Saturday, December 10, 2011

The numbers game


I don't know what possessed me to give out my number to an Usher look-alike last night, but I did. After refusing no less than four times, I just felt super bad for the guy ("Do you have a pen? I'll at least give you MY number!").  Not to mention that his friends were watching. So I punched in my number and got outta there.

Bad move. Let's tally the damage in the past less-than-24-hours: 
  1. A phone call (which I did not pick up), shortly before 3:00 a.m. the night that I met him (and too long after I gave him my number for it to be one of those, "So you have my number too" sort of calls)
  2. A text at 3:00 a.m.: "Good nights princess" (which I did not respond to)****Men, please heed this advice: don't call a female who is over 7 years old a princess--unless of course she is actually a veritable princess.
  3. A text a minute later "Is my Joel usher" (which I also did not respond to) [Yes, he actually said that. He introduced himself to me as Usher. As should be expected, I laughed in his face. This did not, apparently, deter him.]
  4. A phone call (which I again did not pick up) at noon today.
  5. And finally a follow up text, which, out of courtesy, I finally responded to, initiating the following exchange.

Usher [8:30 p.m.]: Hey How are you [Rollercoastess]
Me [9:08 p.m.] Hi joel. I'm good, but overloaded with work. It was nice meeting you, but like i said i'm not interested in dating. I'm sure i'll see you out, and it would be nice to dance, but i'm not looking for anything more. Take care.
Usher [9:26 p.m.] Thank you're a beautiful girl but I can be your friends
Me [9:28 p.m.] Glad to hear that. Just wanted to be clear. Thanks and take care.
Usher [9:33 p.m.] Thank you for talking with me
Usher [9:35 p.m.] [Rollercoastess] and you a very petty
Usher [9:36 p.m.] Woman

Okay, so English isn't his first language, but we'll forgive him that. I do hope he meant that I'm pretty and not petty, though. I guess I'll find out next time I see him.

I shared the text exchange with a super duper awesome lady friend, and here's her super duper awesome response:

Maybe you just remind him of someone he once knew



Or maybe he's just tryin' to make love up in the club



Or maybe he just wants to leave the one he's with



To fake Usher's credit, he's not as bad as this dude, whose cringe-worthy 1605-word letter to a date that stopped answering his calls made its way into Jezebel today. Nor is he as bad as either of these two desperate, emotionally unstable psychos (at least she's drunk, but the dude...what's his excuse?).


Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Gittin' some

Boys and girls, it's time I get laid.

I'm sitting in the library, trying hard to concentrate on my work, and all I can think about is mounting Salsa Instructor. It didn't help my cause that yesterday we talked about other people having sex. It especially didn't help when he was acting out the motions (oh myyyyy!).

It's been four months. And four days. (Yes, that also happens to be my breakup anniversary. Hush now.) The point is that it's been loonnngggg enough.

That said, I'm still at the stage where I'm selective about the men I will bone. (It's only a matter of time before I throw that strategy aside and just bang the first male that says hello.) But for now, I do have some criteria. Those criteria are: You're hot. You're over 25. You're somewhat interesting. Preferably, you can move your hips. Umm, that's it.

Salsa Instructor happens to fulfill all of those criteria, as well as a bonus one: he's not looking for a relationship. In his case, this is because he's already in one. Now before you start calling me a home wrecker, allow me to clarify: I don't plan on banging him. I just want to...really badly.


You'd think that plenty of other people fulfill those criteria, but I'm not so convinced. Criterion 1 (hotness)--and especially criterion 1 in combination with criterion 3 (interestingness)--is difficult to find around these parts.

What this boils down to is the following: I'm cursed to not getting any work done because I spend all day thinking about getting my freak nasty on. It shall be an interesting finals season indeed!



Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Cheater cheater pumpkin eater!

Where did we leave off? Oh, right, I had just gotten back to Midwestern City from Chicago and figured that I wouldn't be kissing anyone for a while. Two days later, I was making babies on the dance floor with my salsa instructor, then exploring his oral cavity (mouth, people, mouth!), then learning that he has a live-in girlfriend.

I learned that lesson when I showed up to his house the next night for a lil pre-party before heading out for more dancing, and his girlfriend opened the door. His girlfriend who is in my salsa class--that he instructs--by the way. Yup. We did the whole, "Oh, hiiiiiii!' and hug thing, and all I could think about was, "Thank the good Lord in whom I don't believe that I brought a friend with me tonight!" There was only one other dude there except for The Couple, so I was thanking TGLIWIDB double! Time to act normal. I walked over to him and said my usual hello, noting the slightest look of nervousness on Salsa Instructor's face as we greeted each other with a hug and a heeyyyy.

A minute of small talk goes by, and I wander into the living room where there's some art on the wall. "Who's the artist?," I ask teasingly, since it's obviously an amateur. Girlfriend: "My kids. There's a picture of them over there." At this point I'm still not tuned into the fact that they are living together; after all, she was nowhere to be seen the night before when we were sipping cocktails at his place between party spots. I am, however, thinking, "Shit, dude, this is pretty goddamn serious if you have pictures ny her kids up on your wall!" 

We make our way over to the couch, and the four of us -- as in, me, my friend, Girlfriend, and random dude -- chat. Salsa Instructor is conspicuously absent. Keeping himself busy in the kitchen, he is. Those snacks that I brought over should not have taken that long to unpack, but whatever. He comes to serve the snacks, but right back out he goes to attend to nothing in the kitchen. He's there (out of sight) doing I don't know what.....for the next 45 minutes? hour? A long fucking time. 

In the meantime, I'm learning all sorts of things! They're going to Indonesia together in a couple of months, and guess what -- her kids are coming along, too! Aw, what a nice, big, happy family! 

WTF, dude? I mean, I'm not into the guy....although I do want to bone him. But I don't want to create enemies in this place where I moved just a year ago. And I'm wondering if he's told her, since she keeps making references to "The crazy night that you guys had last night!" "Yeah, it was fun!", I play along. Whatever.

More people show up. He enters the room, finally. He's at least acting normal. 

I get drunk. I don't mean to, but I do. I shit talk Girlfriend's dancing skills to my friend. I take off my jacket and prance around in a skimpy tank top with my zebra bra straps showing. I talk to him one-on-one a couple of times, and a couple of times Girlfriend comes over to interrupt. 

I don't want to have "a talk" with him. There's really no need. But I do want to communicate, "Dude, I got the message. You've got a girl. That's fine. We barely got to second base anyways. I'm not going to out you. And you better act the fuck cool and not turn awkward on me, because I intend to continue talking salsa lessons from you." I think I communicated that effectively. At least I hope I did.

So the night is a fun one. We end up staying at his place instead of going out to the place we had planned. My friend and I end up at another bar. I make out with another dude and we get yelled at by the bouncer to get out of the staircase. The next morning I put myself into self-imposed makeout slut rehab.







Oh, did I mention that since then all I can think about is sleeping with Salsa Instructor? Yeah. I want it. Badly.



Sunday, November 27, 2011

Makeout slut

The first step is admitting that you have a problem, correct? Well, this last week I turned into a bit of a make out slut. Yesterday I entered a self-imposed rehab, and I'm happy to report that last night my tongue did NOT land in anyone's mouth. That was actually my goal for the night. No, I'm serious.

 It all started last weekend, when I road tripped it over to Chicago with some friends from Midwestern City to fete a friend's big and dirty 30. The weekend was a f*ing blast, though I felt less like a human when it was all over since I had seen less than an hour of daylight all weekend. We partied silly.

Friday night I had lost an earring that He had given me for my birthday just a few weeks ago. This was the day after we had a heated Skype-typing debate over an article that recently appeared in HuffPo. He wasn't in my good books. And so, when Dirty Thirty's Chicago friend started putting the moves on me, I rolled with it. And when another guy started doing the same, I rolled with that too. There was a bit of an altercation between the two groups, sure, but no black eyes the next day. The second dude --who was probably barely 21 but so goddamn cute I couldn't take it -- ambush-kissed me out of nowhere while I was asking him to chillax and not deal out black eyes, so that doesn't really count against me.

Chicago Boy and I had a hot and steamy make out session...well, three... in a mini-kitchen of a Veterans of War Club, on his roof (which I think had a great view of the Chicago skyline, though I didn't really get to take it in), in the staircase leading from the roof back to his apartment where all of our friends were, and again in his room, while he was asking me to stay over. Oh, I  guess that's four. But, boys and girls, I'm happy to report that I showed some self-constraint and did not stay the night. That made the taco breakfast that we ate at 3 p.m. the next day more digestible, I'm sure.

I haven't decided what I'm going to do with that. And by that, I mean him. I don't want to date the guy, though he seemed to be treading into that territory ("So, how often do you come into the city?" "You know, sometimes I visit [town close to where I live]"). I think I sent that message loudly and clearly in my text the next day: "Hey. Had fun this weekend. Thanks for showing me a good time. Will give you a ring next time I'm in the city. Take care." To that he wrote back "Had a good time too. Do let me know next time you're in Chicago. Don't hesitate to call or text. Hope to see you soon." We'll see where that goes. At least I have a place to stay when I'm in Chicago now. :-)

So that was nice. Even nicer was making out with my salsa instructor a couple of days later. And then going over to his place the next night for a little pre-party and being greeted at the door by his live-in girlfriend (whoops!). But that's a different story, for a different time...


Wednesday, November 23, 2011

On a roll....


I can't help it. My salsa teacher is hawt.


And he tastes good too. ;)

Lots to update on...later.



Sunday, November 20, 2011

I kissed a boy

                    ...and I liked it.


                         Actually, I kissed two. 


                                       More details to come...




Monday, November 7, 2011

26 things I've learned in 26 years

How does it feel to be [insert age of latest birthday]? It's the typical question you get asked on your birthday, and I usually answer the same way each year: "It doesn't feel much different." But that's not exactly true. Even though I wake up every November 1st feeling much the same as I did the morning prior (well, maybe a tad hungover from the Halloween party the noche before), I'm not the same person. A decade ago, freshly-printed license in hand, I wanted to fast forward to 19 and then stay there forever (19 is the legal drinking age in Ontario). How happy I am that wish didn't come true (my liver couldn't take it)! Each year for the past three years I've felt like, "Ahhhhh, this is it! I've come into my own," only to think the next year, "No, this is it! I've really come into my own." I'm taking that as a positive sign. 

And this year, after 26 years on this planet, I'd like to reflect on a few things I've learned. In no particular order, here they are...

  1. It's really not that big of a deal.
  2. Everything is more manageable after you get a good night's rest.
  3. On those days when you feel totally gross and spend all day thinking about how you should really take a shower, but can't bring yourself to step into the shower ("I won't be seeing anyone today anyways"), just do yourself a favour and take a frickin shower. You'll feel much better about yourself.
  4. Vitamin D is the best drug. Period.
  5. Silence is a gift.
  6. Don't buy the alright-looking jeans just because they're on sale and you could use a pair. Buy the ones that you're totally in love with because they make your ass look fabulous...even if they are out of your budget.
  7. You really don't look like an entirely different person without makeup on.
  8. Travel whenever you have the opportunity.
  9. Let it go.
  10. Know when to break the rules. (And when not to.)
  11. Talk less; listen more.
  12. Busy times are not the times to cut out social activities and exercise. They're the times when you need them the most.
  13. You are not a loser if you eat dinner alone at a restaurant or go to the movies solo. You're simply someone who is eating dinner alone or going to the movies solo.
  14. Some people are right for you at certain times in your life, and not in others. It's fine to let them go, or let them back in.
  15. Just do it.
  16. Not everybody is going to like you, no matter how awesome you are. Don't waste time trying to figure out what you're doing wrong.
  17. Waiters and customer service representatives are people too.
  18. Good food is one of the joys of life. Spend time making it, and sharing it with people.
  19. Music is another joy of life. Listen to it often.
  20. There's no substitute for family. That said, move out of your parents' house 0as soon as possible. You'll have a better relationship with them if you do.
  21. It's cool to be cool, but it's cooler to be nice. 
  22. Don't miss the things that matter in order to get that assignment in on time.
  23. Humans are inherently creative. It's important to find your creative outlet, whatever it may be.
  24. It's liberating to admit your flaws. It even makes you more likable.
  25. It's important to have regular conversations with yourself. 
  26. Tell the people that you care about that you care about them. Better yet, show them. Do it regularly.


Monday, October 31, 2011

New obsession


You really shouldn't read my current state of mind into this post. The tune is simply too good not to share. (And you won't find me saying that often about Rihanna.)







Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Wanderlust-ing

So, I won't be going down to Gautemala with Him over the winter break.

...we might, however, be traveling through South America together next summer.

I'll be kind and rewind: 
As you know, both Him and His Maman invited me, on several occasions, to come to Guatemala over the winter break (yes, post breakup). I was holding off on the decision, and holding off, and holding off. Then, just a few days ago, He shared the most recent news: His brother would be coming to Guatemala over the break, too. This little bit of information effectively made the decision for me. My immediate thought, which I managed to verbally suppress (yay! I'm an adult!) was, "Hey, wait a minute! What about me coming down to visit?" We revisited the conversation today, and kinda together decided that it'll probably work out best if I don't come down over the holidays, leave them to their brotherly/family bonding...and perhaps join Him in the summertime, and together visit His Maman somewhere on the continent to the south of ours. 

I'm still very much processing this information, which came up about ten minutes ago. Bear with me, and this diary-like post. 

I guess my first reaction was excitement. I've been to Central America and the Caribbean, but not yet South America--and I want to, badly. And duh I want to see Him. We're not finished. But oh yeah, I've got weddings and a preliminary exam next summer and can't just follow my wanderlusty instincts...But whoaaa that'll be possibly a full year since we last saw each other. A YEAR! And sure my 25-year-old self now knows what my 5-year-old self did not: a year really isn't that long of a time..........except it kinda IS when it refers to the amount of time that I will not have seen Him in person.

As I've been doing up until now, I plan to figure it out once I get there. 

For now, I'm letting my biggest headache be figuring out what I want to do with my five weeks off over winter break! Do I hear the West Coast calling?



Monday, October 24, 2011

Project Breaking Sideways

A wonderful ladyfriend brought my attention to an article that was recently published in The Atlantic titled All the Single Ladies (By Kate Bolick). It starts like this:
IN 2001, WHEN I was 28, I broke up with my boyfriend. Allan and I had been together for three years, and there was no good reason to end things. He was (and remains) an exceptional person, intelligent, good-looking, loyal, kind. My friends, many of whom were married or in marriage-track relationships, were bewildered. I was bewildered. To account for my behavior, all I had were two intangible yet undeniable convictions: something was missing; I wasn’t ready to settle down.
....
IN THE MONTHS leading to my breakup with Allan, my problem, as I saw it, lay in wanting two incompatible states of being—autonomy and intimacy—and this struck me as selfish and juvenile; part of growing up, I knew, was making trade-offs. I was too ashamed to confide in anyone, and as far as I could tell, mine was an alien predicament anyhow; apparently women everywhere wanted exactly what I possessed: a good man; a marriage-in-the-making; a “we.” 

I checked the author line again. The details were a bit off, but it was pretty much my story. I had a wonderful guy--someone I could see myself spending my life with--but I was restless. I wanted something else, something different. What exactly I wasn't sure.

As difficult as the immediate aftermath was (exhibit A: posts from the early days in August), I simultaneously felt excited for what was in store: Flirting! Making out with all sorts of boys! Dating! New forms of stimulation (and not just the intellectual kind)! In sum, new experiences.

That was the whole idea of this Project Breaking Upwards thing. But now, nearly four months later (gasp! can it be?), I'm wondering if a more appropriate name for this blog would be Project Breaking Sideways. Sure, I need time for myself. And yes, I'm super duper busy with work-related things. But really, at the bottom of it, I'm not letting myself move on. And I've convinced myself that what I'm doing is perfectly fine. I'm perplexed when people find it odd that I'm considering joining Him in Guatemala over Christmas or talking about taking a vacation together next summer. And I was pretty stumped when my girlfriends responded with a shocked, "Wait, whattttt?", when I told them that last week we exchanged gifts on our would-be anniversary ("Well, I mean, they weren't that sentimental. It was just a little something.")


Thing is...I don't have much of a desire to change right now. I like how things are.  So does He. So I think I'm going to follow this (necessary?) detour sideways for a lil while...





Saturday, October 15, 2011

Girls nights always do the trick

I'm alive. And busy from morning to night, which is why I haven't said hello. Forgive me, please, and accept my belated "hello!"

It has been a hectic week indeed, but last night I recharged my batteries with a good 'ol girls night--much needed and long overdue. Four of us ladyfriends got together over tasty food and tastier pitchers of wine (can you say favorite restaurant in town?). We set one rule for the night: no talking about work unless it's something fabulous. And because I have fabulous ladyfriends, there was plenty of fabulousness to chat about. As we were swapping most embarrassing poop stories (surprise: our conversation didn't revolve around boys or babies!), I looked around at these highly intelligent and accomplished, beautiful, and just plain awesome women and realized how grateful I am to have each of them in my life. Just over a year ago I didn't know any of them. And now here we were talking about dream careers and pubic hair preferences and raising our glasses to remaining in each other's lives for years and years to come.

I thought back to the early days of August, when I first returned to Midwestern City and everything around me appeared so bleak, so unexciting. "I don't want to be here," I would repeat to myself, and entertain the thought of picking up and moving to San Francisco or Mexico or just about anywhere. Now, just two months later, I'm finding myself thoroughly happy in just about all areas of my life. Things are on track. I'm excited about the future, but also what I'm doing right now. And in moments when the excitement fades, I've got wonderful ladyfriends--both near and far--to jolt me back on track.




Friday, October 7, 2011

Whatever happened with Teenage Heartthrob, you ask?

Let's just say I've been eating out a lot more lately. I'm not exactly avoiding the grocery store where he works. Just kinda.

Since our pseudo-date, we've run into each other a few more times. He always looks heartthrobby, and I'm usually dripping with post-yoga sweat and mentally repeating the following mantra while approaching his cash, "I will not be a Mrs. Robinson. I will not be a Mrs. Robinson. I will not be a Mrs. Robinson."

Our conversations were friendly, and I felt like we were out of the danger zone (the twine was not a declaration of like!). But then we stumbled into pseudo territory again last week, when he casually asked, "How do you feel about more bike rides? The group has started to ride Thursday nights now." Looking back, this clearly seems like a "Do you want to hang out again?" query. But, of course, I didn't interpret it as such in the moment, because I'm a little obtuse about these sorts of things, and only realize that I'm being asked out (or pseudo asked out) half an hour after the fact. In any case, I put the final nail in the coffin with this response, "Thursday nights? Umm, I don't think that'll work. I  started taking this class that meets Thursday nights, and, so..."

So that's that, I think. I haven't been back to the grocery store since. And I'm getting sick of eating oatmeal.



Sunday, October 2, 2011

You know when...

...your mom comes to visit for the weekend (for the first time since you moved to Midwestern City), and she brings along her digital camera, and has stored on it pictures of you and Him from last summer, and last Christmas, and all the times the two of you have visited her this past year? Uh, yeah. djfladk;lkj;iaj;oieja;klemndkndlk;ld;ak!!^#$#@

Here's the upside: I haven't touched a dish all weekend, and my growing pile of recycling magically disappeared.



Thursday, September 29, 2011

Really broken up...question mark

Broken up or not broken up -- that is the question. As the two month mark nears, I find myself wondering whether we actually broke up. I mean, we said words to that effect. But since then we've been talking every day. And though we've dropped "I love yous," our conversations are still punctuated with sickly pet names. Just before we hang up, He sends me a kiss (the substitute for "I love you", I suppose).

And I downplayed all of this, even when Male Friend provided his telling analysis of the situation, the gist of which is that by talking everyday we're basically keeping tabs on each other, and making sure that no one else is in the other's life. But today it kinda hit me--that we might not actually be broken up--when he ended the conversation with a "Bye, darling." Darling. Darlin parlin. *Right in my gut.*

Darling got to me even more than the "big" news, which broke a few days earlier: He reiterated an invitation to Guatemala over winter break. "My mom must really like you or something," he teased, "She mentioned again that you're invited to Guatemala over Christmas."

"Mmhmm, your mom loves me. E'rbody knows that. And what about you? What do you think about that?"

Affirmative. He'd like it if I came. But, "We'd obviously be together while we're there, and then go back to not being together. Thar'd be kinda weird."

Maybe. Or maybe we'd be all enlightened about it and shit. Probably not, though.

(In case you're wondering, folks, I don't plan on making any decisions until well into November.)

For now, the only plan is to not follow The Rules. You know, those post-break up conventions that we're supposed to subscribe to. Instead, we've agree to just do what feels right (read: what feels good) in the moment. And if that means calling--for the second time in a day--then so be it.

So far, it's working. And, as Woody Allen once said (well, named a movie after), whatever works.



Sunday, September 25, 2011

I've got a crush

...on Ryan Gosling. **swoooooon** Okay, so it doesn't really count, since it's a celebrity crush. But allow me to explain: except for George Clooney, who is just hot damn sexy (and serves as the prototype of my salt and pepper man), I haven't had a celebrity crush since seventh grade (Leonardo DiCaprio).

Sidenote: Ryan and George are co-starring in a movie that's coming out real soon, and I can't hardly take it!


Seriously, people, I have spent an inordinate amount of time over the past two days watching YouTube videos of Ryan Gosling.

Here's one of my favourites: Sexiest Canadian (sorry, Canadians, this is only viewable in Ame'ica).


Saturday, September 24, 2011

Thinking of you...

I had been hitting the snooze button for well over half an hour, and just as I reached to silence the alarm for the fifth time, I caught a glimpse of His name on my caller's display. I picked up, and did my best I've-been-awake-for-hours-Hello?

"Good morning, bubs! Did I wake you up? I 'm standing at the base of the Washington Monument and thinking of you. Okay, well I don't want to hold up the group I'm with, I just wanted to tell you that."

And that's when my heart--which has been doing pretty damn well--melted. You see, for the year that we lived in The South, we had always talked about taking a trip out to D.C., but we never made it out there. But we also talked about going to India, and to Spain, and honeymooning in Greece, and checking out Belize and Honduras, and taking a road trip across the U.S., and going to the Eastern Townships in Quebec, and so much more. Why did we break up again? Maybe we should be together after all. We work well. He knows me better than anybody else on the face of this planet, and same goes the other way around. We still love each other deeply. Maybe we should at least go on a trip together sometime in the next few months. The other day when I mentioned to him possibly going out to San Francisco later this year, He surprised me with, "Well, maybe I'll be there, too."

I know it's best for us not to be together right now, but I just want to see Him and have a few days where we're back to us. How much do tickets to East Coast City cost anyways....




Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Screw it

This weekend I went into the hardware store to get me some brackets and screws to install shelves that I've decided are going to look absolutely fabulous above the couch in my living room. I'm pretty eager about DYI (mini) home renovation projects, and I've been known to undertake quite a few of them in the past...then get stuck and not know what to do next, and have to call my uncle to finish up (or, that time when I tried to rewire all the light switches in my house, a professional electrician). But now that I'm several hundred kilometers from home, and surrounded by people whose toolkit mostly consists of critical thinking skills, I'm forced to adopt another strategy.

So I'm soliciting advice from this 80-year-old man working at the hardware store about how not to screw up installing my shelves. "Well, they're going to bare books, so I know I've got to find studs, but how exactly does one do that?" "Oh, and how do you actually use a level?" [I usually eyeball it.] So he's setting me up with the correct sized screws, and I'm asking him questions along the lines of the two above, and he turns to me and says, "Don't you have a boyfriend that could help you out?" Silence, as I think about how to answer this suddenly not so cute geriatric. "Well, I did until recently, but you probably don't want to hear about that." [nervous laugh] "No, I don't," he responds, and shakes his head to reinforce or perhaps emphasize the point. But he presses on, "Well, what about a daddy or an uncle?" I thought about teaching this man a lesson, but figured at 80 he's an old horse (how does that drawn to water idiom go?) and set in his ways. So instead of replying, "Well, my father's long dead," I replied, "Yeah, but it'd be a long ways. They're up in Canada."

Anyways, I ended up posting an ad to Craigslist--which, come to think of it, sounded like an audition call for a low-budget porn flick: I'm looking for someone to screw in my shelves. You need to bring your own drill and stud finder. Hmm, maybe that's why I got three replies in the first hour. Well, just as I was typing a response to one of the men that answered the ad, I thought, "Screw it! I'm going to install dem shelves that will look fabulous in my living room myself. And if they're a bit crooked, well, then they'll be crooked!"

So, y'all, tomorrow evening the shelves are going up. I'm doing it myself, without the aid of a man. And they WILL look fabulous.



Saturday, September 17, 2011

Hot commodity

I can't help but feel like a hot commodity these days. It feels as though persons who have a penile appendage seem to believe I've gone through my appropriate mourning period (all 1.5 months) and should now date them. Or, really, allow them to stick their penile appendage inside of me.

Now I've been known to unsuspectingly accept a date in the past (while dating Him). I'm sorta naive to those sorts of things, and this naivety served as a constant source of teasing while I was dating Him. He taught me the way of men -- "of course he wants to sleep with you." So I like to think that I'm more alert to that sort of thing these days. But guys seem to have evolved in the past five years since I've been off the market. They don't ask you out in such a straightforward manner, it seems. They're more sophisticated about the whole thing, which leaves people like me wondering if they just want to hang out or if they want to hang out with the possibility of inserting their penile appendage in you at some point. Take suitor #1, who is a colleague that I bump into at parties or in the hallway. He asked me, when I bumped into him, whether I would want to "grab a glass of wine sometime and chat". Well, how can I say no to that? After all, he offered, "I know breakups are hard, so if you want someone to talk to..." And then there's suitor #2, also a colleague, who was a bit more bold. I got this email (we never email) from him yesterday:
[Rollercoastess,]
Let me know when you are up for going to the XXXX bar this weekend. I have a number btw, but was not sure whether you still use it... Its ### ### ####?
[Guy who wants to screw you]
Let me add that I haven't hung out with this guy one-on-one either...ever. We have hung out extracurricularly in a group setting, like the time when he told me "I would dance over her dead body" (yeah, it's that guy!).

People, I don't know how to deal with these situations! So I did what any adult in this position would do: avoid it. That is, don't reply until you see the person who emailed you in person, then leave the room before you have to bump into them, then send them an email that says you're busy and maybe you can get together in a few weeks. That gives the message that you just want to be friends, right?

Thursday, September 15, 2011

The pseudo-date

No, he didn't murder me. Nor have we been rolling around in bed for the last few days. My blogosphere absence (sorry!) is totally unrelated to my pseudo-date with Teenage Heartthrob, who, by the way, I feel teeters uncomfortably close to the teenage end of the teenage heartthrob spectrum. All the power to Mrs. Robinson, but.....no.

I managed to bracket the "this is so wrong" feeling and to have a good time, even after he informed me that he hasn't yet chosen a major in university (the bottle of wine that we dutifully downed definitely helped in this regard).

I spent a good deal of the pseudo-date trying to figure out if it was more pseudo or more date. When I first showed up to the event and he asked me if I had come with anyone else, I thought "oh, not date." But when he started asking me about my hobbies in that weird, first-datey, getting-to-know-you-way ("So, what do you like to do in your spare time?" *cringe*), I figured it was a date. As we split and talked to other people in the group, I thought "not date" again. But when we split off, and sat under the full moon drinking a bottle of wine (straight from the bottle), and ended up in a kiddy park where he proceeded to give me a "twister" (it doesn't involve nipples, but it does involve a tire and a sickening spinning motion), I thought again, "ohh, definitely date." And I could've sworn that when he dropped me off at my doorstep he said, "okay, a kiss goodnight," but we ended up doing that awkward hug thing instead.

The next morning, I found something tied next to my bike, on my porch. What is this piece of twine doing tied to my railing? And then I remembered that he had asked me the night before if I had a piece of twine so we can tie our bikes together.

*ShitShitShitShitShit, I hope he's not into me! I want to keep shopping at my grocery store!*


Sunday, September 11, 2011

Hit her like a train

That's right, the doggiest days are over, I'm pretty sure.


At one point during this fantastic, friend-filled weekend, I realized that I'm happy with life right now. Real damn happy. And it feels goooood.

On a totally unrelated note, I think I'm going on a pseudo date with Teenage Heartthrob tonight.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Things I can't believe exist, Installment II




You know those people who you're pretty sure are interested in you, but they were always respectful of your relationship (except maybe at the Holiday Party, where the liquor was a flowin)? Yeah, you know them. Well, I bet you it was one of them that created this Facebook App: the Breakup Notifier


Thursday, September 8, 2011

The (who) to-do list

I must admit that even when I was very happily committed to Him , I kept a mental to-do list of, well, who to do. Yes, folks, I'm talking about that kind of do. The kind that rhymes and reminds of screw.

And now I present the top three items on my list, in order of preference:
  1. A fiery Latin lover who would speak to me in Spanish and whom I'd understand only half the time.
  2. A man with salt and pepper hair. And not one of those late-twenties salt and pepper types either. I'm talking middle-aged and wears a tie.
  3. A professor. Preferably in my department. On Mondays. (*Could be combined with #2, but preferably wouldn't be.)
I had no intention of ever getting around to this to-do list, but it was fun to think about. But now that I'm single...

Lately I'd been thinking of scratching #3 off the list. Unlike all of the love affairs between graduate students and professors that I'd read about in shamefully bad novels like Douglas Kennedy's Leaving This World, most professors that I have encountered haven't been near screw-worthy. Until yesterday, that is, when I walked in late to my first class of the semester and set my eyes on a professor who was indeed very screw-worthy. All I could think about as he spoke about political revolutions was the revolution that could be going on in my bed when the semester ends. I'm not saying, I'm just saying...that I'll keep #3 on the list.



Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Shakin that a$$

Scene: I'm keeping myself occupied with vodka and Safari Disco Club while waiting for Male Friend to drop by so we can party like it's the last weekend before school starts up (because it was). (And yes, people, Male Friend is still--and will remain--Male Friend. Don't you get any ideas.) Oh, and I'm looking pretty hot, if I do say so myself.

So Male Friend arrives and I inform him that it's my one month break up anniversary and that he and I will have a great time and we will end the night dancing. He's totally game. We start The Night That Will Be Great sipping on black russians and smoking Cuban cigars at a cigar bar, and at some point in the night we learn about "Freeganism" from a guy that spent a month at a housing cooperative in Syracuse, during which he did not pay for food (hence freeganism) nor wear clothes on Thursdays. Come to think of it, maybe he was propositioning Male Friend and I for a threesome. Anyways, all fun, but it's time to dance (meaning I'm sufficiently liquored up to not care that I will be entering a club where I may very well encounter students that I'll be teaching the following week...while they are grinding their genitalia on their dance partners).

But first, we just haveeee to listen to that song that the d.j. at the cigar bar cut off too early. So we head to Male Friend's house (no, this story isn't going there--I told you Male Friend is just a friend). I have my first ever vodka with freshly squeezed orange juice (you gotta make do with what you've got), and we listen to great music and talk about hedonism and continue to drink. We then realize, "Oh poo, it's 1:15 and we better head to da club soon if we want to shake dem a$$es." So we do. But before hitting the dance floor we stop at the bar for tequila shots. Usually I'd respond to an offer for tequila, or any shot for that matter, with "yuck", but I figure it's my one month goddamn anniversary and tequila shots seem fitting, especially given the ambiance of the place: 19 year old boys dancing in their skivvies on raised platforms, with dolla dolla bills (yo!) hanging out of their not so whity but very tighty whitie tighties. Oh, did I not mention this is a gay club that us heteros like to infiltrate on weekends? Yup.

Male Friend and I then proceed to dance--nay, shake our money makers--for the next hourish. About a quarter of that time we spend mesmerized by a laser beam, which, if you stand at the right angle, looks like it's piercing right through you. More tequila. More dancing and laser staring. Before we know it, it's last call, security starts herding people out, and Male Friend and I are laughing at the scramble that takes place before us, as horny boys and girls do what horny boys and girls do when the night is nearing a close.


It was a good night indeed, we agree, and start walking in the direction of our neighbourhood. Walk, walk, walk, talk, talk, talk. Wait, where's that music coming from? Oh, up there! Oh that sounds like a good party. I look at Male Friend; he nods approvingly. We telepathically agree that we're going to crash this party like it's the last weekend before school starts up (because it was). We see someone heading up a back staircase, and follow him up. Now we're standing on someone's back porch (one that, I realize, was almost my back porch...I had almost rented that flat), and we realize that no, the music is NOT coming from there. That dude running up the stairs is clearly answering a booty call. Oh shit, we run down. We echo-locate the party, which is actually next door. Yup, music is definitely coming from there. Uh oh, the door's locked. I slip my wrist through the mail slot, but I'm about an inch off the target. Damn. I recall from my previous apartment hunt that there's another entrance, so we try that one. Locked, too. What do we do now? Neither of us thinks about just walking away. After all, it IS the last weekend before school starts up....and my one month anniversary. And that pretty much means that anything goes.

I'm not a shy person to start with, but I was feeling especially un-shy that night (have you been keeping a tally of all the drinks I've had?). So I strike a pose and yell up to the screened in porch, "Hey, the door's locked!" "Oh, hang on, I'll come down," a voice shouts back. Score! Male Friend looks at me in disbelief for violating the telepathic rule of not drawing too much attention to ourselves. A lady answers the door, looking a bit confused, and offers, "Oh, yeah, you look like people that were here earlier." We say that "Kyle" told us about the party. Neither of us know a Kyle. So we head upstairs and straight to the dance floor, where all of three people are dancing. Well, two, while another kinda bobs along while sitting on the couch. The party, apparently, is much smaller than it sounds. We dance anyways. We're dancing, dancingggg, and *ooof* Male Friend knocks over the DVD stand, and the 1,456 DVDs it once contained spill all over the floor. Strike #2. We act like it's no big deal. He's down on his knees, a fair bit embarrassed, scooping up the mess; I continue to dance, while he passes me stacks of 10 DVDs at a time (yes, there were that many).

By now it's clear that we don't belong. This is a Spanish party (like, the kind that white folks who know how to speak Spanish have), they all know each other, and we don't. This is when I decide to bust out my Spanish. I did, after all, take Spanish 101 last term. "Quien es el...", I start out, meaning to ask the impromptu DJ who the singer is. Only I forget the word for singer (after I've started the sentence), and all that's popping to mind is the French word for song, "chanson." I know both start with a c, but my mind isn't at it's sharpest right now. I decide the best strategy is to trail off, and let him assume he didn't hear me because the music was too loud. "Quien es el cha..." He laughs at me, folks. He laughs. Undeterred, I go on, "Como se llama?" (What's his name?) He tells me. I do not understand his response. I just nod my head and go back to dancing, content that I just fooled this dude and in so doing redeemed Male Friend and I.

Male Friend suggests we make a graceful exit after the song ends. We do.

All in all, a very happy one month anniversary!





Saturday, September 3, 2011

The one month mark

I finally got around to doing some Big Girl Things that I've been neglecting for weeks. I spun three loads of laundry (about a day after the one week mark after realizing that I can't possibly use my bath towel for one day longer. (My solution was just to take fewer showers...)). I washed dishes that had obstinately occupied my kitchen sink for days, causing me to have to fill up my Brita from the much-too-small bathroom sink. I took out the overflowing box of recyclables and did a lil bit o tidying around the house, all the while expecting someone to knock on my door and present me with a medal for my valiant getting-back-into-the-swing-of-things efforts.

During the tidying process/Bon Iver sing-a-long, I stumbled upon something that had been stashed behind my new computer monitor, amidst my new Apple user guide, a Spanish textbook that I had abandoned, some empty batteries waiting to be recycled, and other miscellaneous things. It was my boarding pass for the second leg of my Montreal-to-Midwestern City flight, dated exactly one month ago today.

One month ago today. The last morning we woke up in the same bed. The last day we strolled hand in hand. The last time we kissed. The last time I had seen Him.

And, y'know what? I'm doin okay. Better than okay, actually. Whereas a month ago I lay melodramatically on my couch listening to Adele on repeat, avoiding as much as possible all human interaction, wondering why the hell we broke up in the first place (I actually forgot), resigned to spend the next year miserable, today, one month later, I'm brushing my hair on a fairly regular basis, putting on mascara every so often, keeping my body odor in check (mostly), attending to adult responsibilities, and even feeling hopeful. Tonight, for the first time all month, I'm actually looking forward to going out with friends, and I kinda even hope we end the night on a grimy, sweaty dance floor shaking our asses to horrible Top 40. And before the night ends, I plan to raise a drink to Me, for brushing my hair, putting on mascara, and making it through my first month as a single lady. Cheers.





Friday, September 2, 2011

I'm going to be alone forever (wimper)

Sure I was utterly embarrassed after turning into Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Woman the last time I saw Teenage Heartthrob (if you missed that one, read about it here). But I found some comfort and relief in the thought that said embarrassing moment likely marked the peak of my dorkiness, and it would be hard to make more of a fool of myself in front of him...at least for the rest of the week. Errrrrrrrrrr. (That's my imitation of the annoying buzzer that goes off on gameshows like Family Feud to indicate--rather obnoxiously, I might add--that you are wrong.)

Earlier tonight, I arrived home starving from a late night yoga class in which I sweated my balls off, and I realized that I'd have to venture out to procure food. Luckily, the grocery store [at which Heartthrob works] is on my block. I popped in about 15 minutes before close. I meant to pop in 45 minutes before close, but it took me 30 minutes to pick out an outfit that would give the impression that I wasn't trying too hard and that would match my I-just-stepped-out-of-the-shower hair, which had turned into awkward-between-wet-and-dry hair (meaning all the dry parts were frizzy) because it took me so long to pick out an outfit (so, obviously I re-wet it to make it look like I actually just stepped out of the shower).

So I fill up my wee basket with kale and arugula and plain kefir and black bean hummus and oatmeal bread (I told you I'm going to fit into my regular pants...and soon), and I make my way over to the check out. Oh no, three cashiers are open, and Teenage Heartthrob is in the middle. And none of them have customers. I slow down to give the girl pushing the cart in front of me the opportunity to go to the closest available cashier, but she heads, instead, for the cereal aisle. Doh! But, luckily, he turns around and sees me and smiles and says hi. The hi that's an invitation to come to his cash. Oh, don't mind if I do! Especially not tonight. Tonight, he looks especially good. He graduated from teenage-heartthrob-cute to I-would-let-you-get-away-with-eating-crackers-in-my-bed-hot. 

TH: "So, what are you up to?" 
Me: "Umm, you know, [I knock over my bottle of kefir], umm...[4 second pause]...It's raining outside."
TH: "Really? It's raining outside? Oh no, I didn't put a cover on my bike seat." [He gets points for playing along.]
Me: "Oh. [Stupid comment that was so stupid that I have willfully forgotten it.] You know, it's just today was one of those days. I didn't do anything, and I should be doing things."
TH: [looks confused, but smiles at me with that heartthrobby smile of his.]
Me: "So, tonight I plan to begin to get motivated so that I can do some work tomorrow. [pause] .... I should've just said 'good'."
TH: "Debit or credit?"
Me: "Credit. Um, but how are YOU?"

We go on to talk about his busy schedule, how many hours he works, his school, etc. I'm not being as efficient as usual loading my groceries into my bag, so, look at that, we can keep chatting. Wait, what's happening? Young female unloading your muesli on his conveyor belt, what are you doing? Bitch, can't you see we're talking? I mean, really now. There are like two other cashiers twiddling their thumbs on either side of you.

"Okay, well, have a good night, " I manage, and bolt for the door. But the door, which is supposed to be automatic, doesn't open for me right away. So, in an effort to trigger the automized sensor, I start flailing my arms like Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Woman yet AGAIN.


Clearly, I'm going to be alone forever.





But WE were supposed to do that together

No! You can't! We were supposed to go to New York City together. I was supposed to show you that bakery on Sullivan with the gooey chocolate chip cookies, and you were supposed to insist that we splurge on appetizers and dessert and a bottle of red in addition to the overpriced main course at Mario Batali's joint on Thompson. And we were supposed to take a leisurely afternoon stroll past the brownstones in Greenwich Village, and when I pointed to one and proclaimed that we were going to live in it one day, you were going to amuse me the way you do, "Mhm, sure." And we were going to see a show... off Broadway, of course. And we were going to kiss in Times Square, then a minute later make fun of other couples for doing the same. And we were going to swear to wake up early and go jogging through Central Park and not do it until our very last day there. And, on our way back home, you were going to admit that you quite liked New York, but maintain that Montreal is still the best city in the world..at least Montreal's bagels are real bagels.

So, you see, you can't possibly go there without me. Spend all the time you want in Queens, but save Manhattan for me to show you and Brooklyn for us to explore together.


Photo by Kaysha





Pants. They don't lie.

I'm not sure if I have the best or worst friends for not telling me that I got fat this summer. Thanks, guys, for letting my pants break the news. And fuck you, flowy sundresses and comfortable couch and bike that needs tuning and general lack of motivation.

(Yes, you have correctly identified me unjustifiably placing blame on everything and anything other than my own expanding ass.)

I refuse to buy new pants. I suppose that means I must stop refusing to run.




I can't believe this exists, Installment I



Assignment instructions: discuss.

Questions to guide discussion:
  1. Crock or not?
  2. What dimensions do you require?
  3. Brainstorm taglines. (e.g. theBreakupBox: We help you to (literally) box up your emotions)



Uneraseable

Given that it's the beginning of a new month, and a few days before I start a new job, and a few more days before I begin yet another semester in school (don't ask me when I'll be finished, extended family member. Assume the answer is the same as the last three Christmases you asked me: I don't really have a clue, but let's say 2016 just to throw a number out there. And yes, extended family member who is now holding his head while shaking it, I know I've been in school for nearly a decade and I should get a job already.) Okay, where was I? Ah, yes, new beginnings, right.

A lil while ago, in the depths of my post breakup haze, I wrote a post on how He gets, basically, a fresh start in a new city, with new friends and I, basically, do not (boohoo). I was somewhere between slightly resentful and a tad jealous when I wrote that post and actually resentful that I was feeling resentful and jealous in the slightest. But since then, I've gotten a bit of perspective, thanks to a wonderful male friend, Male Friend. (Before your mind begins to wander, the emphasis is on friend, not male. It will remain that way.) Male Friend is one of the most intelligent people I know (and I'm surrounded with smartypants), an existentialist who is pleasant to be around, wise beyond his years, and a serious contender for most optimistic pessimist on earth. But again I digress. Male Friend pointed out--very nicely, I should add--that I was completely wrong about my "fresh start" theory. Bullshit, he said. A new apartment, a new city, new friends, but not a fresh start. (And, if you haven't picked up on it already, "fresh start" is my euphemistic way of referring to my erasure from His life--or at least the physical traces of my existence, if not the memories.) What bothered me greatly (and bothered me that it bothered me) was the idea that other people wouldn't know Us--that I would be just an 'ex' like all the rest. And that somehow this wouldn't convey the greatness that was us. That we'd be lumped into the "failed relationship" category.

Male Friend, in his wisdom, pointed out something that now seems rather plain and apparent, but at the time felt like the Copernican Revolution (hello hyperbole!): anyone that gets to know Him will inevitably know about me and us and our one-time greatness. I can't be erased. Our lives were so intertwined, so many experiences and memories shared, that I'll inevitably be present and alive in his "new" life.

That's it. Hardly profound, and yet Male Friend's little comment had quite a profound impact on me (hello again hyperbole!). But, really, it did bring me a certain calm, a peace. It's never felt so good to be wrong.



Wednesday, August 31, 2011

On the Origin of Dating by Means of Natural Selection

Yesterday I resolved that this upcoming year I will spend at least 5 minutes outside each day. Now, I'm no cave dweller, but I'll admit that it's not totally unusual for 24 hours--sometimes even 48 hours--to pass and for me not to have stepped outside. These days usually, but not always, correspond to cold weather or days that I need to shower but really don't want to.

Today was one of those days where I probably needed a shower before heading into public, but I decided that I'd venture out anyways and hope that I don't run into anyone I know. I tied my hair back, clipped my unruly bangs in, well, a clip, and pulled on a pair of pants that needed a wash as badly as I did and a t-shirt from my clothes-suitable-only-for-painting-in pile. I figured my big, dark sunglasses would provide me with the needed anonymity to pop out for a pack of rechargeable batteries and my daily dose of Vitamin D.

I'm about 25 feet from my front door, nose buried in cell phone, when a male voice shouts out my name. Now, I'm quite a jumpy person. I gasp as if I had witnessed a brutal murder when someone creeps up behind me (read: walks into the brightly lit room without me noticing). This is a trait of mine that He got to know very well. I like to think that my jumpiness is a sign that I'm fit...like, in the Charles Darwin sense. I'm convinced that my chances of surviving in the wild are better than my de-sensitized friends (read: normal people), but my 'fitness' can be cumbersome in urban settings. And by cumbersome I mean cause me to look like an idiot. So, when male voice shouts out my name, what do I do? I look up, and before I register that it's Teenage Heartthrob passing by on his bike, I flail both my arms in the air like I'm a white dude with zero rhythm trying unsuccessfully to initiate the wave at a Snoop Dog concert. (In the wild, this gesture would function to scare off predators by making me look larger and more dangerous than I actually am.) I try to recover with what turns out to be a feeble-voiced, drawn out, "Oh, hhhaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiii."

Worse yet, I didn't even look cute to make up for my utter dorkiness.

Conclusion: I may be fit for the wild, but I have reason to be concerned for my survival in the dating world...




Tuesday, August 30, 2011

The family

In some ways, it was harder saying goodbye to His mom than it was to Him. Him and I had had a couple of days to prepare ourselves and to say all that we wanted to say to one another. So, when the time came to say goodbye, a firm hug and a kiss felt like enough. But with Her, there was so much left unfinished, unsaid, unexplained.

She was the first person we told. The morning of the day we were supposed to leave for Midwestern City, we got up, had really good sex, went for an emotionally-charged walk, then went back to the house and told Her. Well, He told Her, while I stood beside him with tears streaming down my face, unable to make eye contact. She had tears in her eyes before He even started talking. And the first thing she said was, "Like Jane and Paul." At the time, both He and I thought that this meant that his cousins were splitting too. Later we learned that what she meant was that they spent a few years apart before connecting again and going on to get married and have three adorable kids. What followed is a blur. I remember a hug and lots of nice words, but not the particulars. When she was driving me to the airport (well, playing chaffeur, since both He and I were in the back seat), she turned around at one point and said in a mock threatening tone, "You better stay part of this family!"

At the airport, I said goodbye to her first, while He waited a few feet away. As she came around from the driver's side, I lost the ability to speak, and turned into a waterworks show. She again said many sweet things, in the exceptionally eloquent yet entirely genuine way that she does. She told me she loved me. I tried to mutter it back, but all the words were stuck in my throat. I mimed that I'll write to her, and hoped that I would be able to tell her all the things that I wanted to but wasn't able to say in that moment. She stood with her back to the two of us, giving us as much privacy as possible in such a public space. We said our farewells, not so much with words, but with glances and touch and one last kiss. And then I turned around, took hold of my overweight suitcase and walked off.

A few weeks later, I finally managed to dislodge the words from my throat and write her an email. I kept it relatively short, thanking her for all the wonderful things that she'd done for me over the years, but mostly for making me feel so welcome and like a daughter. She isn't really the sentimental and emotionally expressive type, so when she told me a couple of years ago that she considers me the daughter she never had, it really meant a lot. And she made me feel that way. The bond that she had had with her mother-in-law, even after she divorced her son, was one that I had hoped to have with her: going on vacation together without the boys, having one-on-one lunches.

She wrote back to me a couple of days ago.
As I certainly don't have to tell you once more, I was very sad of seeing you and He parting. In my eye, you were (and still are) so much a part of the family, one of us. I'm glad that you and He are working at maintaining a friendship. Who knows what's in stock for any of us. Five-year plans, no matter how well-laid, have a way to turn out in such unexpected ways that it's almost useless to plan much in advance. I think you're both handling the situation as well as you can. Time has a way to take care of things, sometimes in much better ways than we can fathom ourselves.
I do reiterate my invitation to Guatemala. If neither one of you has found another love interest by Christmas (deep down, I almost wish you won't :)), you are both welcome in Guatemala, if that is not awkward to you or Him. Or any other time for that matter. You are and always will be welcome.
I haven't yet responded. But I do plan on giving her a call on Skype sometime in the next few months. And maybe a visit, too...



Monday, August 29, 2011

Totally worth it


This weekend I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I know, I know, I'm like 7 years behind the times. But I'm glad I am. Now was the perfect moment to watch it.

For those still uninitiated, the mind-bending flick centers around an intriguing procedure that allows people to have their memory of a person erased. (I will now proceed to outline the plot. Activate spoiler alert!) In this movie, Clementine and Joel recently broke up, and Clementine opts for the procedure. When Joel finds out, he decides to get the procedure as well. Most of the movie takes place during Joel's procedure, and we get a glimpse of his relationship through sporadic memories, which being to disintegrate and disappear as he is reliving them. At first he recalls all the bad memories, but as the good ones begin to surface he realizes he doesn't want to let them go, even if it means holding onto the bad as well. So, he struggles to keep them, but the resistance is ultimately futile and all of his memories of his former love are expunged. So when they meet again, they have absolutely no recollection of one another. They accidentally discover just how intimately they once knew one another when a former employee of the private clinic that performs the procedure mails them the cassette tapes of their initial interview, in which they explain why they want to have the memory of their former significant other erased.

And, well, the stuff they say on those tapes pretty much sounds like the sort of stuff my "I would dance over her dead body" friend was saying last night. But also the sort of stuff we all start thinking about near the end of a relationship. How something that you thought was cute when you first started dating now just annoys the shit out of you. Or stupid mundane things like the way he stands in front of the fridge with the door wide open for minutes at a time. Ugh, doesn't he know that it lets all the cold air out?



But, right after that super uncomfortable scene comes this next one, where these strangers can't imagine that the things they say on the tapes could be true about this oh-so-wonderful person they just met.  They decide to give it another go. Not because they're naive, no. Deep down they know they'll end up with their hearts broken all over again. But I like to think that they also know that even those shittiest of times are totally worth it if you also get to live through those truly incredibly moments, like when you're staring at your partner and thinking, "I'd be so happy if I just lived in this very moment forever."



Saturday, August 27, 2011

"I would dance over her dead body"

Last night I went out for the first time since He and I broke up. And guess what? I actually had a really good time.

I got together with a friend I hadn't seen all summer at my favorite restaurant/bar in town, where I proceeded to have 2 black Russians followed by a gin and tonic (all this before 10:30 p.m.). Oh, yeah, I'm drinking again, bitchesssss! So, the alcohol had a lil bit to do with it, but really it was the realization that I've got a bunch of really cool people here in Midwestern City that I'm happy to call friends. Anywhoozle, he told me all about how he proposed to his girlfriend a couple of weeks back, and I congratulated him (and meant it), then told him all about how He and I broke up. Then we drank some more.

We ended up meeting up with more friends I haven't seen all summer, drinking more, and stumbling from bar to bar. Around 1:00 a.m., it's me and four dudes at bar #3, and the conversation turns to breakups. Apparently e'erbody 'round here has been doing it. One of the late arrivals tells us that he and his girlfriend had just broken up a couple of weeks back. "It didn't affect me all that much," he claimed...and then proceeded to spew vitriol for the next forty minutes. Now, the guy's got a right to be upset: his live-in girlfriend of two years apparently woke him up the morning after he had taken a big exam (and not too long after coming back from an overseas vacation where he took her to meet his family) and informed him that "we need to talk." She told him that while she had been away doing fieldwork in the summer, she met a guy that she is in love with and that he came back to Midwestern City with her, so could he please vacate their flat so that lover boy, who was waiting outside, could come in. Ouch!

So, yeah, he definitely has the right to be upset. And it doesn't help the situation that they're still working on a project together. So, we were all being sympathetic listeners, even as he proceeded to describe how selfish, inconsiderate, controlling, stupid, and fat she is. He continued to divulge way too many personal details, which none of us wanted to hear since we work with her too. And that's when he said it:  "I would dance over her dead body." And he meant it...all three times. "What? I don't want to punch her in the face. I don't want to strangle her with my bare hands. I'm a good guy." (This is where I lost it, laughing so hard...AT him, for thinking that not wanting to murder her makes him a good person.) "But if she died, I would dance over her dead body." Pretty harsh.

I was thinking about His death lately, too...but in the complete opposite way. You see, Hurricane Irene is ripping up the East Coast right now and is set to hit East Coast City tonight. But unlike my friend, I was so terrified that something would happen to Him. I even offered (only half jokingly) for Him to take refuge in Midwestern City. "Are you serious?", he asked affectionately. "Well, if it's a matter of life and death...", I responded.

We had a wonderful relationship. We still have a wonderful relationship--a different sort of relationship, but wonderful nonetheless. So, when it was my turn to talk about my break up, I had nothing bad to say about Him. Absolutely nothing. Drama was never a part of our relationship. For the longest time, we never fought. And when we did (rarely), we never raised our voices or called each other names or stormed out. And we always resolved the issue before bed (and, if the fight was in bed, we'd spend three minutes back to back before one of us turned over and spooned the other). Even our break up--the actual conversation itself--was entirely loving and amicable, an oddly twisted but perfect reflection of what our relationship had been like.


I wonder what's more difficult: a particularly bad breakup, where the person has broken your heart and given you reason to never want to speak to them again, or a "good" breakup, where there are really no hard feelings and where, in fact, there's still a lot of mutual love. I always thought it was the first, but now I'm not so sure. Your thoughts?



Thursday, August 25, 2011

Fuckety fuck fuck

Whhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy didn't I just listen to my own advice and stick to Curb?


Advice to future self: Even if you think you are fine (i.e. the missing and longing has started to give way to a calm sort of appreciation for all the wonderful times you shared together), do NOT read lovey dovey messages that you wrote to each other over the course of the relationship.



More later. Now: sleep.



Wednesday, August 24, 2011

A temporary antidote

I need a drink. Badly. And I plan on getting oh-so-pleasantly tipsy as soon as the doctor clears me. And by pleasantly tipsy I mean completely shitfaced (hello 19-year-old-me...and 21-year-old-me....and 25-year-old-me-at-the-Yelle-concert).


Until then, I resolve to stop listening to Adele and to instead watch Curb Your Enthusiasm  and the "Annie gets relaxed" scene from Bridesmaids on repeat (if you haven't seen the movie, stop whatever you are doing and watch it immediately).


Any other suggestions?


Someone you can poo around

I'm the type of person that goes to a restaurant and even if there's something I looooove on the menu I go for something I haven't tried before. Even if it turns out to be a flop, I leave feeling satisfied because I tried something new and learned a bit more about myself and the world around me.

I'm trying to apply this attitude to my newfound singledom--to regard it as an exciting opportunity to learn more about myself, rather than something that is frighteningly unpredictable and way out of my comfort zone.

But I find myself craving the familiar item on the menu. Suddenly, going for the same thing doesn't seem like the boring choice; no, its familiarity is comforting and appealing.

Okay, I'll stop with the food analogy (somebody has her appetite back!).

I've been missing him, of course, but for some odd reason this comment from a recent (post-breakup) Skype chat made me reallllllly miss him. 
[10:36:35 PM] i have to poo but i don't like pooin when my roommates are around
[10:36:35 PM] i'd poo if YOU were around though (nod)
This lil' comment had me smiling for the rest of the night. I'm not sure if what I felt was a sense of longing or appreciation. Longing for that comfort and familiarity, or appreciation for having shared that kind of intimacy with someone.

There were certainly times during our relationship when I wished we were a little less comfortable with one another. I wanted to keep a certain level of spiciness in our relationship, and hearing about his latest bowel movement ("It was THIS big!") wasn't helping. At first, I giggled when he'd fart under the covers, then look at me with a "shit, sorry!" look on his face and proceed to wave the stench in the opposite direction. And I took it as a sign of love when he'd come in and pee, not minding that I was brushing my teeth less than a foot away--teasing me, in fact, to join in on the fun: "Wanna hold it?" (And no, I never did...until the day after we broke up. Well, even then I didn't. I went to do it and he laughed and flinched, finally satisfied that I was willing to entertain the idea.) Even after we established some boundaries, I'd enjoy when we'd break them.

It sure is nice to have had someone you can poo around.*






*So that there is no misunderstanding, I am referring to pooing when the person is at home, perhaps in the next room...and maybe even talking to you. I am not referring to pooing in front of one another. That's just gross.


Tuesday, August 23, 2011

So many douchebags

I've been depressed. No, not in the need-counselling-and-medication way. It's more like the this-word-is-totally-unwarranted-to-describe-my-situation sort. I'm just not looking forward to the future...my romantic future, that is. Yes, this has more than a little to do with the videos in my last post (those have got to be fake, right? Right?!?!). It also has something to do with these horrible dating stories (they're entertaining to read, but not so entertaining when you're playing the lead role). And it definitely has a lot to do with recently-surfaced memories of guys I knew in college, as well as some trash t.v. with guys that would fit in well with the cast of Jersey Shore.

Simply put, there are a whole lotta douchebags out there.

During our relationship, I think I took for granted how easy it is to find someone (despite protests to the contrary by many of my single friends). After all, I scored a sweet, intelligent, good looking, funny, considerate, generous, moral, emotionally-available guy pretty much on my first shot. Things were pretty easy in our relationship. Don't get me wrong--relationships take work, but in our case it didn't take thatttt much work.

I'm starting to realize that it might not be that easy to find someone who is sweet, intelligent, good looking, funny, considerate, generous, moral, emotionally-available (and single, and lives in your zip code). Hence, the onset of depression that isn't really depression.

One of the reasons we decided to split was to "experience other people" (i.e. rub our private parts against people who are young and hot, while we're still young and hot). [This certainly was not the only reason we split nor the primary one, but it was a consideration.] Because after five years together--five years during which you are in the prime of your life, I might add--no matter how much you love the person, you start to wonder what it'd be like to be with other people. These thoughts become more intense when you start talking about getting engaged in a couple of years and committing to spend the rest of your lives together. And these thoughts don't go away even though you can picture your partner playing with the kids that you brought into this world together. Beer commercials and Sex and the City don't help the situation either.

Then, when you're free to rub your private parts against hot, young people (permitted that they are okay with that, of course), you realize that many of them are douchebags.