On Hating Eau Claire (and Elephants)

The railroad crossing on Starr Avenue in Eau Claire will always remind me of the night I came close to driving at full speed into a moving train.

 
It was the night of the day when I discovered that the person I loved and wanted to spend my life with, who the previous week had been helping me recover from a major surgery, had cheated on me. Had been messaging strangers online and on at least one occasion, fucked one. I thought the pain I felt would surely kill me; the train was just a way to expedite things. As I sat in my car, contemplating (how fast would I need to be going to ensure instant death? Should I unbuckle my seatbelt?) the point became moot – the train finished crossing and I was still breathing. The urge to annihilate myself temporarily abated. I continued on to my destination – the regional two-gate airport to pick up my best friend who had gotten on a plane to be with me after receiving my distressed phone call.

Every time I drive to the airport, I have to cross those tracks. It’s a strange sensation to be living through something, right in the thick of it, and still have a sense of how you will view it in hindsight. I still live in Eau Claire, but I already know I will look back on this period (two years and counting) as incredibly difficult. A time when I cried more days than I didn’t, struggled to get out of bed, and tried my best to downplay my misery for my few local friends who were, on the whole, happy and healthy. I can say without a doubt that this trauma has and will continue to transform me in ways I can’t yet articulate. I can only hope some of the changes are positive. Like, maybe I will get a good poem or two out of it. Or maybe if I find myself in a similar situation again, I’ll be better equipped to handle it and won’t consider death by train.

I wasn’t miserable when I first moved to Eau Claire. I had a stable teaching job with good benefits. For the first time, I had an office. I was able to afford a one-bedroom apartment as opposed to a cramped studio. And within three months of moving here, I fell in love. The kind of love that announces itself as major right away. Our feelings for each other were so intense that we even had an inside joke that involved elephants – we knew it would be silly to say “I love you” after only knowing each other a few weeks, but we acknowledged that it felt like an elephant in the room because the feelings were so clear, so palpable. So we sent each other pictures of elephants and signed e-mails “I elephant you.” One day I came home from work to find a necklace with an elephant charm hanging from my mailbox. After we started actually saying “I love you,” elephant ephemera continued to be a gift theme—I brought him back a stuffed elephant from Mexico, and he gave me a black-and-white scarf with an elephant print and earrings carved in the shape of elephants for my birthday.

Now when I see elephants, I want to punch something.

When our relationship abruptly ended, a strange transference occurred that has made living here very difficult: I find that my rage and hurt is now directed at Eau Claire itself, the setting of my most ill-fated love affair (to date, at least). The city feels somehow complicit, like an accessory or co-conspirator. It’s the scene of the crime and no matter what I do, the faint chalk outline of a body (my body) resurfaces, refuses to fade. Everywhere we went, and even places we didn’t go but might have, feels toxic, tainted, ominous. Needless to say, the campus where we both work is a minefield – I could run into him literally at any time. Whenever I see his car in the parking lot, I have to resist the urge to key it. 

I know this could have happened anywhere – but it happened here. Would I have found happiness in Eau Claire without meeting him? I’m not sure. It’s possible I still would have found much to dislike about the culture of an upper Midwestern college town. But we’ll never know -- unfortunately I'll always associate Eau Claire with this experience; it'll always be the place that broke my spirit to the point where I became almost unrecognizable to myself, where I flirted with oblivion. It holds the distinction of being both where I have been most happy and most miserable in my adult life. Obviously, I hope that I will achieve a new zenith of happiness (perhaps not tied to a romantic relationship. Hey, there's a novel idea!). When that happens, maybe I will be able to appreciate some of the good things I found here, the friends I made, the not-horrible moments. I hope so -- but I don't see that happening until I live elsewhere and can use physical distance to help me achieve emotional distance. From him, and from here. 

(Forgive the self-indulgence of this post. I know that in light of all the things going on geo-politically and domestically, it's rather silly to whine about a boy hurting my feelings. But this is a personal blog, and not The New York Times, so I hope an occasional post that looks solely inward is forgivable.)

I'm an adult and I'm not sorry about it

Tonight, out celebrating the birthday of a colleague and dear friend who is somewhere in his early-to-mid 40s (he claims to not know his exact age), we somehow got to talking about romantic relationships and what we want out of them. He admitted to knowing he was somewhat difficult to date, but claimed that for the right woman, he would amend his ways. I simply said I was still searching for a real partner -- an actual companion, an equal, someone willing to put as much energy into a relationship as I am. And after a long pause, he said, "You're really a grown-up."

And you know what? I am. And I'm fucking proud of that fact. 

I don't know why it's become trendy or cool to put off adulthood and maturity for as long as possible. I confess, I am always baffled when I meet someone over the age of 30 who advertises the fact that they're still "kind of a kid." Being young at heart is fine, but perpetually avoiding responsibility and commitment is less cute. It's not even, in my opinion, entirely a gendered thing -- the man-child has become an archetype in various films and TV shows, but there are plenty of women who are guilty of the same thing. They are just less visible in pop culture. 

My question is, why is it a point of pride to not grow up? (I totally feel like Carrie Bradshaw, posing this rhetorical question)

 Not growing up = getting to date this douche

I have always felt like an old soul, despite my youthful appearance. And ever since I can remember, I have wanted to be a grown-up. I insisted on reading adult books even when I was too young to understand them. When I was 8, I demanded to borrow my mom's copy of Stephen King's Pet Cemetery. I think my parents were savvy enough to realize that there was no way I could comprehend the inappropriate content, so they let me nobly schlep around the heavy hardback edition and played along with the ruse that I was actually reading it. I was trying but obviously I was in over my head. So I just carried it around because it was An Adult Book and I wanted to be taken seriously as An Adult. Even though I was 8. The same thing happened with the Andromeda Strain when I was 10. I didn't want to read kids' books -- kids' books were for kids. I didn't want to be a kid or be treated like a kid.

Now I'm actually an age where I am, legally at least, supposed to be a grown-up. And the kicker is, I actually am! So it's frustrating to meet charming, intelligent men who confess/boast about being "big kids." You know what? I don't want to date a fucking kid. I'd like to date a man. Being an adult doesn't mean not having fun. I have fun all the time. I go out, I stay up late, I still get drunk sometimes. But I self-identify as an individual who is not reliant on any outside support systems (parents etc). In other words, I'm in charge of my shit and I'm the boss of me. I pay my bills, I have a job, I live in an apartment I pay for. 

But it's not so much the trappings of adulthood that matter. It's psychological -- I think of myself as an adult. Someone who has experienced a lot of stuff and grown into a fully realized human being. I'm not all that nostalgic about my youth -- I'm not sad to no longer be a teenager or in my 20s. You know why? BECAUSE I GREW OUT OF THEM. I am a smarter, better person than I was then. So no, I don't wistfully long for the days of living with Craigslist roommates and eating cereal for dinner. The days when I had a fake ID that I used to buy the cheapest vodka I could find. The days when I didn't have health insurance, when I still had to ask my folks to bail me out occasionally because I accidentally miscalculated my finances and couldn't pay my rent. I don't regret my 20s, but mostly I value them for how they shaped me into the adult I am today. I would never want to live forever in them. That sounds like a nightmare.  

Alas, I'm in the minority. So many people, it seems, delight in promoting how un-adult they are. It must be attractive to fellow non-adults, but me? I'm still holding out hope that I will find a man who knows who he is and what he wants in life and can appreciate what I have to offer. Because I do think I have a lot to offer. I just have yet to find someone who's smart and funny and wants to be in an adult relationship. Not a boring relationship -- a fun, dynamic relationship built on a foundation of trust, respect and love. 

Time to end this post before it goes full-Oprah. But hopefully, you get the gist. Growing up is an unavoidable, normal, HEALTHY part of life. I grew up and I'm glad I did.  

Relationship Remnants

Breaking up is hard to do, but once the dust settles, it's sometimes interesting to take an inventory of what remains. I'm not talking about crap of the other person's you accidentally or intentionally inherited or even stuff given to you by your ex. I mean interests, habits, expressions that you tend to pick up, whether you want to or not, when you spend a lot of time with another person. 

From my most recent breakup, I leave with a recipe for a Mediterranean-inspired guacamole. The ex made it for me on one of our first dates and it's just too damn delicious for me to never make again. I made it this past weekend for a friend's party and it was gone within minutes; a chef in attendance even praised it. It's not a family recipe or really all that ingenious: it's basically this, but with more garlic and balsamic instead of red wine vinegar.

I also must credit this same ex for getting me hooked on Game of Thrones (my attempts to hook him on Masters of Sex and Veronica Mars were less successful) and teaching me how to play Cribbage.

I don't know if I imparted any culinary wisdom that he will carry on with him into his future relationships. He often made fun of my creative efforts to make salad dressing (admittedly they didn't always come out as planned). 

The only thing I can think of, for now, that I can take credit for is introducing him to the best Mexican place in Eau Claire: Taqueria la Poblanita. He has lived in EC for eight years and I have lived here for one, but I still managed to discover a restaurant he had never tried and convince him of its superiority over the competing taquerias. It doesn't have much "curb appeal" but it's super tasty and cheap.

I think most of my contributions in my relationships are related to food, now that I think about it. Or alcohol -- probably most of the men I've dated emerged with more knowledge about wine than before. I'm probably most proud of the ex that I got to fall in love with sushi. When we first met, he claimed not to like it and refused to eat it, but further questioning revealed that the only sushi he had ever tried came from his college dining hall. Now he's a sushi fiend, thanks to me. Which hopefully hasn't landed him in the poor house. I realize a Cup-of-Noodles habit would be more financially viable.

What did sushi ex give me? Well, he was really into reading recaps of TV shows on websites like Television Without Pity (R.I.P.). Before him, I never followed commentary about shows I watched, but now it's pretty essential to my viewing rituals and I have him to thank. Even when binge-watching shows like House of Cards or Orange is the New Black, I pause between episodes to read recaps (mostly on Vulture now that TWoP is gone). It's a weird behavior -- to read a summary/flash analysis of something I literally JUST WATCHED. But it's pleasurable, what can I say.

From the Boston boyfriend, I got a lot of music -- I was exposed to a bunch of bands I never would have discovered had we not dated. And we're on good enough terms that I can still like those bands and not, like, think of him and collapse into tears. He got me listening to Bon Iver, Wye Oak, Robyn, Lucky Soul, the Pipettes, and a whole bunch of other stuff.  He also is responsible for me becoming obsessed with The Room. It's the gift that keeps on giving. He took me to my first screening and explained to me when to throw the plastic spoons at the screen.

I introduced him to the best burger in Boston:

It's at the Russell House Tavern. It's served on an English muffin. And perhaps best of all, as this picture shows, they give you the option of fries, salad or 50/50. The 50/50 option is so rad because you can feel good about eating some salad with your bacon cheeseburger. EVERYONE WINS. 

When I left Boston, this ex made me a lovely photo essay documenting him eating this burger as a tribute to the impact I made on his life. It's incredibly funny and if I had a scanner at my disposal, I would post the pictures here.  

Chicago boyfriend was a tech guy and helped me see the beauty in things I previously only valued for their utility, like cell phones. He had an amazing collection of sample phones and other gadgets that were sent to him to test out. He also inspired me to finally suck it up and get an iPhone and he was right, my life is better. 

New York boyfriend (well, the 2nd one -- sushi boyfriend is NY boyfriend #1) helped me rediscover my love for board games. And he got me into the live trivia scene -- from now on, wherever I live, I will seek out the best bar trivia because of him (and probably end up disappointed since his caliber for live trivia was very high). He also had some handy euphemisms for marijuana ("green shoes") that I have passed on to others (though my favorite is still "tickets to the Al Green concert" which I stole from someone in college). I think I got him to be a slightly less picky eater -- I know at least he now knows better than to order meat well-done. You're welcome, future foodie girlfriends of his. I laid some groundwork, made some headway. 

 ....That's probably enough self-indulgent reflection for one blog post. Whenever I'm newly single, I find myself ruminating on relationships past, looking for patterns. I have dated a lot of interesting people (and one famous one) and at first glance, they don't have much in common. (I used to joke about creating a reality show where all my ex-boyfriends are on a cruise together and have to figure out what they have in common: me. Not that I have enough exes to fill a cruise ship -- more like a moderately sized yacht.) But what they do all have in common is they are smart, funny, interesting, kind human beings. And I still carry a little love for all of them and always will.

Everything's...Gonna Be Alright?

This image, by Christopher Clark, has been my desktop wallpaper for about a year and a half now. I saw it exhibited as part of Cooper-Hewitt's "Graphic Design: Now in Production" show in May 2012. I was at the time gearing up for another major life change; I had decided, despite having a good job and being in a stable (at the time I would have probably said "good-ish") relationship, to uproot myself from Boston and move back to midwest after over a dozen years on the East Coast.

I felt stuck. I felt like I was going through the motions. While I loved my friends in Boston and was successfully supporting myself, something was not clicking. So I moved to Chicago. And as I wrote about nearly a year ago, I got very very depressed. I was lethargic, I felt utterly purposeless. On days when I didn't have to be anywhere, I stayed in pajamas and ordered pizza (and not even good pizza! I'm talking Dominos, which, when you live in Chicago, is a travesty to consume). 

So Clark's typographic art - the clash of the beauty of the image and its sad, sober message - really resonated with me. I looked at it a lot, when I was trying to convince myself to write poetry, or blog, or even just write a damn Yelp review, anything to get my brain functioning, to reconnect to my writing self.

Tonight, for the first time since May 2012, I am thinking about changing my desktop wallpaper. Because something kind of incredible and unexpected has happened and the message no longer strikes a chord.

On July 15 of this year, I got a phone call that changed everything - an offer to teach at the University of Wisconsin - Eau Claire. I was a little terrified; until Eau Claire, I had only lived in major metropolitan areas. You know, places with amazing restaurants and good public transit and culture around every corner. I read Eau Claire's Wikipedia page and was not sure how I would fare in the Horseradish Capital of the World, population 65,000. Now, I know 65K is not tiny -- but compared to Chicago, it feels pretty podunk. When I visited the campus, there was a deer hanging out in the student parking lot. 

But it was a good job offer and I didn't have much going on in Chicago -- part-time teaching gigs supplemented by hostessing at a trendy late-night dining spot downtown. I loved living in Chicago but nothing was tethering me there, so once again, I decided to just move. My contract was only for a year, so I figured if I hated Wisconsin, I could always move back to Chicago after the school year.

I have now been here for 4 months. I have no plans to leave anytime soon. It actually feels like home to me, the girl who couldn't wait to live in NYC after graduating from college. The people I have met here feel like lifelong friends. I love my job and my colleagues. I love my little weird one-bedroom apartment. I love my "new" car (new to me - it's a 2004 Honda Civic. Her name is Loretta.). I am writing again. I'm singing in the shower again. Something inside tells me I could really be happy here, for a while. Forever? I'm not sure. I do miss some city stuff (mostly ethnic food and liquor stores that are open past 9pm and not having to drive everywhere) and I have yet to experience true "Wisconsin cold," but if I can stay here and keep teaching next year, I absolutely will. 

Oh, and another really unexpected thing: I'm in love! With a wonderful man who makes me so, so happy. I have been in a lot of different kinds of relationships over the years that offered some of the things I was looking for, but always with some compromises. I had pretty much given up on certain things and was starting to believe that if I wanted to get married and have a family, I would just have to settle for close enough, assuming I could find someone who would have me. But this is different. It's still a new relationship, so who knows - the last time I wrote on this blog about being happy and in love, the shit hit the fan almost immediately (and the guy in question turned out to be a total sociopath). So we'll see. Fingers crossed.

Yesterday, some psych students came by my office and asked if I would take a quick survey as part of a project they were doing, comparing beliefs/values of humanities vs. non-humanities faculty. The questions were about being satisfied with your life -- one statement that I had to rate on a scale of strongly disagree to strongly agree was "My life is very close to my ideal." Six months ago, I would have strongly disagreed with that statement. And now, after a momentary flash of "well, ideally I would be 10 lbs lighter, a millionaire, and have a book deal, and an apartment in Paris" I realized what I do have, which is pretty ideal: a job I love that is rewarding and pays me a living wage, a family that is healthy and speaking to one another, friends that care about me, an apartment I like to spend time in, enough money to get by, and a man who thinks I'm beautiful and smart and tells me so daily. If my ideal is to have a fulfilling, happy life filled with adventures and wonderful people, I'm getting pretty close.

I circled "somewhat agree". I mean, a book deal would still be nice.

Definitely have to find a new image for my desktop wallpaper. Being cynical about life no longer feels authentic. Don't worry, I don't think I'll ever look as happy as the people in this ad who are really ecstatic about the accredited nursing program that offers flexible night and online classes:

Come on, NO ONE is THAT happy (or has that group of wildly attractive, racially diverse friends).

Happy Valentine's Day

Single or not, gay or straight, young or old, I think we can all agree that this is a quality love song:



If you have a special someone, I hope that he/she is more attractive than Lisa/Johnny and that you have lots of rose-petal-covered sex tonight. And if you have no idea what I'm talking about, you need to rent or buy Tommy Wiseau's 2003 classic film The Room as soon as possible. If you purchase it from the official movie website, he'll sign it for you! Trust me that this movie is the gift that keeps on giving.

Every girl needs a hotdog boyfriend

Really, it's not as dirty as it sounds. 

I have written before about my close proximity to Spike's Junkyard Dogs in Allston. When looking at apartments, I remember noting it in the "pros" column that I would be living near a place where I could procure a hotdog after midnight. Is the neighborhood quiet and safe? Eh, ish...BUT HOTDOGS LATE NIGHT?  Sold. 

But aside from being a regular patron, I have a special bond with Spike's. Or rather, one particular employee of Spike's. I jokingly refer to him as "my hotdog boyfriend" but really, it's not a joke. What else would you call a hotdog salesman who calls you by name and gives you free fries occasionally?

I know his name, too: John. He was actually one of the first people I met after moving to Boston. I moved a whole month before my grad program started and it was a fascinating experience because I got to see what it would be like to have no friends. I don't really recommend it.  But I did get very comfortable chatting up strangers in bars just out of sheer raging loneliness. 

So a day or so after settling into my studio in Allston, I ventured out to lunch. To Spike's. And John instantly pegged me as a newcomer to the area. He commented on what I was wearing and said something like, "You don't look like you're from here." I told him I had just moved from Brooklyn. "Well, you look very New York," he said.  I took this both as an insult and a compliment. 

And so our relationship blossomed. We have discussed everything from the novels of Charles Dickens and Obama to our various sleep disorders (he's an insomniac, I tend to oversleep whenever possible) and hot sauce preferences (me: Sriracha; him: Cholula). Once, I drunkenly invited him to come to my a cappella concert in Cambridge and he actually showed up. My friends were like, "How do you know that guy?" And I was like "He sells me hotdogs late at night."

You might wonder if our hotdog romance ever became a real romance. The answer is no. I think at one point he might have asked for my number and out of awkwardness, I gave it to him and he texted me once and I didn't write back and then we never spoke of it again. Because as nice as he is, I like the dynamic of our relationship as is, that of hotdog seller and hotdog consumer.  

It's been 4 years and a lot of hotdogs and curly fries. When I move to Chicago this summer, I will miss John. Fortunately, I am moving to a place famous for their hotdog culture. A total coincidence? Perhaps not. 

(Yes, major disclosure slipped in there -- I am moving back to the Midwest! A post about this is forthcoming)

The One That Got Away?

Holy shit, I hope this is like riding a bike. Or, actually, easier, since I was never that good at bike-riding.

It's been months since I've blogged and the more time that passed, the more anxious I've been about starting up again. But here I am. LET'S DO THIS.

You might think, based on my last post, that it would be logical for me to blog about my life-changing trip to China in July. But truthfully, there's just no way to really do it justice, so if you want to hear about it or see pictures, shoot me an e-mail or peruse the slideshow on the right-hand sidebar of this site. Also, this video was shot and edited by one of the volunteers on the trip and is awesome:

Yale China 2 from Brian Wimer on Vimeo.

I've been back for months and still think about it all the time. But moving on.

This past weekend, I visited New York -- it was a make-up trip since my last planned NYC weekend was foiled by that bitch, I mean, hurricane, Irene. As usual, I had a wonderful time and saw many friends, not to mention St. Vincent and the cast of Arrested Development, courtesy of the New Yorker festival. Saturday afternoon, after brunch, I found myself with some time to kill. I wandered through Soho, the first neighborhood I really became familiar with because of my internship at the HERE Arts Center during the summer of 2000. I was listening to my iPod and kept skipping around to melancholy love songs. At first I thought my mood might be related to the dreary/cloudy Fall day, but then it hit me: spending time in New York feels like spending time with ex. An ex with whom you are friendly, but also may still have some feelings for. To put it in Facebook terms, "it's complicated," my relationship with New York.

New York and I were together for 5 years (2003-2008), but actually a little more if you count the summers in college I spent living there before moving there in 2003. At one point, I thought we'd always be together. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. But over time, the passion fizzled and we grew apart. I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't good enough for New York, that I'd never be able to thrive. I tried hard to make it work, experimenting with 4 different apartments in 3 boroughs. I even tried out different careers: full-time jobs, part-time jobs, freelancing. Writing, acting, marketing, editing, teaching. It was exhausting and heart- (and wallet-) breaking. When grad school offered me the chance to leave, I took it.

Still, when I visit now, my heart races; I catch myself thinking "maybe I didn't give New York enough of a chance, maybe now it could work...." But the reasons why we don't work surround me, like the pervading urine stench of the F train. Trying to hail a cab in the rain, paying $17 for an omelette -- I felt the familiar rage returning. Relationships bring out various things in people (i.e. "you bring out the best in me"), and New York brings out a side of me that I don't really like, an aggressive, angry side. And I know if I moved back, nothing would be different and I'd just get hurt again. Boston may not bring out the best in me, but it's...comfortable. We have a less volatile/more stable union. We co-exist peacefully.

But man, we did have some good times, New York and I. Some sexy, awesome times. I know it better than any other city, including St. Louis where I lived for the first 18 years of my life. And sometimes it kills me that we can't be together.

So You Think You Don't Like Valentine's Day, I mean, Poetry

Given the day, it seems appropriate to post this poem. Also relevant is the fact that the poet, Dean Young, is in need of a heart transplant. Please, someone give this man a new heart so that he can keep writing poems like this one. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

On Being Asked By A Student If He Should Ask Out Some Girl

I say get her alone in a kitchen.
I say what Keats said.
I say don't wear that. I display the driftwood
you picked up at McClure's the day we saw the whale.
Part question mark, part claw, part stroke
personified. I say buy her a box of crayons,
the big 64 box. I say you'll be dead soon
anyway. Outside the snow hesitates and thaws
but my office has no windows. I say my office
has no windows and down the hall
the copy machines moan, Again, again,
my chair all swiveling squawk.
I say when I was young.
I tell about carrying your chair across the bridge
and how sick your cockatoo seemed the first weeks
in our new apartment. I say we'll be dead soon
anyway. I explain how after looking half the afternoon
for two socks, one mine, one yours, we find them
under a pillow, nestled together like newts in love.
I say it's hopeless as holding a bag of strawberries
in the rain. I mean what happens to wet paper bags.
I say climb the mountain. I read some Donne aloud
like I'm paid to do. I move the triangle
toward the furnace as indication of the indeterminacy
of all human affairs. There is no triangle, there is no
furnace. I say when I was alone
and miserable. I let the canoe stutter
and drift. I lift my hands like someone asked to dance
a dance I don't know how to. I have this pain.
I have died this way in a previous life,
my armor clattering in the dust.
It's spring in the Alps. On Venus it's Spring
and tiny Venusians chortle with sobs far beyond
our registers, inventing new forms of love.
I ask her name. I say spell it. I ask, What
did you get on the midterm? Across the hall,
my colleague explains something 18th century
to a cloud of perfume. I am thinking
this morning to discard the opera,
wrote John Cheever in his journal.
To find out why life has this huge dog,
wrote Vallejo in Spanish in Paris.
He fell over coughing up blood.
If I had my notebook, I'd cross everything out.
I love the sea, how it crosses everything out.
I almost start talking about Wisconsin.
I say, You can do two things, maybe three.
I say the final's on Monday,
mostly short answer, some i.d.

Inner monologue: Sleeping with someone for the first time

No, not the sexy time part, the actual sleeping part. Or rather, the "sleeping part," since let's be real, the first time you share a bed with someone new, ain't nobody doing much sleeping. My inner monologue usually goes something like this:

1:04 a.m.: Wow, that was fun. Being naked is good times. And apparently, he likes to spoon -- score!

1:09 a.m.: I bet his arm is falling asleep but he's too polite to say anything. I should probably move or something. But then he might think I'm moving away because I don't like spooning. Dilemma!

1:27 a.m.: Now my arm is numb. Where the hell am I supposed to put this arm, anyway? Above my head? That will look weird and awkward. Is he asleep? How the hell did he manage to fall asleep?

2:02 a.m.: Well, there are entirely too many covers on this bed. I am hot. I wish I could kick the comforter off or at least free up a leg for air.

3:19 a.m.: Hey, I actually managed to drift off there for a while. But wait, I am sleeping in a really unflattering position. My hips must look huge from this angle, my breasts are sagging....need to adjust to look sexy and thin in case he wakes up and looks at me. It is crucial to be attractive, even in the repose of sleep.

3:20 a.m.: I must really be awake to have come up with the word "repose."

3:55 a.m.: A ha! I caught myself dozing off with my mouth open, which might have resulted in DROOLING or SNORING. Crisis averted.

4:02 a.m.: I wonder if his sheets are clean. I mean, they seem clean. But I wonder.

4:45 a.m.: Patrick Swayze really died before his time. I bet his widow is so sad.

4:58 a.m.: Ok, now I'm a little cold and all of the blankets have migrated to his side. I will burrow into his side for warmth.

4:59 a.m.: Oops, woke him up. My bad. Turning away again. Only foot contact for now.

5:11 a.m.: I really should attend one of those MoveOn.org neighborhood parties.

6:30 a.m.: Wish I had had the foresight to bring a glass of water to the bedroom. I'm mad thirsty.

7:00 a.m. Seriously? This is his alarm ringtone?

7:05 a.m.: Ah, the male morning erection -- should I acknowledge or ignore? That is the question.

7:25 a.m.: Acknowledged it. And now I'm late for work. Shit.

*******************************************************************
Of course, I've taken some creative license here....I think it's great when you can finally settle down enough to really sleep next to someone. I tend to think the sleeping part is in some ways more intimate than the connecting-genitals part. Anyone else agree?

Happiness

Happiness hit her like a train on a track

Coming towards her, stuck still, no turning back

She hid around corners and she hid under beds

She killed it with kisses and from it she fled

With every bubble she sank with a drink

And washed it away down the kitchen sink.

-- "Dog Days Are Over" (Florence & The Machine)

The subject of this post is happiness; or more specifically, my recent happiness. And even more specifically, the odd feelings (guilt, suspicion, terror) that have accompanied my realization that I'm happier now than I have been in years.

Happiness is an elusive notion. The pursuit of it, according to the Constitution, is one of our unalienable rights. Obviously, happiness means different things to different people, which perhaps accounts for the 17,529 books on Amazon that either have the word in the title or listed as the subject.

Generally, I think of myself as a positive person, with a fairly optimistic outlook on life. But that doesn't mean I've always been happy. Living in Boston (as opposed to New York) definitely has made me a happier person, but still, it has taken nearly two years for me to feel genuinely happy with my life here.

What has changed? In the last few months, it's like everything has just clicked into alignment. Usually, when one aspect of my life is going well, another is, pardon the expression, in the shitter. If my personal life is on the upswing, I'll be stressed about money/career and vice versa. But right now, everything is going pretty freakin' well. And it's freaking me out.

Job-wise, I'm very content. I love being a server at Lineage: love the food, love my co-workers, and the money is good. It's the first restaurant job I've had that I've found satisfying and not frustrating. And in the fall, I'll be teaching a college class, which is something I've always wanted to do. Very exciting.

I've also finally figured out who my friends are in Boston. This can be a tough town in terms of meeting people and my first year here was pretty lonely. But now, I feel confident that the circle of people I spend my time with are good, caring individuals that have my back and enjoy my company. This is a good feeling.

And finally, last but certainly not least, there is a new and thrilling romance, with someone I met on Match.com. My very first Match date turned out to be a winner -- we've been seeing each other for about 6 weeks now and it gets better every day. All the cliched, eye-rolling emotions have turned out to be true: he makes my heart race, gives me butterflies, and I miss him as soon as he's gone. And I think he feels the same way -- if not, he is a master manipulator, not to mention a superb actor.

But who goes on ONE internet date and meets someone great? What are the odds of that happening? How did I get so lucky?

The answer is, I don't know. For the first time in a long time, there is nothing in my life causing me anxiety. And for those of you who know me, that is bizarre. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the shit to hit the fan...I mean, any day now, I'm going to get fired or get my heart broken, right? It can't be correct that I'm allowed all this good fortune.

Of course, when I told all this to my new guy, his response was "Are you sure you're not Irish Catholic?"

So I'm happy....now what?

CrystalPhoenix vs. Kittencat3

This was sent to me this morning by a friend who enjoys reading the comment tirades posted in response to articles on Boston.com, the Boston Globe's website. To preface the comment conversation, he wrote: "For the most part (as one might expect) people who tend to comment on internet articles are generally bitter, misanthropic, prejudiced, etc. Favorite targets for disdain include 'liberals'; the ACLU; immigrants;'pinky ring union thugs' who take advantage of 'taxpayers'; women; 'Barry' Hussein Obama; etc. (and et al.)"

The inciting article in this case is about the sudden disintegration of seemingly stable marriages: http://www.boston.com/news/local/articles/2010/05/30/marriage_reaches_an_end_but_she_never_saw_it_coming/

and it led to this incredible internet exchange:

CrystalPhoenix wrote:

Well, I walked away from my wife at age 40.

But no warning?

We went through counseling, twice. My wife had several stints in counseling. There were vicious, nasty fights for the entirety of the marriage. She wasn't interested in intimacy any more five years before I left, and booted me out of the bedroom entirely (I snored more than she liked, you see) three years before.

Indeed, there was another woman by the end. Someone who shared the hobbies that my wife disparaged. Someone who wanted me in her bed. Someone whose idea of interaction wasn't screaming. Someone who genuinely did want children. Someone who didn't feel that poking me awake at 8 AM on the weekends (1st wife was a morning lark, I was an insomniac who liked to sleep in on the weekends) was very fair. Someone who liked camping, diners, down to earth entertainments.

Ten years later, I'm married to that woman, quite happily. Funny thing: she finds my snoring quite comforting.

Kittencat3 wrote:

CrystalPhoenix is my husband, and he's lying.

Why is he lying?

Let's see…

- We engaged in exactly three counseling sessions, during which he refused to yield an inch.

- The "vicious, nasty fights" were over him lying about money (once to the tune of over $4,000), having affairs (one of which gave ME an STD, another of which sent him to California ostensibly on business), and refusal to have sex.

- Far from refusing to have sex, I literally begged him, on hands on knees, for sex, touching and intimacy. He shoved me out of his bed on a vacation because he wanted to watch wrestling.

- Far from refusing to have children, I went on prenatal vitamins, lost thirty pounds, and again, begged him for sex and intimacy. His response: faking impotence, to the point of faking appointments at an endocrinologist and monthly testosterone shots.

- His sleep apnea was so bad I couldn't sleep. And since he wasn't employed, I needed to sleep so I'd keep my job and we could eat. Again, I begged him to go to a doctor so he wouldn't drop dead in his forties, especially since he's an insomniac. His response? Whining about how mean and cruel I was for asking him to get up at 9:00 or 10:00 or 11:00 so we could actually do something on Saturday.

- I enjoyed camping and go myself on the weekends. What I didn't enjoy was the LARP he was in, where his girlfriends treated me like dirt and I had nothing to do.

- I like diners, just the way he does.

- I don't know what he means by "down to earth entertainments," but if he means professional wrestling, *I* was the one who asked him if he wanted to watch with me…after he'd spent weeks playing computer games (one of which included his mistress) and ignoring me completely.

- The only hobby of his that I "disparaged" was the live action roleplaying game where he spent 20 weekends a year pretending to be a wizard while I stayed home. He, on the other hand, called me going to graduate school "meaningless bibble" and told me he'd divorce me if I went on to study for the ministry. I backed off from school to save my marriage, and two years later he left anyway for a woman half his age.

- He was engaged to his second wife before he left me…which he did by taking $11,000 that I'd inherited, the living room furniture, his clothes, his cat, his books, some furniture that had been mine as a child, and leaving me a two page bullet point memo which addressed NONE of the problems he's aired in public. He also threatened to cut off contact with his own mother if she gave me his address or phone number.

The best thing he ever did was leaving me. At least now I don't have to worry that the bills aren't paid, the house won't be seized for back taxes, and the jealous husband of one his girlfriends won't show up with a gun.

************************************************************************

Wow. Does it get any worse than admitting that you begged for sex from a snoring, philandering wannabe wizard? I think the lesson here is that shared love of diners and pro-wrestling does not a lasting union make.

Hell hath no fury...

...you know the rest. Basically, chicks don't like to be scorned. Ever. And if you scorn a woman writer? You're just asking for it, really.

Case in point: my friend Julie Klausner's new book I Don't Care About Your Band: What I Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated. Julie is a very funny lady with whom I had the pleasure of working with on a few different occasions while living in NYC. And her book is a very enjoyable read, especially if you're newly single like me and a little bit cynical about those copious fish in the proverbial sea everyone's always raving about.

Julie's book inspired me to reflect on some of my dating snafus. Now, I don't want to be rude and I know that some of my exes read my blog, so I won't use names. I'm not a total bitch. Here, in no particular order and for your schadenfreudic pleasure, are some of the less-than-stellar moments from my love life:

1) A month before my 21st birthday, I broke up with the guy I'd been dating. In the spirit of trying to be "just friends," I invited him to my birthday party, which was held in my dorm. He decided it would be a good idea to show up with another girl and have sex. In my room. On my desk chair. Classy, right?

2) Meanwhile, also at this party, a guy I'd gone out with once and not even so much as kissed showed up very drunk and then disappeared. I thought he went home. Then when my friends were carrying me to my bed (I'd had, ahem, a bit to drink), we found him: He had stripped down to his boxers and was (presumptuously) waiting for me in my bed. Or at least he had been until he passed out. My friends had to wake him up, hand him his pants, and show him the door. There was no second date.

3) A roommate who worked as a bartender was really excited to set me up with this guy who frequented her bar. She insisted we would hit it off and arranged a group outing where we could meet. He showed up and seemed perfectly nice. When he found out I was from Missouri, he got excited and said, "Oh, then you'll totally appreciate this." He pulled out his cell phone, which had a Confederate Flag cover. Like this:


I laughed nervously and said, "Ironic, right?" He shook his head and said gravely, "No, it's not like that." Two possibilities: 1) he truly believes the South shall rise again or 2) he didn't know what "ironic" meant. Both were kind of deal-breakers, as was his comment later that evening about lesbians being "awesome." I mean, they are, duh, but when you're a straight guy who's clearly never met an actual lesbian, it doesn't quite count.

4) I haven't had many one-night-stands, but one that I did have yielded one of my very best stories. I already wrote about this incident on a sex blog, so click here to read it.

5) I broke up with someone the day after Valentine's Day and unfortunately, his belated V-Day gift to me was already in transit (but had not yet arrived). Now, I know for a fact he bought and sent this BEFORE we broke up, so considering that, the gift's message is amazingly prescient:


That's right, I got a T-shirt telling me to "bug off" just days after my bf and I had essentially, albeit in politer terms, said the same thing to each other. Also funny is the fact that said T-shirt (the top half of pajamas) is size small, meaning that despite having unlimited access to my breasts for 2+ years, this guy still thought I was a size small. Strange.

6) I once invited a boy I'd hooked up with a few times over for dinner. I was trying upgrade our relationship from drunken fumbling to something more meaningful. He showed up for dinner 45 minutes late, completely tanked. He actually had been at a bar about a block from my house drinking with friends. Then, throughout dinner, he proceeded to repeatedly check his phone and respond to text messages. It was pretty insulting, especially considering I had spent a good part of my day cooking on his behalf -- and cooking risotto, which takes FOREVER. Ugh. At least I got some good leftovers out of it.

I'm sure this year will bring some more entertaining dating stories, and hopefully some with less ridiculous endings. I'm considering venturing into the world of online dating-- I even created a profile on the free site OKCupid, only to freak out an hour later and take it down. I just want to find/be found by someone without having to look for them...and as I type that, I realize how incredibly lazy that makes me sound. Hmmm.

All the single ladies....

Well, I put off writing about this on my blog because I have been coming to terms with it on my own and adjusting, but I'm not one to shy away from writing about my personal life, so here goes: I am once again single and I am pretty terrible at it.

I tend to jump from relationship to relationship, with little down time for reflection in between. So I'm making a conscious effort to really be ALONE for a while. Just because I need to prove to myself that I can be on my own and feel good about myself without the awesome validation that comes with having a significant other (i.e. "See? I can't suck too much because THIS PERSON loves me!")

Perks of being single? Um, let's see:

1. Dancing uproariously to that Beyonce song
2. Shamelessly flirting with people who are totally wrong for me
3. Less shaving/waxing (money saved can be put toward important things like shoes)

I'm sure there are more perks, I just haven't figured them out yet. Oh yeah -- more time with friends. That's a good one.

I'm not trying to whine -- I've been very blessed in my relationships. And I'm on excellent, friendly terms with my recent ex, who is a delightful human being in every sense of the word. We're having lunch tomorrow, in fact. But it's daunting to think about starting over with someone new, even if I'm not rushing into it. Eventually, I will want to date again and the idea of having to start all over, convince yet another man that my relative high maintenance is worth it....it feels like a Sisyphean task. Hell, just finding a man that knows with "Sisyphean" means is going to be a challenge.

But for now, I'm just going to try to relax and trust that someday, someone will like it enough to put a ring on it.

Sad songs say so much

While my love life has been on the upswing lately (though you'd never know it from my Facebook status), many friends have recently checked into the Heartbreak Hotel. Fortunately, I am a connoisseur of depressing music. My "Love Stinks" mix CD is good enough to patent and sell (for a limited time only!) on T.V. at 3 a.m.

What constitutes the perfect break-up mix, you ask? In my opinion, it's important to strike a balance between 2 types of songs:

1. Very very sad, wrist-slitting, I'll-never-find-love-again songs
2. Angry/indifferent I-am-better-off-without-you, you-fucking-loser songs

And ideally, the last song should contain some message about hope and things happening for a reason, to send the listener off on a mildly upbeat, Zen note.

So here's my playlist of 36 songs that are guaranteed to make your next break-up suck a little less. Some are classics, some less familiar. I'm including links to all the tracks, which you can listen to for free, thanks to Songza.

1. Your Ex-Lover Is Dead (Stars)
2. She's Got You (Patsy Cline)
3. Destroy the Evidence (Casiotone for the Painfully Alone)
4. Rootless Tree (Damien Rice)
5. Sorry (Maria Mena)
6. Fuck the Pain Away (Peaches)
7. Comfortable (John Mayer)
8. Irreplaceable (Beyonce)
9. Where Did I Go Wrong (Martin Sexton)
10. Foundations (Kate Nash)
11. The Grass Is Blue (Dolly Parton)
12. Leave (Glen Hansard)
13. Reflections (Diana Ross and the Supremes)
14. Let Him Fly (Patty Griffin)
15. Too Tired (DeVotchKa)
16. I'll Be Seeing You (Billie Holiday)
17. Comeback (Josh Rouse)
18. Middle Cyclone (Neko Case)
19. Tears Dry on Their Own (Amy Winehouse)
20. Most of the Time (Bob Dylan)
21. This is Not A Love Song (Nouvelle Vague)
22. Past, Present, Future (The Shangri-Las)
23. Fuck and Run (Liz Phair)
24. Jolene (Ray LaMontagne)
25. Since U Been Gone (Kelly Clarkson)
26. Fistful of Love (Antony and the Johnsons)
27. Furniture (Final Fantasy)
28. Love Ridden (Fiona Apple)
29. When You Were Mine (Prince)
30. Smoke (Ben Folds Five)
31. How Come You Don't Call Me (Alicia Keys)
32. Lover, You Should Have Come Over (Jeff Buckley)
33. Untouchable Face (Ani DiFranco)
34. For No One (The Beatles)
35. Let It Die (Feist)
36. The Heart of the Matter (Don Henley)

If your heart has to get broken, at least make sure you have a decent soundtrack ready.

The worst part about being on Facebook

Clearly, there are many annoying things about Facebook, everyone's favorite time-wasting blessing-and-curse, but this has got to be the worst:

I recently went through a break-up and was torn about changing my Facebook status, out of fear of receiving questions and frowny-face emoticons from my 700+ friends. For about a week, my ex and I just didn't change anything. Then I discovered a privacy setting that allows you to change your relationship status without blasting it on your feed. So I erased my status altogether so I was not listed as single or in a relationship or, my personal favorite, "It's complicated with..." (isn't it always?)

However, my discretion proved to be moot yesterday, when my ex changed his status to single and allowed it to go out on his feed. Which of course invoked an onslaught of sympathy and encouragements on his wall to get out there and "pet the pussy" as soon as possible. Classy.

It's not so much that I'm annoyed with my ex -- after all, anything you can do to hasten the getting-over-someone process is a good thing -- I'm annoyed that we live in a world where you have to think about these things at all. I'm annoyed that as we were making the heartbreakingly personal and difficult decision to stop seeing each other, we actually had to discuss The Changing of the Facebook Status.

I've learned my lesson -- I'm never touching that shit again. No one on Facebook will ever know whether I'm single, in a relationship, engaged, married, divorced, cheating, rebounding, prostituting myself etc. If you want to know my "status," you're just going to have to ASK ME. Just like in olden times.

Showering Is Not Sexy

In intimate relationships, it is only a matter of time before one person suggests, "Why don't we take a shower together?"

In case I'm ever in bed with you, let me just be upfront about this: I do not shower well with others.

I know this makes me a weirdo. But the truth is, I'm not someone who loves the shower in the first place. Don't get me wrong, I shower daily, but I've never been the type who loves being in the shower and looks forward to showering and showers for as long as possible. I'm all business in the shower -- the business of getting myself clean.

If I have to shower with another person, suddenly a whole new element is introduced. I might need to make conversation in the shower, even if it's just "Can you pass the shampoo?" I will have to think about how I look in the shower and more specifically, do I look attractive to you, i.e. the person I've just been in bed with. That's a lot of stress. I don't think many people look sexy in the shower -- I don't think I do and no offense, but I probably won't think you do, either.

Here's what happens when you shower in a normal-sized shower with another person. No one wants to hog the water so there's an awkward back-and-forth shuffling. And you feel obligated to try to wash each other and try to make it sexy and romantic. The result is that NO ONE ACTUALLY GETS CLEAN, i.e. the entire purpose of the shower is lost.

And trying to have sex in the shower? Please, that is a logistical nightmare wherein variables like height and weight must be carefully considered before attempting.

My solution is what I call the Tag-Team Shower. Person #1 gets in, showers, and leaves the water on for person #2. There is maybe a moment or two of overlap in the bathroom. Both people get clean and get some alone time in the shower. Everyone wins.

Am I alone in this or does anyone agree with me here? Comment if you want to weigh in on this very important issue.

My new favorite book

Whenever I cave in and join the social networking site du jour, there is always one part of the inevitable profile section that strikes fear into my heart. I am fine with Favorite Music (I long ago accepted that I do not have cool taste in music), and Favorite Movies (Strictly Ballroom, Gone with the Wind), but then I get here and don't know what to do:











(FYI, that list is not from my actual Facebook profile. "Future Jihad"? Please.)

It's always so hard to list my favorite books, maybe because I have so many that I love. But recently, I discovered a tome that somehow slipped under the radar when Modern Library issued its 100 Best Books list. This book is also strangely absent from Time Magazine's list of 100 Greatest Books of All Time.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Jane Seymour's Guide to Romantic Living.


Published in 1986, lavishly illustrated and now woefully out of print, this book is AMAZING. It is filled with insights into how we can live more romantically. Jane Seymour, "one of the world's most fascinating and glamorous actresses" (jacket cover) helpfully explains in the Foreword that this book is not about "the lifelong partner" -- and let's hope not, because Jane is on husband #4. Romantic living is about "approaching your life with the drama and mystery that some of us think exists only in books, TV, and movies."

Jane's advice is very inspirational and easy to follow. In Chapter 3, "Bringing Romance to Everyday Life," she writes:

If there's a window near where you're reading this, look out of it. Really look. Observe. Look at the colors, the movement of the wind, the shape of things.
If you look long and hard enough you'll see a new world just outside your window...the miraculous is right outside your window if you only look.
And it's right inside your heart. (45)

When I look out my window, all I see is the BQE and All-Boro Auto Sound and Security. Maybe I just need more time with the book, though. No one said Romantic Living would be easy. After all, "most women have many roles to play: worker, mother, wife, hostess" (117). So true, Jane, so true. And as result, we have become "too lacking in mystery." Fortunately, Jane has some ideas about how to get the mystery back:

Try veils, hats, antique jewelry, lockets. Don't reveal too easily who is in the locket: just stare moodily into the distance and smile a tender, tragic smile. (146)

YES! A few pages later, Jane notes that "large floppy hats are mysterious too," or if you're feeling more adventurous, "tie your hair up into an exotic turban" (155). And it just keeps getting better:

If you're feeling predatory and vampish, why not try wearing some leather? Tina Turner wears short leather skirts; why shouldn't you, whatever your age?
(answer: because I don't have Tina Turner's legs?)

If you're in a dreamy, feminine mood, wear one of the Laura Ashley creations.
(great; now if I could just find that bus schedule for Milford, CT...)

I don't want to spoil all the surprises of this book; you should discover the pearls of Jane's wisdom all on your own. It's like Brenda Dickson, in book form! Jane's official fan site, www.friendsofjane.com, has lengthy excerpts from this book and others.

You know who looks like she could really benefit from some romantic living? This woman:

That's the real Jane Seymour, the 3rd wife of Henry VIII, who died at age 29. If only she'd worn more floppy hats, perhaps she'd have lived longer.