I Know How to Keep Busy

April 3, 2009 at 6:42 am | Posted in fun & frolicking, the super | 29 Comments

After successfully renting three open units in the past six weeks I was kind of hoping for a reprieve. I even went so far as to declare aloud to the Universe that No! No one would be giving notice this month. Absolutely not! because I have a trip to California planned for my birthday and nothing AND I MEAN NOTHING is standing in the way between me and the beach and some goddamned vitamin D. I am going stark-raving mad up in this soggy grayness.

So of course, someone gave notice.

Unfortunately, it’s not the best unit in the building so I’ll really have to put on my best sell. Ground level, carpeted,  junior one bedroom near the mailboxes and side entrance does not Oh La La Fancy make. Chicks don’t want to live on the ground floor and I don’t blame them so that means I’ll have to pull out the cleavage for the guys. (Kidding. Kind of.) I have 15 days to get it rented before I head to out on vacation. Should we place bets on how many days it will take?

When I have open units to show that basically means that all my free time is devoted to meeting potential tenants or cleaning. Guess what I will be doing Sunday? Add to that the fact that I have a whole other list of to dos including:

  1. measure and order mini blinds for six units (I hate measuring things because math makes me anxious.)
  2. deal with the pot smoking issue again(!) (because Smell Lady was at my door at 11pm on a Wednesday and then followed it up with a phone call BECAUSE SHE IS THE BUILDING HALL MONITOR APPARENTLY) (Do you think she’d eat a pot brownie if I accidentally left one for her?!)
  3. complete all new tenant files and ensure former tenants have received their security deposits back
  4. replace a broken toilet seat (I’m handy!)
  5. install a sliding lock on the balcony door (so that when it is windy the glass door does not slam into the wall where my bed happens to be – hello, that’s loud!)
  6. change burned out light bulbs in the hallways (I hate heights and being up on a ladder- Hold me!)
  7. sweep the stoops and pick up cigarette butts (Gag! I think cigarette butt clean up should be used as a form of torture against very bad people.)
  8. clean the laundry room (because apparently very few people know how to clean the lint screens in the dryers- WTF.)
  9. vacuum four floors of the building (MY FAVORITE)

The upswing is- I’ve factored in some serious funness in the weekend.

  1. Haircut & Color (fastest way to make a girl feel pretty)
  2. Ten Grands Concert with Kaply (free tickets = woo!)
  3. Water Aerobics (or as I like to call it: hot pink suit action)
  4. Finishing recovering chairs (photos forthcoming because I GOT MY NEW CAMERA)
  5. Wishful Drinking (Carrie Fisher!) & dinner with my Mom (The tickets were my Christmas gift to her.)
  6. Dinner at my sister’s house (my sister!)

I guess it’s fairly obvious that I don’t do idle very well.

P.S. I like parenthesis today.

Ok, ok. I like parentheses EVERY day. You got me.

My Father Moved Through Dooms of Love*

April 2, 2009 at 7:02 am | Posted in flashback, love, processing | 29 Comments

My therapist and I spend a lot of time dissecting my motivations and triggers in relationships. I have been trying to sort out my excessive attachment to having love proven to me. I’m not certain yet but I’m pretty sure that somewhere along the way I set up an obstacle course to my heart as a self-protection measure.

Of course, this brings me back to thoughts of my father. He was the type who, from what I remember of his later years, said one thing and did another. It’s confusing- having someone be so contradictory- especially when it comes to them expressing their love for you. To have someone say they love me with words and not put any actions behind it? It’s one of the worst feelings I know. And of course, because I’m trying to work out some old war wound, I continue to find situations that trigger it in me.

My father would say he loved me and he was sorry. Actually, I love you and I’m sorry were often synonymous for him. But what good are words when every time a promise is made it’s never followed through on? What does a child learn about love when her father has made a habit of saying one thing and doing another? How does she ever build trust with that kind of behavior? She starts to believe that this is what love feels like. She learns to doubt words, question sincerity, and be hyper-vigilant for the proof that all that talk means something is going to change. Every time her hopes are dashed she feels more angry for trusting and then trusting becomes the enemy. But still, she always secretly hopes.

I always over-identified emotionally with my father. In hindsight, I knew very little of what my father carried in his own heart but I took what I could as my own as a way to help lessen his burden. I still do this with men. Find the broken ones and try to mend them. Gather their hurts up into my heart, thinking maybe this one I can make right. If only the heart knew the brain’s logic!

I’ve been remembering the sound of my father’s hand dragging along the hallway wall late at night as he made his way from the living room back to the bedroom. Either from lack of balance from being drunk or from his diminishing eyesight, he’d need the wall to guide him.

I am ashamed to admit that most nights I laid in bed with an ear cocked, listening for the rustling sounds that meant he was heading to bed. I would quickly shut my book and turn my bedside lamp off because I did not want to have one of those painfully awkward confessional conversations that he was fond of having when the day had dragged on too long and the vodka had been keeping him company. I’d lay there in the dark, holding my breath, as I waited for him to walk past my room. His hand, dragging, dragging, along the wall cutting through the silent house. Some nights he’d stop short at my closed door, hovering there for what seemed like hours, like he knew I was on the other side keeping still to avoid him. I knew he wanted to speak to me. I always knew there was more he wanted to say than he ever uttered. I knew that and in knowing that my pain deepened.

Even in typing that I caught myself holding my breath.

Some things take a good long while to unlearn. But I am trying. I think sometimes my father was the last man to truly touch my heart- before everything went dark and he couldn’t find his way back to us. I’ve loved some really great men in my life and each one ran the obstacle course in their own way, getting as close as they could to winning. I’m beginning to wonder if this tiny, hollow feeling I’ve carried around with me for what feels like my whole life has just been me, alone at the finish line of my heart, waiting.

“I find myself repeating like a broken tune/And I’m forever excusing your intentions/And I give in to my pretendings/Which forgive you each time/Without me knowing/They melt my heart to stone/And I hear your words that I made up/You say my name like there could be an us/I best tidy up my head I’m the only one in love/I’m the only one in love…” -Melt My Heart To Stone, Adele

*The title is an e.e. cummings poem.

Wise Up

April 1, 2009 at 7:04 am | Posted in life lessons, memory lane, my neurosis | 49 Comments

I’ve taken to re-reading my old journals. All 16 of them.

It’s sort of like watching a horror movie where you are half-covering your eyes and screaming out to the lead actress: DON’T GO IN THERE! THAT’S WHERE THE KILLER IS! But of course, she goes. She always goes.

In my case though I feel like yelling: STEP AWAY FROM THE ASSHOLE! Damn, I really did date some serious wankers. And all the while I took it on as some sort of mission to understand and grow and enrich my life. Blargh. What a load of crap. I sure wasted a lot of time on men who were very bad for me all for the sake of “personal growth.”

The worst part of re-reading these journals is seeing how much energy I poured into relationships that went nowhere. Blind people probably saw they were not going anywhere and yet, I kept at it. I suppose it was not all in vain. I did become wiser (and a little jaded). And I’ve certainly honed my ability to sniff out a jackass. Finally, at almost 36, I can recognize and appreciate a nice guy.

At least I think I can.

If not, let me live the lie for a little while longer.

I thought I’d share some of the wieners winners:

The Guider- Um, this could potentially be too graphic for my blog (Hi! Mom!) but he was the kind of guy who “guided” you to his cock. ALL. THE. TIME. Jesus, enough already. I know where it is and I will visit when I feel like it.

The Krazy Korean- Hi, stalker. He brought me a bunch of “gifts” from 7-11 when he first met me and then within the first 10 minutes said, “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I met you” and then promptly kissed me. Maybe that could be romantic in certain instances but it had only been TEN MINUTES. He then proceeded to call me at work when I never gave him my work number, show up unannounced repeatedly and tell me I had never dated a real man (until him, of course). Buh Bye.

Sweatpants- No man has ever made a compliment sound like a put down better than him.

Hairy Lizard- Maybe the first sign should have been that he wrote back to me from his on line profile when he was technically dating someone. (Why was it is still active?!) Maybe the second sign should have been that he told his girlfriend he was meeting up with some guy friend instead of me to see a concert in my town and then tried to dance all sexy up on me during the show. (It didn’t work.) Maybe when he was single weeks later and he finally kissed me I should have stopped right there. Because he kissed like a lizard.

Puff Daddy- Picture it: Me in my vintage 1940′s coat all gussied up and him, in an electric blue leather jacket, gold jewelry, gold sunglasses, driving up all smooth in his Cadillac. Within the first fifteen minutes as we rode up an escalator he tried to kiss me. When I pushed him back he said, “What? I’m just trying to get a little of your chapstick.” So I handed him the chapstick from my pocket and smiled. Side note: He ate sushi with a fork.

Self-Help Guru- This guy was a piece of work. He had a show on local access TV telling people how to live their lives fully. Every date was like visiting a life coach. He could do a wicked good Sean Connery impression though. Side note: Don’t simultaneously date guys who have one letter difference in their names because you will inadvertently call one by the other’s name possibly in the heat of a moment. D’oh! The end.

Pencil- The condom broke and after that he disappeared. Turned out he was seeing someone else after dating me for over a year. I had to find out from mutual friends who saw him with her. But with that break up came clarity, a loss of 60lbs and the end of my pot smoking days. Happy ending!

Mr. Grass- After a few weeks together he admitted he was a pot addict so while he was trying to get healthy we tried just being friends. That did not work. I believe at one point I said: How about we can the friends thing and just have sex? Priorities. I know. During the two separate times we “dated” he lived in the woods illegally or in his van. He also is the man who said to me once, “I don’t know what I’d say to someone if they commented on your body shape.” How about you say, “You are a shallow asshole”? Which is basically what I said to him.

King Ick- Do not get me started on this one. Years down the drain and multiple journals full of this King of the Horribles. Let’s just say that no one has ever made me feel more like a piece of shit than him. There is a reason I have referred to him as “the personification of my self-loathing.” Side note: He also lived in his van. Yes, that makes two homeless boyfriends. I AM A WINNER.

Mick- A one night stand that turned into a 6 month relationship. Proof positive I should avoid one night stands at all cost because I clearly do not know how to do them. Also, he was a pothead and hated himself and was probably a sex addict.  He would frequently punch walls, have complete freak outs and say horrible things to me out of his own self-hatred. He even fake cried when I broke up with him. FAKE CRIED.

And this is just a partial list!

Hangs head.

“It’s not/What you thought/When you first began it/You got/What you want/Now you can hardly stand it though,/By now you know/It’s not going to stop/It’s not going to stop/It’s not going to stop/’Til you wise up…” -Wise Up, Aimee Mann

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