I Really Dig You, Man.

February 29, 2008 at 7:14 am | In love | 70 Comments

6mosWhen The Fella and I first started dating (six months ago yesterday, as a matter of fact) he used to say, “I really dig you, man” at pointed moments in conversations or after too many Jim Beam and Cokes. I thought it meant the obvious- you know, that, uh duh, he digs me. That he thinks I’m cool. He likes hangin’ with me.

Months later he let me in on a little secret. “I really dig you, man” was code for “I’m in love with you.” I’m pretty clueless I guess because I had no idea. I mean I thought he liked me, maybe even like-liked me, but the L word? That came as a surprise.

We were sitting in a local bar on a white leather couch being couple-y and cozy when he blurted it out. “I love you.” I was taken aback thinking, this must be the booze talking/we haven’t been dating that long/he doesn’t really mean it. Blah blah blah. All those thoughts ran through my head quick like liquor through my bloodstream. I didn’t say it back to him right then. He said I didn’t need to. I wondered how long he’d feel okay with saying something so significant without a reply back.

The Fella knows my history. My triggers in relationships. How the last two men I loved weren’t available to me. How I can check out. How I can shut down when an old hurt resurfaces. How when things get too easy, too uncomplicated, too familiar, I can vacate emotionally. How I don’t want to be a “burden” so I push people away. It’s like I need it to be difficult to feel engaged. I am learning how to love without the drama. How to love in peace.

I’m learning because The Fella shows me how.

I don’t think I’m the easiest person to be in a romantic relationship with even thoanniversary giftugh the Fella begs to differ. But then again, he’s biased. And he’s probably hoping I’ll put out. Since we started dating I’ve teased him saying, “Given my past, we’re probably only going to date for about 6 months. Enjoy it while it lasts!” We’d laugh enjoying the joke but then sometimes he’d ask me to not say that. And he’s right. Why am I such a defeatist when it comes to love? It’s really not fair to him or to me. And who needs more odds stacked against us? Why not just believe that good happens?

Hey Fella? Thanks for being you. I hope you know I really dig you, too.

No Rest For The Weary

February 28, 2008 at 7:10 am | In the super | 38 Comments

I had an entirely different post planned for today but I am not in the mood for it. I’m rather moody and introspective and I can’t stop harping on certain things in my head. I have had the past three days off from work to adjust to the move and frankly, I’m not ready to return today. This working two jobs is exhausting- mentally and physically. This is how last night went:

9:30 After watching American Idol (I don’t really like any of the girls and Amanda looked like Bonnie Tyler with that hair do last night), I put on my pjs*, get into bed to call The Fella and then finish my book.

10:15 Retrieve voicemail from tenant claiming there is a very strong odor of gas in the hallway.

10:16 Put on bra, sweatpants and fleece. Go to investigate smell thinking to myself. . . what do I do if we DO smell gas? I guess we call the gas company.

10:17 Smell nothing peculiar in hall. Knock on said tenants door. She tells me she’s called the emergency line at the gas company and that they are coming out to check the building.

10:19 Start to think I had no clue as to what I was getting into when I signed up for this gig.

10:20 Return to bedroom, change into pjs, finish final pages of book, turn off light to try to fall asleep.

10:45 Half-asleep, am woken up by knocking at door. Get up, turn on light, change into sweatpants and fleece, skipping the bra. I’m too tired for such politeness.

10:46 Open door and find gas tech who tells me there is a leak outside our building. He’s putting in an order to have it repaired which will mean turning off the gas in the entire building for an hour and then two hours of going to each apartment to relight heaters and stoves. I’m thinking, when in the hell am I going to take time off work to accommodate that? Since it’s not dire, we’re looking at Monday. Awesome.

11:00 Change back into pjs, turn off light, lie in bed wondering what in the hell I got myself into, struck with the realization that I just might be forced to wear a bra to bed.

(Addendum) Woke up at 2:30 for no reason. Woke up at 4:45 to cats who discovered bag of catnip in an unpacked box. Woke up at 5:30 to a nightmare in a cold sweat.

*PJs last night consisted of tank top and pj bottom shorts. Totally not suitable for public viewing. I think I’m going to need to invest in some new pjs.

It’s All Part of the Job

February 27, 2008 at 7:07 am | In my neurosis, the super | 31 Comments

I’m learning so much in my new role as The Super like. . .

Vacuuming four floors of carpet including three flights of stairs is no easy feat. The vacuum is a beast. A heavy beast. But a hell of a work out.

It doesn’t matter if you haul a carload of “donations” to the Goodwill on your first day before you’ve even unpacked a box, people will still think it’s ok to leave crap they don’t want in the laundry room. Would do this? Would you be doing it to be charitable to your neighbors or to just be lazy? Because I am inclined to wonder why on earth you’d think anyone would want your dirty t-shirt or broken computer tower or mismatched bedding not to mention the dented wok. That’s stuff I’d feel bad even donating to Goodwill, frankly. And yet. . .someone thinks the communal laundry area is the perfect place for such items. I beg to differ.

Apparently the garbage bin marked “Recycling Only” means “perfect place to put a lone dirty sock.”

All the keys look the same. They are gold and big. Many will fit in the lock but won’t turn it. Clearly not the correct key. I still can’t figure out which one locks the maintenance room.
Speaking of the maintenance room- it is frightening to my Type A OCD-ness. Shelves of cleaners, gallons of paint, lighting equipment mixed with plumbing parts, the whatsit for the whosit and the whatchamacallit are all in one big, dirty, jumbled mess. This is anxiety-inducing. I dreamt about it last night.

The land line phone/answering machine garbles every message and there is no manual left behind that I can find. This is bad news as that is the number advertised on the building to call for rental information. I’m thinking I should just buy a whole new phone.

I have no idea when the recycling and the trash pick ups are. Both dumpsters are nearing capacity. I fear an overflow situation if pick up is not in the next 24 hours. Overflow would be bad. Very, very bad.

“Moving round in the morning/Drink my coffee and tea/I remember how I thought it would be/A life for you and me/If I can have anything I want/If I can have it all/Then I can take/Knowing the way things are/Can’t you see/The money’s gone. . .” -The Money’s Gone, Coyote Grace

Ring My Bell

February 26, 2008 at 7:28 am | In everyday frustrations, my neurosis | 30 Comments

Oh Comcast, how you torment me so! You know I need you. You know the alternatives to you are minimal and complicated, at best. You know you’ve got me right where you want me. You abuse your power, Comcast. I’m ashamed of you.For a while there, it felt like we were making up. The honeymoon period had been revived. I was connecting with ease to the internet and my cable was reliable. . . It was nice while it lasted.

It seems that even the best laid plans go to waste when you’re involved, Comcast. I called you way in advance, letting you know I was moving and was even going to upgrade my service. We made a date. I wrote your name in pen in my day planner. I was so looking forward to your visit.

Then the day came for you to arrive. I woke up early, excited to see your name in red and black on the side of the white van parked out front of my building. I watched from my second floor apartment as you put out your orange cone and readied yourself to come upstairs. I watched you walk across the street, clipboard in hand, anticipating the ring of my buzzer. Seconds turned to minutes and yet there was only silence in my disheveled apartment. Where were you?

I saw you return to your van, replace your orange cone to the back of your van and sit in the driver’s seat. If you had looked up you would have seen me looking forlorn and worried out the second floor corner window. Why weren’t you coming upstairs? Were you not my technician? Should I run down and accost you? Would you think me mad?

I called the help line where they informed me that you didn’t have a note on the order telling you it was a secure building. They told me that’s why you didn’t ring my bell. The logic of this escapes me. It says my apartment number. Why wouldn’t you ring it? Instead you called my cell and unfortunately, the record showed my old number so you weren’t able to reach me. Did that upset you, Comcast? Is that why you drove away?

Why do you have to break my heart like this every time, Comcast? Don’t I pay you on time? Don’t I give you enough attention? Don’t you want my love? Or are there so many other takers that I’m disposable?

Sigh.

After several calls, you finally arrived hours later than originally planned. Being spiteful, I decided I didn’t need to pretty myself up for you. Sweats with the hole in them, ragged old t-shirt, no bra or make up. I was looking haggard. Turns out it didn’t matter. You barely acknowledged me except to call me “Ma’am”- it’s like they teach you how to hurt me. Ouch! And what about the ass crack? Was that just a special bonus for being such a patient customer? That was a whole LOT of ass crack. You shouldn’t have. No, really.

You shouldn’t have.

The good news is- you are gone and we only need to speak via electronic measures. And I have a DVR. All is right with the world again.

Looks Like We Made It

February 25, 2008 at 7:48 am | In drivel, float my boat, the super | 53 Comments

I fell asleep at 9:30pm last night. My thighs hurt. My back is out of whack. I’m $300 more broke than I was on Saturday. My cats are spazzing. But we are here and our new home is awesome.

CONS

  • No overhead lighting in the living room or bedroom.
  • A dishwasher that doesn’t work.
  • A toilet that’s a little wibbly wobbly.
  • A bathroom sink that doesn’t drain.
  • Windows without screens.
  • Upstairs neighbor entertaining guests on a Sunday night until the wee hours. I was woken up by laughter and a loud thud at 2:10am.
  • A building maintenance room that makes the Type A organizer in me shudder.
  • 4 floors of carpeted hallways and stairs desperately in need of vacuuming.

PROS

  • Driveway parking space for the Manager (that’s me!).
  • Movers rule. They hauled butt and were awesome.
  • Bigger kitchen with lots of counter space.
  • Internet access paid for in phone bill.
  • Larger living room.
  • Huge hall closet.
  • Mailbox inside the building (yay for deliveries!).
  • Hole under cabinets that is apparently big enough to fit a cat. (That’s where Dash spent his first seven hours here.)
  • Lots of light during the day and a view of the city.
  • Garbage disposal.
  • Free storage unit.
  • $1 coin operated washer and dryer.
  • Less than 5 blocks to the grocery store. 2 blocks to the pet store and my bank.

Pictures will follow once this place doesn’t look like a cardboard graveyard.

P.S. I have over 100 new posts in my Google Reader right now. If I don’t comment for a couple days, I have not forgotten you. Also? Please send a masseuse, stat!

What’s True?

February 23, 2008 at 7:56 am | In confessional, life lessons, love, my neurosis, processing | 19 Comments

{Confessional: The Dream Sequence}

In the dream he showed up announced at my door. I was filled with a mixture of elation and ire, unsure how to proceed. All this time I figured we’d never meet in person. It all came flooding back to me- the countless emails exchanged, the phone conversations lasting for hours at a time, all of the sentimental videos we’d made for one another- all the things we’d given one another. . .the least of which was my heart.

In the dream it was awkward. Of course it was. He broke my heart with the decisions he made. He left me by staying where he was. After all the things we’d said and the dreams we’d shared and the promises we professed- in the end, he didn’t choose me. Is it any wonder I’ve taken to believing he used me, that he lied to himself and to me, that his cowardice got the best of him? I hate thinking like that but the anger is my force field. If I don’t hang onto it, I’ll just crumble in a heap, a sobbing mess of a girl.

In the dream he tried to find the words to tell me how sorry he was, that he never meant to hurt me like that, that he wanted to make it up to me. I could hear his words and almost feel his sincerity and yet. . . My belief in him had died along with any hope of there ever being an us. I didn’t trust him anymore.

In the dream all the feelings flooded me. I felt heady with sorrow and yet the intense love I felt for him kept trying to cloud my former clarity. I was angry. I was hurt. I had decided to move on because that was the only option left for me. Because you can’t live your life broken. Because you have to pick yourself up and carry on. Because we all live with scars. I’m not special because of this. There’s no secret fast-track to healing to escape the endless days of feeling empty and left behind.

In the dream I let my anger fly- splinters of old hope and shards of shattered dreams- and he just stood there taking it. He said it was the least that he could do after what he’d done. I’m still not sure what is the worst of this- the extreme disappointment or the utter rejection. I think it is a tie.

In the dream I slapped his face. Shocked, he just looked back at me, as I started to cry. I wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt me but it just made me feel worse. I felt so small, so lost, so sad standing there looking right at the man I thought was my true love. I didn’t want to remember the dream. The dream hurts me now.

All the trust has been broken. He didn’t choose me. Maybe I just was nothing more than convenient and safe. Maybe his love for me was just an escape. I don’t want to be someones dream or hiding place or fantasy. I want to be real to someone.

In the dream he held me as the tears streamed down my face. It’s a confusing comfort to be soothed by the very person causing the sadness. I cried and cried and cried until I was spent. Until I was hollow. And then we looked at each other with a wry smile, cracked one of our inside jokes, as he nodded his head and backed away. I waved good-bye saying, “here’s looking at you, kid” and I shut the door.

Forgiveness can be a long time coming. I’m tired of the journey and yet, I still have so far still to go.

“Should I decide it’s true/that you would leave if given half the chance to go and/I’d be left here on my own/to find myself in bed/wishing everything that changed would be the same/. . . everyday’s another chance to bury my regret/everyday’s another chance to make it but I can’t/but I can’t. . .” -It’s Not True, William Fitzsimmons

My Moral Compass Swayed

February 22, 2008 at 7:02 am | In confessional, life lessons, my neurosis | 36 Comments

As I pack up my apartment, I’ve been facing a lot of hidden memories- things I don’t want to take with me. So I’ve decided to voice them here as a means of clearing my head and heart. This is one in a series that I will probably share. Consider that your warning.

{Flashback Confession}

There were signs telling me not to go. That I’d made the wrong choice. My heart and my head were at such odds, I couldn’t listen to what my gut was telling me. So I went, drove for hours with a nagging nervousness in my belly, to a clandestine meeting with a former lover in a sunny seaside town.

An hour away from my destination, the tread on one of my front tires came off. I thought I had a flat. Immediately I thought: This is a sign. Because I knew in my heart that going was at odds with who I was. I did not cheat. I didn’t participate in cheating. And yet, I needed to know. . . did we still have something worth fighting for? Because it felt like it most of the time.

When I arrived it was awkward and then passionate and then awkward again. Now what?

His phone alert went off at all hours of the day and night reminding me that he was not mine. I never forgot that, trust me, but laying in bed with another woman’s man hearing the beep of her most recent text, I felt the lowest I had ever felt in my life. Who was I? Because this person lying in this motel bed with her old love was not me. I was a good girl. I followed the rules. I didn’t hurt other people intentionally. And yet here I was, acting so out of character that I felt like I could throw up.

My water bottle opened in my purse, soaking the entire contents including my camera. I bought a disposable but ended up only taking one shot- of a seagull perched on the weathered wharf, the stunning blue of the sky meeting the churning blue of the sea, the sun so blinding I couldn’t see. The irony is not lost on me. The memories I have from that weekend are sad. Not because we didn’t end up back together but because we were wrong to try. I am only responsible for my own actions and so, years later, I am still ashamed.

I don’t think she knows but that fact doesn’t change my regret. Her knowing wouldn’t make it any more wrong. It would just make it more hurtful.

I’m just so very sorry.

For all of us.

“There’s no mercy in a live wire/No rest at all in freedom/Of the choices we are given it’s no choice at all/The proof is in the fire/You touch before it moves away/But you must always know how long to stay and when to go/And there ain’t no talkin’ to this man/He’s been tryin’ to tell me so/It took awhile to understand the beauty of just letting go/’Cause it would take an acrobat, I already tried all that/I’m gonna let him fly. . .” -Fly, Patty Griffin

Quirky is Part of My Charm

February 21, 2008 at 7:22 am | In meme, my neurosis | 35 Comments

Black Belt Mama tagged me. This means she likes me, right?

The rules:
1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Make sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting that you did.

Six non-important things about me:

1. I cannot and will not drink water with a straw.

2. It is seemingly impossible for me to just sit with both feet on the ground. One is always tucked under me somehow. It’s very contortionistic. And also, I’m short in staturecheeky (5′3″) so sometimes in certain seating situations, my feet don’t touch the ground anyhow.

3. I make a certain face when applying blush in the morning. Where I bug out my eyes and purse my lips. See Exhibit A ——–>

4. I can’t seem to tolerate unread feeds in my Google Reader. It’s like a contest with myself to clear it out every day. And yet, each morning when I wake up, I know I have to start the game all over again. Le Sigh.

5. I have an annoying (to some, cough, The Fella) habit of changing the song/station after only hearing a couple of notes of a song. I can tell if I am in the mood for it or not that quickly. Don’t you judge me! I know what I like! I don’t listen to the radio because commercials bug the crap out of me.

6. I hate pickles.

I have a really hard time tagging people. If you haven’t done this one, feel free to grab it and make it yours.

“Today my heart is big and sore/It’s tryin’ to push right through my skin/I won’t see you anymore/I guess that’s finally sinkin’ in/’Cause you can’t make somebody see/By the simple words you say/All their beauty from within/Sometimes they just look away…” -Goodbye, Patty Grifin

My Mind Is a Broken Record

February 20, 2008 at 7:37 am | In drivel, my neurosis | 42 Comments

Begin purge.

1. My pants are tight. I’ve taken to wearing skirts because they are more forgiving. I keep telling myself that once I’m settled in my new place I’ll focus on exercise. I really hope I follow through with that. I don’t like tight pants.

2. I am a bit pissy about being required to get my mini blinds professionally cleaned. My landlord claims it is a Washington State law which doesn’t seem to be listed anywhere in any of the countless Google searches I’ve done. I signed off that I would do it when I moved in but DAMN it costs almost $100! For blinds I don’t even put down since I have curtains.

3. Where are the Girl Scout cookies I ordered? On second thought, their arrival will not help the current tight pants situation. It’s probably the Universe’s way of saying: Girl, you don’t need any cookies!

4. I really wish I knew some design stuff. I’m trying to put together a handy little magnet to go along with my introductory letter to all the tenants and each attempt keeps coming out dorky. I might be good at decorating but I am definitely lacking in the design department. At least I wrote a funny/good letter. It’s not all a wash.

5. It’s working through the bad days with each other that can really build a strong foundation in a relationship. And moving furniture. That’s a test to any relationship!

6. I am currently lacking: a couch, a shower curtain, a bath mat, nightstands, a dresser, and my sanity. At least the movers will have less to load/unload on moving day. Talk about a clean sweep- I inadvertently donated my right mind to the Goodwill. But I did pick up a coffee table for $8. Even exchange, right?

7. If I could find my inspiration at work, I don’t even think I’d recognize it. It’s been gone missing for that long.

8. I didn’t know it was possible but Paula Abdul made even less sense than usual last night on American Idol. She’s so freaking weird. Paula, I’d say your color is . . tie-dye. What you been smokin’ girl?! (For a recap on the male performances, check out my friend Greeblemonkey. She takes the words right out of my mouth.)

9. Is it April 4th yet? Because I am ready for our mini-getaway.

10. Hey kiddos? You’re not really helping. Can you make yourself useful, please?

sitting pretty

Can’t right now. I’ve got a nap scheduled.

pack you up

I’m sort of busy. Playing hide & seek with myself.

Kids these days. Hrmph!

End purge.

Boxed Up

February 18, 2008 at 7:39 am | In my neurosis, processing, sentimentality | 47 Comments

My once organized, decorated and clean apartment is in shambles. Boxes are stacked against empty walls. The cats are confused, stumbling around the apartment to find a place to curl up. And me, feeling more and more claustrophobic and stressed out by the hour as my to do list runs on a constant loop in my head.

I don’t do well living in such disarray. I can’t seem to keep my chin up in a half-packed apartment. As the days crawl closer to the impending move day, Sunday seems far off and yet, too soon. I’ve started to get nostalgic which isn’t helping matters. Leaving my first apartment in Seattle, my first home when I flew the coop of California, probably shouldn’t have such an impact but I’m a sentimental fool. This has been a welcoming cocoon for me. It was here that I found my refuge as I slowly made my place in this city.

I know it’s a good thing- the leaving. Moving on is the right thing to do. So I will pack away my memories and seal them up with tape, mark the box with “miscellaneous” and hope that upon arrival at the new home they are still safe. But I know they will look different in the new setting and some of them will get lost in the move. It’s right to let them go. Some memories shouldn’t follow.

The memory of the last time I ever touched him as he fiercely hugged me goodbye at the door will stay behind. And the time that I laid in bed for five hours on the phone with the man I thought was my true love, giddy with possibility. Maybe the pangs of reality that I was wrong in that belief will stay behind too. I’m tired of carrying that hurt. There are burdens and worries and sorrows that I want to leave behind to rest between the slats of the floor or the cracks in the weathered walls. It’s time to make new memories in a new home. It’s time for a fresh start.

I want to look forward instead of backward.

“Trying to pull myself away/I’m caught in a pattern and I can’t escape/Trying to pull myself away/Lately when I get lost there’s this thing I know/Even the dogs have somewhere to go/Everything comes if you just let it be/Work, work, brighten the corners that we’ll never see/Untangle the thoughts that you know what they mean/I hope that the answer doesn’t come too late. . .” -Trying to Pull Myself Away, Glen Hansard (from Once)

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