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.

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).

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....

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.

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?

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!*

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.

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. 

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.

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!

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.

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.