Saturday, May 22, 2010

It's all about the good chi

I said goodbye to N yesterday. I sent him an email, and explained that I could not be around someone who smoked so much pot, that the smell reminded me of my loved ones that could not be sober, and of the pain that caused. I explained that I was not trying to judge him, but rather protect myself. I suppose there's no way to read that without feeling judged, and his reaction showed this. Of course, fucking pothead that he is, he could not compose a coherent email, and instead sent 5 short emails in a row, each nastier and less sensical than the one before it.

He focused on my weight, my health, and said that I abused food. For about 30 seconds this took me right back to what it was like to live with Evil Stepdad - the constant put downs, the jabs about my weight, and feeling like shit because I was powerless to stop it. Then I snapped out of my little reverie and realized that I am not powerless to stop this toked out idiot. Hello, delete and block, you are my friends. And not to sink to his level, but given N's physique, health, and eating habits, not to mention his odiferous funk, the fact that *he* focused *my* weight and health is laughable. What a fucking tool.

When talking to my friends about this, my girl L thought it was funny that N would attempt such personal attacks, "Your self-confidence is bullet-proof! What was he going to try to do, make you feel bad about yourself?? C'mon, please." I needed to hear that. Though this particular incident didn't cause any lingering damage, I have had my self-confidence shaken by the difficulties of the last few years. However, it turns out that shaken is not the same as broken. I am adamant about keeping the energy in my life positive, and I work quickly to rid myself of negativity. If someone is a negative factor in my life, they are never there for long. No one is allowed to mess with my chi, goddammit. No one.

I am beginning to see why all of these attempts at relationships have seemed so wrong - those men could have never felt right because we did not come at things with the same energy, and poorly mixed chi is some bad chemistry indeed. I have tended to fall for people have a low sense of self-worth, and while it wasn't a conscious thought process on my part, the delusion was that I could make them better with my love. In reality, I didn't like it when N tried to fix me, why should anyone else like it if I tried - consciously or otherwise - to do the same?

If it is true that guys need to feel needed, need to feel useful (um, don't all PEOPLE have that need?), then only a guy with a solid belief in himself could see his value with a self-sufficient woman. If I have to play the game, play dumb, act like I neeeeed a mayun in order to get a guy's attention, that's almost certainly not going to be the guy for me.

I'm reminded of another conversation I recently had with ASL regarding her business model, and her goals for success. She made a great point, and that is to get from point A to point B, you have to believe that point B is attainable, and you have to truly want point B. I think that with going after guys who don't quite have it together, perhaps I've not felt that point B - awesome love with a kickass partner in crime (wicked smart, tall, fat, red-headed, mean-looking, kilt-wearing motherfucker would be super-awesome) - is truly attainable. I mean, why wouldn't I feel that way? Every media outlet on the planet can't wait to tell me how unattractive, near-death, and practically useless I am,which - ha - conversely means that I'm invisible to all of those people that believe that message.

WELL FUCK THAT. Seriously, fuck that in two.

It IS attainable. It IS what I want. And I WILL have it. I'm tired of accepting less, and I refuse to for one minute more. There is too much that is great in this here life to settle for less. I think I've been stressing about the time line - I want this now, I want this yesterday, dammit. But hey, them's the breaks. I have no control over the time line, and that sucks. But stressing over it hasn't sped up the process one iota. So if I want good, if I want awesome, I have to believe it'll happen, and I have to be patient. And maybe light some candles to get some good chi flowing in that direction...

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Ramble, ramble

I'm up, watching commencement speeches and listening to Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman's version of Time to Say Goodbye. Someone, a deaf client, reminded me today that the ability to hear is precious. After my family, and the laughter of my friends, this is the song I'd want to hear first. It's a little cheesy - like they threw in the one English phrase so that the Americans could sit through the rest of the beautiful Italian phrasing - but their voices are breathtaking. They soar and combine so beautifully, and every time Brightman hits that one high note, my chest contracts.

The two commencement speeches - the one JK Rowling gave to Harvard in 2008, and the one Steve Jobs gave to Stanford a few years ago - are filled with the kind of phrasing and inspired soundbites that I just love. I have this idea forming in my head, like coal before it becomes something better... like maybe I should be doing something more with my life. I mean, I enjoy a lot of what I do most of the time, but I'm not helping anyone, not really. I like the idea of volunteering and helping out, but other peoples' pain... do no want.

I was talking today to ASL about love (what else is new), and I was getting so angry. I'm tired of rehashing the reasons for my anger, so I'll just say that the usual dating wisdom pisses me off, fucks with my chi and my sense of fairness. Talking to her, I was just getting angrier and angrier. I don't want to have to act less smart or less independent or less anything in order for a man to maintain interest. If I am too intimidating with my command of the English language, high-travel job, and ability to get myself into a mortgage for someone to deal with, I'm quite sure that's not someone I'd want in my life anyway. If guys have to be mr. fixits / saviors / etc - why can't someone help a girl out by giving her the one thing she can't give herself? If my taking care of myself makes a man feel he has nothing to offer me, then he's probably right.

It's a this point that I look at my clock. 1:01 am, May 21st. This would have been my 16th anniversary. Fuck, that hurts. Kinda snuck up on me. All of this, all of the anger, all of the looking for things to inspire that I've been doing today, I want to be more. I want to show that I am better off after the divorce, that I am a better person for it. And I mostly am. Mostly.

But this, this one fucking thing is not better. I loved and was loved very deeply, and all of this fucking bullshit that I've been going through doesn't even begin to compare. Men who can't commit to a fucking cup of coffee, men who can't attempt sobriety, or worse, men who would love me, but who don't have a life, or a working sense of smell. I was told that I was loved and beautiful every day for 13 years, and I have not been told that in far too long. Certainly, my friends, my family have expressed their love. But that love, the kind that fills that intimate space between me and the outside world, I have not had that in a long, long time. And my search has made me foolish, a stupid, pitiable thing.

I'll wake up tomorrow, and I'll feel better. I'll remember not to compare what was to what is. I'll clean the slate of N and M, and have a damn good laugh about it. But tonight... tonight is painful.

Monday, May 17, 2010

In which I fall on the sword... and wake up in the therapist's office (Casey)

I know that I touched on the difficulties with my trip to see N in my previous post, but I'd really like to share with you the lurid details. You won't like me very much (if you make it to the end of this post), but hey, it's gross, it's entertaining, it's blogtastic.

I'd just like to say that I've learned many, many lessons this weekend with N. First of all, if a dude smokes pot 24/7 and calls it his 'medicine', walk away. Better yet, run. No good comes of a guy that can't approach the world sober. Second, do a smell check on the guy *before* you travel cross-country to meet him. Oh my god, the stink. I've been with potheads, I've been with smokers, I've even been with a man that drank a bottle - a full bottle - of Rum 151 EVERY DAY, but I've never been with someone that stinks as much as this dude. He took showers, but dayum, his pores were ripe with the noxious residue of THC and nicotine.

I know that I mentioned the breathing / phlemging in the previous post, but it was so gross in combination with the smell. And his kisses were ... *dry heave* so unnervingly horrible. It wasn't just the putrid smell of spliffy goodness, it was the viscosity of his spit, the slobberiness of his lips, the intensity of his passion for kissing me... oh jebus, I'm gonna hurl just thinking about it. I'm just gonna say it - it felt / tasted like I was french-kissing a snotty nose. And Mildred, that ain't hyperbole. God (or whatever) forgive me, I had to waive him through just to keep from throwing up in his mouth.

If we weren't kissing, he wanted to hold me. Tight, facing him while he breathed his snot / cigarette / pot breath onto me as I searched for some kind of reprieve into his hippie stink armpits. I'd turn away so that he was spooning me, but after a while he'd complain and turn me back towards him, kissing me to show his growing affection. *ahem* It's a small kindness, but I'll spare you the more intimate details of the night. Let's just say it didn't get any better.

I did finally mention something about his breath, and made a rather pointed reference to his body stink. I thought I'd hurt his feelings, but half a bowl later, all was forgotten and he wanted to cuddle again. I tried honesty, but there is no fixing a smell that results from a permanent habit. By Saturday night, I knew this wouldn't work. I said something about not wanting to have sex because it was just too much too soon, and thankfully he seemed to be ok with that. Unfortunately, that made him want to be more cuddle-riffic. Major backfire.

After fending off attempts at affection all night long, I'd had enough. But I couldn't tell him that we weren't going to work out because of his nasty body chemistry, now could I? I was upset by the turn of events, and by my dream deferred, so I parlayed that real emotion into a lie - I made it about me, not about him. I said that I couldn't stand to be touched, and that I just wasn't ready for a relationship. There was definitely sadness, hurt and anger on his part, but he also seemed to come to acceptance pretty quickly. I thought that maybe my plan to keep his stank away from me with tears of (real) pain and (faux) fear was working.

I'm often surprised at how wrong I can be. And let me tell you, I was way, way wrong. Sweet, lovable snotting, rheumy-eyed oaf that he is, he took it upon him self to attempt a diagnosis and to "fix" me. Which, you guessed it, involved lots of forced hugging and kissing - you know, to push me over the hump and bring me to a state of love and bliss. In his candy-coated, green-haze-filled fantasy land of free love and rainbow-sheened snot bubbles, where love fixes everything and sunflowers make bad thoughts go away, I would be his masterpiece.

I'll admit that some of what we talked about (and I was really big on the talking because you can't kiss and talk at the same time) hit me at my sensitive spots. We talked about Rev. Dave (another post for another time), we talked daddy issues, we talked religion. We talked and talked and talked, any thing to keep his stinking slobber off of my face. I guess the talking was good, but his privileged, trust-fund baby, rainbows and butterfly fart observations were almost as nauseating as his THC infused aroma. And by the way, the magical solution to everything is to smoke more pot. Which I did, just to make making sense no longer a priority.

In the middle of this, I sent a desperate message to my beloved Fancy Pants Lance, and his response frankly saved the weekend for me. "Honey, in situations like this, it is best to lay back, point your heels to Jesus, close your eyes, and think of handbags." Bless you, my gay best friend, I owe you a cocktail.

Anyway, I'm in the airport on the way home, and I will survive this latest attempt at finding love. Holy crap, the text messages I'm receiving from N are nauseating me from afar - "Can't wait to see you bloom like a beautiful flower!" "This trip is about the birth of the new, of living your dreams today!" "My soul will wake up your soul to help you find peace in your heart!"

Goddammit. Motherfucker, I'm fine. Really. You just stink to high heaven, and you need to get a fucking life. Please, please, I beg of you please - find another project.

I swear before all of my friends and the baby Jesus, that is the last time I lie about an awkward truth. This shit isn't worth it.