually (in my mind it was casual ok?)
It wouldn't budge.

In my head, removing this wristband was going to be the savior of my reputation.

So I grabbed a paring knife (again casually) out of the dish drainer and slid it between my wrist and this tight band that so glaringly labeled me as a playground hook up artist. (IDK. It was late and stuff.)
But.
I turned the knife the wrong way, and though the bracelet did snap, the sharp part of the knife put a (casual) slit in my wrist.

I wore a nice reminder of it in the form of a band-aid for only a week.
Neither of them noticed. Or so I assume.

So much for being careful.

I never write in this style. But, kisses.

He kissed like a high school boy.

No, he kissed like you wanted a high school boy to kiss
Like you imagined it would be.

These kisses felt like you thought they would in high school when you kissed a boy;
at that age when the clumsy efforts never really worked out like you imagined it in your naive fantasies

His kisses, right from the start plunged his entire tongue into my mouth,
reminiscent of make out sessions in your teens that often choked the receiver of the kiss.
And in these kisses there was always a receiver. Receiver of the mouth over full with two tongues

Rather than the darting, playing, back and forth and mutual exploration of each that often comes with grown up kisses

He did not give in to or adapt to the style of kissing adopted by men his age,
he had instead perfected the high school boy kiss
Time and experience had refined and enhanced the movements of his mouth
turning this invasive style into one that not only worked, but took you back to the feelings of expectation of youth

 

Perspective

I have writers block.

Partly because of the fantastic fallout from the last blog post, fallout which included the male phone tree; one ex-girlfriend who filled me in on all the reasons it would never work, including my lack of supermodel status (wait, what?); and some true learning moments about what happens when everyone reads about your life and comes to their own erroneous conclusion about what you meant and then run with it in a big (and loud) way.
It was a strange sensation, watching your story unravel into some other story with all of the new story's belongings unpacking themselves in your life.
Like strangers who have mistaken you for someone else and leave off where they left off with the person they think you are. Then, when you protest they think you are still upset about the tiff you had years ago in Thailand.

If you read the last episode, the follow up text from the subject (victim) was priceless: 'Of course I'll read your book when you write it.'
I've perfected the cringe-laugh over the years. You can be mildly mortified, but you can't not laugh at a response like that.

It was a few days after that text that the alternative reading of my story brought in it's luggage and started unpacking it in my life.
During much of it I felt like I was the new Bob Newhart.


Then a family emergency hit and tragedy started hovering about waiting for it's opportunity to strike. Watching someone you love in pain in the hospital and the square wheels of the medical system getting around to taking care of them, along with the waves of waiting for doctors to get around to telling you the chances we would all walk out of there, how much time we might have, what risks and what options, exhausts you and messes with your head like little else. The tension, worry, lack of normal sleep add up.

Whoever said that this kind of thing puts things in perspective was not talking about me.
For me the raw, worried, holding your breath time throws everything way out of perspective. The little things you can handle so well, or even kinda-sorta well on a regular day become excruciating.
The crevices that usually hold the little things are all already full from all the big things, and there is no room for rejection, difficult memories to run around in your feed, or even the blender not to work.
In my recent days of 'things in perspective' the car broke down and I ended up crying on the phone to the next person who called about the one time man of my dreams having a baby with his new wife, even though he ended it with me because he wanted to raise his children alone and never wanted to get married and thought someday I might.
Since about everything the man ever said to me he has since proved was slush, on a normal week I wouldn't be bothered with it anymore.

Who said near death puts things into perspective?
Not me. Not the girl who somehow felt hurt that the person she decided needed to be there for her right then wasn't. This reaction despite him not really ever saying he would be.

Not me, who allowed myself this time to confront a lost cause, forfeiting any attempt at grace to electronically batter someone for being a fake.

I'm far better at perspective when I've slept normally, without heart racing panic every time the phone rings, wondering how you could ever live without a loved one.
Sure, this was far more important than anything else going on, but it was all the emotional space allotted.
For the scared for my family version of me it meant that at any given moment... one sticky drip from crying over the ice-cream melting.

It's a damned good thing my new hair cut turned out so freaking cool.

Labels and Hugs.

Over a beer on the patio he commented on my blog. It’s always a kick to have someone who reads 'real' writers compliment my writing.  

Then he said “I’ll probably read about myself in it someday.”

I said yes and he laughed it off and said “You’ll never write about me.”

What I was thinking was No, by the time I write about someone they aren't reading my blog. Usually we are only on strained speaking terms by the time I get around to writing about them, so I don’t believe any of my formers read this blog, even out of morbid curiosity. Not just the ones I block either...

But perhaps he meant it was a goal? A warning? 

How do I get the most subtle foreshadowing in books, but clearly miss the most obvious instances in real life??

Since the night a few weeks back when he came around the table we stood at saying "I can't not do this any longer", put one hand one either side of my head and kissed me, I'd been firmly latched onto the plan that I wouldn't label anything.

Now lets pause for a minute for me to say, I don't really feel like I was properly dressed for such a Harlequin novel statement/moment. I'm sure I was wearing a skirt, as I almost always am, but it wasn't flowing (like in all the romance novels when that kind of sentence comes out) and my skirt was paired with cheap flip flops and a tank top. The scene really called for something with an empire waist, cinched with a velvet ribbon IMO. And heels. Most of my good scenes call for heels.

The night after that almost bashful sounding tease about ending up on my blog, he all but disappeared.

When I finally did see him it was in public and he acted like nothing was going on beyond being buddies. Then I got the friend hug. Not an awkward hug by any means, but not the kind that said "I should come over later...and make you coffee in the morning."

The friend hug can take many forms, but there are things missing from the friend hug that tell you it's not a gateway touch and that you aren't.  

You don't hold on that extra moment to take a breath together.

No possessive hand slides under your hair to the nape of your neck. 

As you step out of it, a hand doesn't run down the back of your arm to your fingers that may gently lace or linger there together. 

As you pull away you don't slide a publicly acceptable kiss on the cheek.

And you do not get the ever elusive fold out move - The one where you leave an arm around his waist and he drapes one across your shoulder and you remain latched from the hug.

This particular incident, er hug, may or may not have included the three pats on the back, the notorious signal for "We're just friends." 

I'm not sure if the pats came because by then my mind was rapidly putting the labels on us that I had avoided thus far. Shredding the romance labels and adhering labels like "friend who you are attracted to and you may or may not hook up with sometimes and will then still treat you like a friend and only a friend." 

Gosh. It's so rare to find quality applicants for that position that I almost forgot there was an opening in my friends with benefits department. 

And, not the least of importance, at this rate he will still read my book when I get around to it.

Googles with Friends

This morning I read the facebook post of a friend who claims to google pretty much everyone she meets. She explained her reasoning, which included making sure they are who they say they are, and having interesting things to talk with them about later.

I don't know about all that. It feels like it's a little... I know that sometimes conversations I have with people where they know all about me somehow but I don't them can be a little off kilter. It could feel really weird to know I had been researched.

I had my own little moment with google once that made me think twice about how I use it on people.

I had become enamored with a guy. I know, I know. He was special though... We were... Well, I thought so at the time...

We had just begun dabbling in a relationship of sorts and were in that giggly phase when you both text everything that you are doing from morning til bed, plus once in the middle of the night, and all of it seems either delightful enough to read it out loud to your friends (who only care because you do), or so sexy you simply blush and save it to re-read forever. 

Well, my bestie and I almost never, since high school, have lived in the same state even, so she had not met the recent fling. I was visiting her house during this particular high and she (very patiently) watched me beam off and on at my phone all day. Since I hadn't gushed about anyone like this in a while and he was obviously being regularly electronically attentive she understandably wanted all the details of this potentially long term addition to our lives. 

She may have been trying to figure out in advance who best to seat him next to at Thanksgiving and whether or not she would have to wear anything too formal and uncomfortable to the wedding. 

Or it could have been that my description was glowing, yet not all that flattering. It's hard to make certain descriptive words sound as sexy as you want them to. Like "comb over/mullet"; or "nose/ear hair"; or "speech impediments" (a frequent one for my men); or quaint and very demure neck tattoo. You can say some of these with all the lust in the world, but some descriptions lose something in the telling. 

This had undoubtedly been one of the times that I had not done a good job at relaying how lust-inspiring this fellow was because she was giving me that look when I tried to give some details. The one look she gives me that suggests that I might want to reconsider my position again sober.

So she suggests we look up his profile, knowing that the idea of looking at his pictures would be enough to get me passed the brief consideration that she would not be as impressed as I.

As I gazed at the adorable (again, at the time) photos of him looking everything from goofy to dignified and she humored me by saying how cute and smart he looked, we drifted in different directions... I was imagining our first trip to her house to sip wine and swap stories, holding hands on the beach... - she was noticing things on his profile I hadn't seen. Interesting things. Things which led her to google him.

Girl doesn't miss a beat. By that I mean how the hell did I not notice that laundry list of accomplishments? A quick google search brought up pages of glossy articles, photos in other lands... there might as well have been video of him giving a lecture to the united nations and/or/while conquering a dragon. 

I think very highly of myself. Almost every friend I have has some pretty amazing things they have done or are on their way to doing. I surround myself with the best and feel I belong there...

Now I was intimidated. I was freaked out. This could be my new boyfriend? Um... was that a picture of him with Bill Clinton?

As a long time bestie should, she was reminding me of all my best qualities while I tried to summon a single subject that I would now feel comfortable discussing with him. I pointed to yet another article and she says "It doesn't have to be about work."

The remainder of the evening I re-read and critiqued every text response I sent for spelling, creativity, wit. I really didn't think I could keep it up.

I was saved by a middle of the night phone call from him, stoned out of his mind and giggling at everything and gushing profusely. It's really hard to be intimidating while baked; not that intimidating me was his goal anyway, but my nervousness dissolved.

The google spell was broken. 

When the next guy came along we really did consider not googling him. 

I think we have settled comfortably into her googling them when I'm not around, then doing a little filtering for me. And then when the relationship does it's crash and burn, she tells me how terrible their last movie was, that their dissertation lacked substance, and that she isn't even sure that the FDA should have cleared their latest miracle drug for human use anyway.