Hello munchkins. I have no idea what to write today, only knowing vaguely that I should write, but not knowing what on.
Let's see what's been going on lately.
a) I missed my favourite aesthetician last week while she was on vacation, and had to have my pubes pulled by a brisk, humorless gal who gave my beav a slightly crooked cast. I left feeling mildly chastised.
b) After a summer of health, I've caught a cold and am now stuffy and shnorty. Got movies. Am going to revel in 'Step Up' tonight as I have an illicit crush on a young man with the improbable name of Channing Tatum. He is ever so fine. I swear I've seen 'She's All That' about four times, partly for the zany Ms. Bynes but more for the pervy pleasures of the Channing sightings. Sigh and Ha!
c) I went and checked out the BodyWorlds exhibit with my ma, and was like, oh, these old things, I've seen them before, though I liked learning that the human brain takes 20% of our blood flow while only taking up 2% of our body mass. My mum had two glasses of white wine and got all old-school Communist in the line-up, refusing to accept that we were the 7:45pm showing and it was 7:15pm. I abandoned her temporarily and cruised for appetizers.
d) I had an extended conversation with my best friend and her girlfriend about art criticism and its impact on the artistic psyche. It was more fun than it sounds, as it was a Sunday afternoon and we had a bit o'beer and were discussing bad paintings they had executed while stoned. In the end, my girlfriend conceded she was PMSing and made me take one of the more interestingly ugly of the paintings. It goes nice in my house with the colours and all.
e) I saw a singer-songwriter in my town last Thursday and it was unexpectedly magical. Great tunes and performance. Another crush developed, this one a bit shy on both sides. I've told him that he's my new penpal. After many unexpected obstacles to facebooking (I could not for the life of me find the damn befriending button) we are Now Friends. I plot our paths once again crossing even as I chastise myself for being (at least) emotionally slutty.
You like your current beau, I tell myself silently. So why are you looking at other men--and not just looking, no, but imagining romantic walks in the rain and first kisses and hot sex in hotel rooms. You already have hot sex and great kisses and a man who flat-out adores you. You a mad bitch!
To which I reply: And still.
(reflective pause)
Still, there is something missing. As much as I enjoy this man and our time together, as much as I appreciate the ease with which we show affection to one another and the fun we have drinking rye and shooting pool together, as much as I am cognizant of this, I'm also the teeniest, tiniest bit bored. And what a terrible thing to think, but. Still.
Hence, the attraction to the wordsmithy musician and his snappy wit and charisma. The illusion of a happy challenge is an attractive one, no? Or maybe my attraction to men is proportionate to their distance from me (in this case it's the other side of this damn big country; then again Toronto has been good to me in the past).
Ah, Toronto the good. It was one year ago I was conniving with Guyfriend to have our fuckfest extravaganza in that city, booking fancy hotel rooms and not knowing what was going to happen, but hoping for some memorable times. And oh boy. I do feel a little wistful coming up to the anniversary of that time, as it shall not be repeated.
We have a relationship where sex gets in the way of closeness. Now that we are back to regular correspondents, there's nothing I can't tell him and vice versa. His current flame has told him directly she expects to propose to him in December, to which he thinks, Yes, you probably will. It is interesting to have a twin. We've both had/have our share of lovers (well, him especially) but I do believe that we are closest in a way that can't really be quantified, or compared directly to love interests, or even tolerated amiably in person for long periods of time. Twins. Weird but lovely, we've decided.
Anyway, that is all.
Oh, and f) I saw 'Inception' and thought it was a bloody good movie.
T'is all for now,
G-R
22 September 2010
12 September 2010
Autumn, What the Fuck?!
This is what my cat just exclaimed. It seems like scant weeks ago we were brushing out his underfur so that he could better endure the 14 hours of sunning he was doing on the back deck. Now, I have my woodstove blazing and he's alternately dopey on the couch, comatose on the floor. Now and then he raises his fine, half-breed Siamese head and rustily belts out a "What the fuck happened to summer?" before collapsing once again into drowsy.
I don't know. I like summer, especially when it's blazing hot and I find myself working in my bikini a lot and dropping ten pounds easily just from drinking so much water. This summer I managed to pack on ten pounds easily and did not work much in my bikini; nay, not even once, if memory serves. Sigh. Last summer was an inferno, and I was celibate and going for long long runs and dreaming of Guyfriend. This summer has been cool, I'm getting more regularly serviced than a Volvo and I'm not really dreaming of men, more focused on bizness and such.
Though...well, let's just say I canny help the horny green eye from roving now and then. I only get laid on the weekends, and I'd like more, and see, I work out at a gym with boxers and kickboxers and MMA guys and some of them are, admittedly, hunky as all heck. There's something about a sturdy, pleasantly vapid man wrestling another to the mat or whaling away on some focus mitts which does make me a trifle weak at the knees. A couple of nice mid/later single thirtysomethings that definitely are easy on the eyes...but then I do have a few cardinal rules governing This Life, and one of them is Thou Shalt Not Shit Where Thee Eats. I love my gym fiercely, and would never do anything to jeopardize my enjoyment of it. Once you start shagging the boys in a place, it's never the same.
I have never slept with anyone I work with, except when I was a teenager in a restaurant (and there it's part of the job description, restaurants being a "glamour" industry as I've been told). I know once you get intimate with someone in a circle, you disrupt the natural order. I don't particularly want the guys I train with knowing how I like to take it, or my extraordinary prowess at blowjobbery, or what my cooter smells like (delicious, I'm assured).
No, I'd rather retain an aura of mystery and seriousness that becomes very hard to maintain once you have sex within that arena. 'Cuz men, they can't keep their mouth shut about getting laid. To anyone. They can't help themselves. I mean, I might celebrate the fact I've gotten royally laid to my friends, but don't get into the gory details. And I don't consider the nice lady I get my occasional coffee from, or the woman I might spar with that I know as a first-name only as "friends". And I consider an anonymous blog a fair forum for the hilarity of dating/sex.
But lordy the boys, don't they love to blab in detail, give a blow by blow account of things, like to parade that shit all over the place, live? Yes they do. It would irk me. So the strapping men are safe from me, at this point. I'll just continue to sneak glances and cart around my pleasant salacious thoughts in secret.
Things are good. Two-thirds of this year has now raced by. I'm not where I thought I'd be, not doing what I thought I'd be doing, not with someone I thought I'd be with. This is all fine. Today I went to the swimming pool with my Honey, his mum, the kid and Kid 2, a vaguely related child of six or so who amuses the lesser kid.
We entered as a Family, though I was grasping my single pass with one . I was discomfited at the idea of paying as a Family. I cling to my cherished ideals about myself as Cool, and hustling into the pool as some shamily unit did not fit that ideal. However, there's a time to be gracious and this was such a time. ''Thank you, husband.'' I said, in my best demure voice.
The pool was loaded with kiddies and parents. I steeled myself...and had a great time. Kid 2 took me on the waterslides. I hadn't been on a waterslide in at least 25 years. I remember them being semi-transparent deals, so you could dimly see where you were going. These were pitch black. I built up what felt to me to be a tremendous amount of speed, hurtling in the dark, screaming ''Holy shit!'' in primitive fear before popping out the end with only a Speedo wedgie and accelerated heartrate as damage. Fun!
Kid 2 was a good sport. She was not embarrassed by the fact that I was wearing water wings. With giant inflated goldfish on them. I thought they were cute, and it so happened they fit me and not the kid they were intended for.
''I'm fashion-forward,'' I tried to explain to the sceptical nine-year old who eyed me askance and asked me why I was wearing those things. ''Like Lady Gaga. You'll see, in a few months everyone else will be wearing these. I'm a fashion pioneer. Do you know what a pioneer is?''
She gave me a repulsed look and turned back to her friend, and together they struck their best whatever Paris Hilton poses. I could tell they were thinking about it, though. Maybe water wings are the next big thing...
Ha! I love fucking with kids' minds. I can tell they don't know quite what to make of me. They know I'm too old to be a teen or someone cool, but I don't act like I'm a mum. I laugh when they get bonked in the head by an inflatable ball, or fall down while running (once it's established there's no injury), and mock them ceaselessly with a straight face. In a word, I'm an uncle.
Anyway, somehow my weekend has passed with a minimum of Tasks. Feels good, two days of sleeping in to 9am and not fussing too much about plans or obligations. This afternoon, for example, I convinced myself a good use of time was watching several Lady Gaga videos on my new netbook, as I'd referenced her earlier. I do believe she's a genius. The lovechild of Elton John and Madonna circa 1979, and with RuPaul as a nanny. And she can sing, and play piano, and dance in stilletos. Absolutely a genius.
Now I hang out on my bum-deadening futon couch (probably older than the Gaga) with my dogs as the fire snaps and crackles and the chat lies like a dead thing in front of it, and I drink the rest of a very nice Spanish grenacha. I'm likely in a small state of recovery.
My X stayed with me last week, for several days. He rode dirtbikes and played with the dogs and drank and rolled us both Drum cigarettes, and a good time was had by all. He's a very good person. However, he phoned me weeping the next day, missing us all terribly.
Lest you think there's something still between us, he agreed he'd be happy to become my adopted son if he just got to hang out at the country estate with the hounds and tinker on his goldurn motorbikes all day. The only thing between us is the memory of a co-dependency that was great for him, an exercise in masochism for me. And so it goes.
It does startle me, however, to remember that once upon a time, I would have done anything for this person. Now, I am wary of getting into the aquatic centre on a family pass lest it speak to a commitment I'm not ready for. It feels natural to be in a state of unknowing, to withhold myself from another person. Not ready to sink into another and trust they'll catch me instead of dragging me down. Anyway, now I go watch movie and veg out in weekend vegematic splendour. Happy autumnal fall!
--Gretchie ''Grey is my favourite colour, so bring autumn on, bitches!'' Rutte
I don't know. I like summer, especially when it's blazing hot and I find myself working in my bikini a lot and dropping ten pounds easily just from drinking so much water. This summer I managed to pack on ten pounds easily and did not work much in my bikini; nay, not even once, if memory serves. Sigh. Last summer was an inferno, and I was celibate and going for long long runs and dreaming of Guyfriend. This summer has been cool, I'm getting more regularly serviced than a Volvo and I'm not really dreaming of men, more focused on bizness and such.
Though...well, let's just say I canny help the horny green eye from roving now and then. I only get laid on the weekends, and I'd like more, and see, I work out at a gym with boxers and kickboxers and MMA guys and some of them are, admittedly, hunky as all heck. There's something about a sturdy, pleasantly vapid man wrestling another to the mat or whaling away on some focus mitts which does make me a trifle weak at the knees. A couple of nice mid/later single thirtysomethings that definitely are easy on the eyes...but then I do have a few cardinal rules governing This Life, and one of them is Thou Shalt Not Shit Where Thee Eats. I love my gym fiercely, and would never do anything to jeopardize my enjoyment of it. Once you start shagging the boys in a place, it's never the same.
I have never slept with anyone I work with, except when I was a teenager in a restaurant (and there it's part of the job description, restaurants being a "glamour" industry as I've been told). I know once you get intimate with someone in a circle, you disrupt the natural order. I don't particularly want the guys I train with knowing how I like to take it, or my extraordinary prowess at blowjobbery, or what my cooter smells like (delicious, I'm assured).
No, I'd rather retain an aura of mystery and seriousness that becomes very hard to maintain once you have sex within that arena. 'Cuz men, they can't keep their mouth shut about getting laid. To anyone. They can't help themselves. I mean, I might celebrate the fact I've gotten royally laid to my friends, but don't get into the gory details. And I don't consider the nice lady I get my occasional coffee from, or the woman I might spar with that I know as a first-name only as "friends". And I consider an anonymous blog a fair forum for the hilarity of dating/sex.
But lordy the boys, don't they love to blab in detail, give a blow by blow account of things, like to parade that shit all over the place, live? Yes they do. It would irk me. So the strapping men are safe from me, at this point. I'll just continue to sneak glances and cart around my pleasant salacious thoughts in secret.
Things are good. Two-thirds of this year has now raced by. I'm not where I thought I'd be, not doing what I thought I'd be doing, not with someone I thought I'd be with. This is all fine. Today I went to the swimming pool with my Honey, his mum, the kid and Kid 2, a vaguely related child of six or so who amuses the lesser kid.
We entered as a Family, though I was grasping my single pass with one . I was discomfited at the idea of paying as a Family. I cling to my cherished ideals about myself as Cool, and hustling into the pool as some shamily unit did not fit that ideal. However, there's a time to be gracious and this was such a time. ''Thank you, husband.'' I said, in my best demure voice.
The pool was loaded with kiddies and parents. I steeled myself...and had a great time. Kid 2 took me on the waterslides. I hadn't been on a waterslide in at least 25 years. I remember them being semi-transparent deals, so you could dimly see where you were going. These were pitch black. I built up what felt to me to be a tremendous amount of speed, hurtling in the dark, screaming ''Holy shit!'' in primitive fear before popping out the end with only a Speedo wedgie and accelerated heartrate as damage. Fun!
Kid 2 was a good sport. She was not embarrassed by the fact that I was wearing water wings. With giant inflated goldfish on them. I thought they were cute, and it so happened they fit me and not the kid they were intended for.
''I'm fashion-forward,'' I tried to explain to the sceptical nine-year old who eyed me askance and asked me why I was wearing those things. ''Like Lady Gaga. You'll see, in a few months everyone else will be wearing these. I'm a fashion pioneer. Do you know what a pioneer is?''
She gave me a repulsed look and turned back to her friend, and together they struck their best whatever Paris Hilton poses. I could tell they were thinking about it, though. Maybe water wings are the next big thing...
Ha! I love fucking with kids' minds. I can tell they don't know quite what to make of me. They know I'm too old to be a teen or someone cool, but I don't act like I'm a mum. I laugh when they get bonked in the head by an inflatable ball, or fall down while running (once it's established there's no injury), and mock them ceaselessly with a straight face. In a word, I'm an uncle.
Anyway, somehow my weekend has passed with a minimum of Tasks. Feels good, two days of sleeping in to 9am and not fussing too much about plans or obligations. This afternoon, for example, I convinced myself a good use of time was watching several Lady Gaga videos on my new netbook, as I'd referenced her earlier. I do believe she's a genius. The lovechild of Elton John and Madonna circa 1979, and with RuPaul as a nanny. And she can sing, and play piano, and dance in stilletos. Absolutely a genius.
Now I hang out on my bum-deadening futon couch (probably older than the Gaga) with my dogs as the fire snaps and crackles and the chat lies like a dead thing in front of it, and I drink the rest of a very nice Spanish grenacha. I'm likely in a small state of recovery.
My X stayed with me last week, for several days. He rode dirtbikes and played with the dogs and drank and rolled us both Drum cigarettes, and a good time was had by all. He's a very good person. However, he phoned me weeping the next day, missing us all terribly.
Lest you think there's something still between us, he agreed he'd be happy to become my adopted son if he just got to hang out at the country estate with the hounds and tinker on his goldurn motorbikes all day. The only thing between us is the memory of a co-dependency that was great for him, an exercise in masochism for me. And so it goes.
It does startle me, however, to remember that once upon a time, I would have done anything for this person. Now, I am wary of getting into the aquatic centre on a family pass lest it speak to a commitment I'm not ready for. It feels natural to be in a state of unknowing, to withhold myself from another person. Not ready to sink into another and trust they'll catch me instead of dragging me down. Anyway, now I go watch movie and veg out in weekend vegematic splendour. Happy autumnal fall!
--Gretchie ''Grey is my favourite colour, so bring autumn on, bitches!'' Rutte
31 August 2010
S/he's Just Not That Into You. Their Loss.
Good Lord, possums. Egad. It has been weeks and weeks and weeks since I last wrote, an anamoly for me. Although I haven't been so regular in my postings in the last few months, I've never gone more than 10 days without throwing out at least a link to a funny video or a snippet of poetry.
The bleated excuse of the 21st century slips from my lips in a murmur: I've been quite busy. Luckily, for the finances; unfortunately, for the writing. Between normal work and extra work (I'm now toting around a Blackberry for one short-term contract in addition to my own brick-like cellphone and deadweight laptop) and new work (a brand new company I'm co-founding, so exciting), and volunteer work (the last two out of three weekends, music festival and mixed martial arts extravaganza, respectively)...well, there's been lots of work in my life recently, and goodness while having a sense of newfound purpose is grand not to mention getting some cash back in hand, it's all taken up a lot of time.
So my apologies. It's rather banal to point the respective digit at "work", but that is the chief culprit. Sigh. I suspect I used to be more interesting than this. Now, despite myself, I'm working away diligently and dating a sweet fella with a goshdarn, occasional toddler. Jeez Almighty. I do have the occasional pang for sexcapades with Guyfriend, as I relate those to fancy/not so fancy hotels and restaurant meals and long, conversational coffees in big cities. This one: equal parts cosy pub, swimholes, rented movies, short roadtrips with a dash of Dora the Explorer. Ooooo.
Actually, for a Daddy-O he's pretty cool, but even he can't help falling into the alternately wheedling/stern tone of parenthood. Last Friday, exhausted and irritable with PMS, I had to rapidly drink a glass of wine and a Lucky lager to calmly endure a six-year old's energy for several minutes while Honey put his own kid to bed. Lordy, Lawdy. Mind you, I do enjoy the company of some children for sporadic, short bouts. I simply prefer the company of most adults.
Ah, adults. Interesting creatures. I once started to write about friendship but got onto lustier or funnier topics. Now, though, it's at the forefront of my thoughts.
In the last five months, I've been rejected three times. Once, sexually by my dear old Guyfriend; next, by the poor Date who just wasn't into me, ultimately; and now by a pretty good female friend who, it turns out, is struggling to come to terms with the fact that she's just not that into me either.
This last is bemusing, to say the least. I should clarify that there is nothing romantic between this gal and myself; nothing, in fact, romantic between me and any woman, past or present. Nope, this is just a friend who really likes the idea of me, and is confounded by the reality.
Here's a summary of our recent conversation, once it was established I did have time to talk and hello, how ya been, etc.
"Well, I've been really wanting to talk to you about something, and I haven't known how." she says.
"Well, go ahead, shoot." I say this jovially, thinking it is something unrelated to myself, of course. "It's hopefully nothing I've done to make you mad." I think this unlikely, you see.
"No, and that's what's so weird. You've probably noticed I haven't been making the effort to hang out with you or even talk to you the past month or so. I just haven't wanted to, and I can't figure it out."
Oh. In fact, I hadn't really noticed (see paragraph 1-3, busy). There had been the odd flash of I haven't seen this person for a while, but I honestly hadn't thought about it past these fleeting thoughts. I'd assumed we'd come together when we could, as friends do.
"Well...I talk a lot about business. Maybe you've wanted a break from that. I talk a lot about work and maybe you're at a point where you're happy with your work, or don't want to think about it in your off-time." I'm trying to be gracious here, and give her an out. She doesn't take it.
"No...that's not it. I just haven't been motivated to hang out with you. I think, 'Oh, I should give her a call, or we should do something...' and then I realize I don't really want to, and I feel guilty. Because I think you're a great person, I really do! I can't figure it out."
At this point, I just start giggling, and remain in a state of giggle for the rest of the conversation. It seems surreal. I like this person, partly because she is so interested in examining her own thought processes and reactions. But in this case, I believe she is overthinking the situation. I cannot and will not persuade her to like me, no matter what merits I may possess.
After drawing parallels to foods I like but have overdosed on in the past and thus needed a rest from, I let her know I'd rather have her not call or see me than build up resentment towards my existence out of friendship guilt.
And that's pretty much that. I'm not going to spend too much time or energy on convincing someone they should be stoked to be friends with me, or in trying to reassure them I'm okay, you're okay, it's all okay. Because it's not that neat, even if it is simple.
People attract and repel. I don't mean this purely in the sexual sense: it happens platonically as well. I've been attracted to people when I should have known better, and repelled by people who meant well but set my teeth on edge. That's that.
I'm learning to take rejection with grace. I prefer to think of it as dissolution, of feeling once imagined or fancies dissolving with exposure and time. My friend likes the idea of me, but not the reality. The Date thought I was hot and a good person, but found we were not as compatible as it seemed at the beginning. Guyfriend...well, he's got his own damage, but I like to think he treasures the friendship we have over the sex.
Lest you think me a trifle saintly, let me be clear. These, I understand, are generous assessments. They are made not so much to sanctify the Other; more to protect my own ego. Besides this, I do like to think positively, or barring this, pragmatically. "What is the lesson I can learn from this pain?" I'm finding is my usual reaction almost immediately following the painful surprise of rejection. And so it goes.
And lest you think me a trifle Zen, I think these people are fucking idiots, to a certain degree. Yes, even my beloved Guyfriend, who is still one of my nearest and dearest friends and is likely to remain so for life; yes, even a man who is so close to myself in temperament and tastes that we frequently and mutually refer to "our twinship"; a person for whom I have enormous respect intellectually and spiritually--yes, even this exalted figure in my life I feel, in this regard, is a complete and utter doofus.
In truth, I occasionally fantasize about him seeing the error of his ways and Developing Feelings for me at some point in the years to come, and blurting out (perhaps in the afternoon rain, oh yes) that he'd made a mistake when he said no to continuing as lovers; and me sympathetically nodding and smiling sweetly and telling him he made the right call, all those years ago. In other words, eat your fucking heart out, chump. Interesting how one can carry affection and vengeance in one's heart simultaneously.
As for my friend, I don't know what to say to her. She's a few years younger than myself, so I think her over-communication springs partly from this, partly from her fiercely psychiatric-intellectual outlook. At any rate, I shrug in her general direction: I'm interested to know you, but won't miss you much if you're gone.
The number of people who are genuinely close to me are few and far between, and even they shift over the years. I'm lucky to have them in my life when I have them, but recognize they can come and go with the currents of their life, which may not necessarily be carrying them in my direction. A Gallic shrug here, and more wine, garçon.
And yes, mostly I am that self-assured. I'm fairly pleased with myself and my own company, and think that while I'm lucky to have my friends and family, why, they're also pretty lucky to have me.
At any rate, I do find it all pretty interesting. Now, I shall go to sleep soon, but apologize again to no one in particular re: my long absence from this space. I've liked the time to be busybusy and mull things over without expression in the corners of my brain, but also am enjoying returning to the act of writing. See you soon, possums.
-Gretchen
The bleated excuse of the 21st century slips from my lips in a murmur: I've been quite busy. Luckily, for the finances; unfortunately, for the writing. Between normal work and extra work (I'm now toting around a Blackberry for one short-term contract in addition to my own brick-like cellphone and deadweight laptop) and new work (a brand new company I'm co-founding, so exciting), and volunteer work (the last two out of three weekends, music festival and mixed martial arts extravaganza, respectively)...well, there's been lots of work in my life recently, and goodness while having a sense of newfound purpose is grand not to mention getting some cash back in hand, it's all taken up a lot of time.
So my apologies. It's rather banal to point the respective digit at "work", but that is the chief culprit. Sigh. I suspect I used to be more interesting than this. Now, despite myself, I'm working away diligently and dating a sweet fella with a goshdarn, occasional toddler. Jeez Almighty. I do have the occasional pang for sexcapades with Guyfriend, as I relate those to fancy/not so fancy hotels and restaurant meals and long, conversational coffees in big cities. This one: equal parts cosy pub, swimholes, rented movies, short roadtrips with a dash of Dora the Explorer. Ooooo.
Actually, for a Daddy-O he's pretty cool, but even he can't help falling into the alternately wheedling/stern tone of parenthood. Last Friday, exhausted and irritable with PMS, I had to rapidly drink a glass of wine and a Lucky lager to calmly endure a six-year old's energy for several minutes while Honey put his own kid to bed. Lordy, Lawdy. Mind you, I do enjoy the company of some children for sporadic, short bouts. I simply prefer the company of most adults.
Ah, adults. Interesting creatures. I once started to write about friendship but got onto lustier or funnier topics. Now, though, it's at the forefront of my thoughts.
In the last five months, I've been rejected three times. Once, sexually by my dear old Guyfriend; next, by the poor Date who just wasn't into me, ultimately; and now by a pretty good female friend who, it turns out, is struggling to come to terms with the fact that she's just not that into me either.
This last is bemusing, to say the least. I should clarify that there is nothing romantic between this gal and myself; nothing, in fact, romantic between me and any woman, past or present. Nope, this is just a friend who really likes the idea of me, and is confounded by the reality.
Here's a summary of our recent conversation, once it was established I did have time to talk and hello, how ya been, etc.
"Well, I've been really wanting to talk to you about something, and I haven't known how." she says.
"Well, go ahead, shoot." I say this jovially, thinking it is something unrelated to myself, of course. "It's hopefully nothing I've done to make you mad." I think this unlikely, you see.
"No, and that's what's so weird. You've probably noticed I haven't been making the effort to hang out with you or even talk to you the past month or so. I just haven't wanted to, and I can't figure it out."
Oh. In fact, I hadn't really noticed (see paragraph 1-3, busy). There had been the odd flash of I haven't seen this person for a while, but I honestly hadn't thought about it past these fleeting thoughts. I'd assumed we'd come together when we could, as friends do.
"Well...I talk a lot about business. Maybe you've wanted a break from that. I talk a lot about work and maybe you're at a point where you're happy with your work, or don't want to think about it in your off-time." I'm trying to be gracious here, and give her an out. She doesn't take it.
"No...that's not it. I just haven't been motivated to hang out with you. I think, 'Oh, I should give her a call, or we should do something...' and then I realize I don't really want to, and I feel guilty. Because I think you're a great person, I really do! I can't figure it out."
At this point, I just start giggling, and remain in a state of giggle for the rest of the conversation. It seems surreal. I like this person, partly because she is so interested in examining her own thought processes and reactions. But in this case, I believe she is overthinking the situation. I cannot and will not persuade her to like me, no matter what merits I may possess.
After drawing parallels to foods I like but have overdosed on in the past and thus needed a rest from, I let her know I'd rather have her not call or see me than build up resentment towards my existence out of friendship guilt.
And that's pretty much that. I'm not going to spend too much time or energy on convincing someone they should be stoked to be friends with me, or in trying to reassure them I'm okay, you're okay, it's all okay. Because it's not that neat, even if it is simple.
People attract and repel. I don't mean this purely in the sexual sense: it happens platonically as well. I've been attracted to people when I should have known better, and repelled by people who meant well but set my teeth on edge. That's that.
I'm learning to take rejection with grace. I prefer to think of it as dissolution, of feeling once imagined or fancies dissolving with exposure and time. My friend likes the idea of me, but not the reality. The Date thought I was hot and a good person, but found we were not as compatible as it seemed at the beginning. Guyfriend...well, he's got his own damage, but I like to think he treasures the friendship we have over the sex.
Lest you think me a trifle saintly, let me be clear. These, I understand, are generous assessments. They are made not so much to sanctify the Other; more to protect my own ego. Besides this, I do like to think positively, or barring this, pragmatically. "What is the lesson I can learn from this pain?" I'm finding is my usual reaction almost immediately following the painful surprise of rejection. And so it goes.
And lest you think me a trifle Zen, I think these people are fucking idiots, to a certain degree. Yes, even my beloved Guyfriend, who is still one of my nearest and dearest friends and is likely to remain so for life; yes, even a man who is so close to myself in temperament and tastes that we frequently and mutually refer to "our twinship"; a person for whom I have enormous respect intellectually and spiritually--yes, even this exalted figure in my life I feel, in this regard, is a complete and utter doofus.
In truth, I occasionally fantasize about him seeing the error of his ways and Developing Feelings for me at some point in the years to come, and blurting out (perhaps in the afternoon rain, oh yes) that he'd made a mistake when he said no to continuing as lovers; and me sympathetically nodding and smiling sweetly and telling him he made the right call, all those years ago. In other words, eat your fucking heart out, chump. Interesting how one can carry affection and vengeance in one's heart simultaneously.
As for my friend, I don't know what to say to her. She's a few years younger than myself, so I think her over-communication springs partly from this, partly from her fiercely psychiatric-intellectual outlook. At any rate, I shrug in her general direction: I'm interested to know you, but won't miss you much if you're gone.
The number of people who are genuinely close to me are few and far between, and even they shift over the years. I'm lucky to have them in my life when I have them, but recognize they can come and go with the currents of their life, which may not necessarily be carrying them in my direction. A Gallic shrug here, and more wine, garçon.
And yes, mostly I am that self-assured. I'm fairly pleased with myself and my own company, and think that while I'm lucky to have my friends and family, why, they're also pretty lucky to have me.
At any rate, I do find it all pretty interesting. Now, I shall go to sleep soon, but apologize again to no one in particular re: my long absence from this space. I've liked the time to be busybusy and mull things over without expression in the corners of my brain, but also am enjoying returning to the act of writing. See you soon, possums.
-Gretchen
06 August 2010
Men Who Hate Women
This, dear Reader, was the original title of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Of course, you know this, as you are likely in the deep end of the trilogy along with several million other Canadians. I am. It took me a few hundred pages to get there, but I'm pleasantly in now.
The joy of getting into a thick, hastily printed paperback is unlike any other joy. Akin to finding a box of fudgesicles in the freezer on a blazing hot day and eat them languorously on the deck naked and staring at the uncut lawn. You didn't know you needed to do that until you did it, and you don't regret it while you're doing it and don't regret it after. Such is the pleasure afforded by Steig Larsson's novels.
There was a humourous article printed in the national newspaper last weekend, fondly lampooning the saga. For example, how everyone is always making coffee and unappealing sandwiches (meat/spread + pickle on rye is a recurring theme).
Or the dispassionate, pragmatic way people go about having (consensual) sex with one another, for no other reason than they want to at the time. Might I add people not only in their twenties, but also in their 40s and 50s. Infidelity is explained matter-of-factly as either being a condition of one relationship or the cause of its end, but provokes no floods of tears or hysterical displays.
Or the level of brandname-itis that runs throughout, not in any overtly commercial way but as mere fact. Lisbeth does not go shopping for a computer; she sets her sights on "the new Apple PowerBook G4/1.0 GHz in an aluminum case with a Power PC 7451 processor with an Altivec Velocity Engine, 960 MB RAM and a 60 GB hard drive. It had Bluetooth and built-in CD and DVD burners." It's the Rainman approach to narrative, every detail noted and shared.
It is curious and even a little tedious until the action picks up, and then you realize you've been lulled into a highly suggestible state. The rythym you've fallen into is thoroughly engrossing, like listening to someone with a calm demeanor and soft voice telling you how they exacted gruesome revenge upon those who had wronged them.
Of course, Ms. Salander is the heart of the novel, a cryptic little heroine with a flat chest and tattoos. Blomkvist is fine, but hardly a character which could drive the series. Nope, it's weird little Lisbeth that we love and identify with and admire for not feeling sorry for herself or being a victim, even as we are allowed to glimpse her self-doubt and fear. We are not told what she feels; we are told what she does and how she reacts and to a certain extent, why. It's refreshing.
She's not a flake nor a victim, not a sidekick or an ass-kicking heroine. I'm only just finished the first novel, but so far she not "on a journey" or had any revelations about who she really is, really. She has not gone shopping to make herself feel better; she goes shopping to get things she needs. And the other main characters only grocery shop, it seems. Message being that you can't make sandwiches from nothing.
Even if the series is several years old by now, it seems a timely antidote to the fictional women that dominate our cinema screens. There's the sexily scowling, invincible heroine taking on all evil-doers with physically impossible (and apparently painless) stunts; the domestically-demanding, skirted Wife/Girlfriend who just loves to go shopping with the gals when she's not berating her Manchild; and her sister, the independent city gal who is supposed to be defined by her job though we never see her do it or hear her refer to it in any detail, as she's too busy gushing on about how all the good men are taken, etc. A jockey-sized, borderline autistic computer-hacker is just what we need.
Having gone to see La Belle Jolie in the instantly forgettable Salt on matinee impulse with Honey the other day, I walked out saying how it'd be nice to see a movie heroine who looks like she's been in a few fights. How about a stocky, fit middle-aged broad with a few scars, maybe even a broken nose or chipped teeth? No make-up, thoughtlessly tied pony-tail, sensible shoes, clothes that allow her to move uninhibited, and most of all, believable fighting chops that leave her sweating and panting and probably too sore to slip into a Galiano gown to drink champagne all night. That's right: someone who looks like a middle-aged, possibly lesbian yoga enthusiast. Why not? It shall have to be my creation.
In the meantime, I'm a trifle miffed that the Swedish movie version of TGWTDT, which I've heard is excellent and had rented to do prime wallowing veg-out to tonight, is not actually in my possession. The wrong DVD was placed in the case, so I can either watch season 1 of Mad Men or start book 2. I start book 2.
Signing off from her place in her 2010 queen-sized, Tempur-Pedic OriginalBed with crumpled white cotton sheets and bright green pillow cases,
GR
ps Holy shit, my bed's Swedish!
The joy of getting into a thick, hastily printed paperback is unlike any other joy. Akin to finding a box of fudgesicles in the freezer on a blazing hot day and eat them languorously on the deck naked and staring at the uncut lawn. You didn't know you needed to do that until you did it, and you don't regret it while you're doing it and don't regret it after. Such is the pleasure afforded by Steig Larsson's novels.
There was a humourous article printed in the national newspaper last weekend, fondly lampooning the saga. For example, how everyone is always making coffee and unappealing sandwiches (meat/spread + pickle on rye is a recurring theme).
Or the dispassionate, pragmatic way people go about having (consensual) sex with one another, for no other reason than they want to at the time. Might I add people not only in their twenties, but also in their 40s and 50s. Infidelity is explained matter-of-factly as either being a condition of one relationship or the cause of its end, but provokes no floods of tears or hysterical displays.
Or the level of brandname-itis that runs throughout, not in any overtly commercial way but as mere fact. Lisbeth does not go shopping for a computer; she sets her sights on "the new Apple PowerBook G4/1.0 GHz in an aluminum case with a Power PC 7451 processor with an Altivec Velocity Engine, 960 MB RAM and a 60 GB hard drive. It had Bluetooth and built-in CD and DVD burners." It's the Rainman approach to narrative, every detail noted and shared.
It is curious and even a little tedious until the action picks up, and then you realize you've been lulled into a highly suggestible state. The rythym you've fallen into is thoroughly engrossing, like listening to someone with a calm demeanor and soft voice telling you how they exacted gruesome revenge upon those who had wronged them.
Of course, Ms. Salander is the heart of the novel, a cryptic little heroine with a flat chest and tattoos. Blomkvist is fine, but hardly a character which could drive the series. Nope, it's weird little Lisbeth that we love and identify with and admire for not feeling sorry for herself or being a victim, even as we are allowed to glimpse her self-doubt and fear. We are not told what she feels; we are told what she does and how she reacts and to a certain extent, why. It's refreshing.
She's not a flake nor a victim, not a sidekick or an ass-kicking heroine. I'm only just finished the first novel, but so far she not "on a journey" or had any revelations about who she really is, really. She has not gone shopping to make herself feel better; she goes shopping to get things she needs. And the other main characters only grocery shop, it seems. Message being that you can't make sandwiches from nothing.
Even if the series is several years old by now, it seems a timely antidote to the fictional women that dominate our cinema screens. There's the sexily scowling, invincible heroine taking on all evil-doers with physically impossible (and apparently painless) stunts; the domestically-demanding, skirted Wife/Girlfriend who just loves to go shopping with the gals when she's not berating her Manchild; and her sister, the independent city gal who is supposed to be defined by her job though we never see her do it or hear her refer to it in any detail, as she's too busy gushing on about how all the good men are taken, etc. A jockey-sized, borderline autistic computer-hacker is just what we need.
Having gone to see La Belle Jolie in the instantly forgettable Salt on matinee impulse with Honey the other day, I walked out saying how it'd be nice to see a movie heroine who looks like she's been in a few fights. How about a stocky, fit middle-aged broad with a few scars, maybe even a broken nose or chipped teeth? No make-up, thoughtlessly tied pony-tail, sensible shoes, clothes that allow her to move uninhibited, and most of all, believable fighting chops that leave her sweating and panting and probably too sore to slip into a Galiano gown to drink champagne all night. That's right: someone who looks like a middle-aged, possibly lesbian yoga enthusiast. Why not? It shall have to be my creation.
In the meantime, I'm a trifle miffed that the Swedish movie version of TGWTDT, which I've heard is excellent and had rented to do prime wallowing veg-out to tonight, is not actually in my possession. The wrong DVD was placed in the case, so I can either watch season 1 of Mad Men or start book 2. I start book 2.
Signing off from her place in her 2010 queen-sized, Tempur-Pedic OriginalBed with crumpled white cotton sheets and bright green pillow cases,
GR
ps Holy shit, my bed's Swedish!
29 July 2010
Hebrew Mamita
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tc0c-n5PTJo&feature=related
Check out the kosher sizzle of spoken wordster Vanessa Hidary. Hell yeah.
Check out the kosher sizzle of spoken wordster Vanessa Hidary. Hell yeah.
28 July 2010
A Male Taxonomy
Good evening. I am laying in bed about to watch a movie, the tiniest bit fretful as I pulled something small but painful in my knee today in my warm-up skipping. I was hobbled during class and could only punch from a static position and bear the brunt of my sparring partner's kicks.
I'm hoping when I wake up tomorrow it will be healed. This sort of optimism made me laugh at my own maleness--optimism being inherently male, dontcha know. And then I got to thinking about some of the men I have known, and how one goes about categorizing them.
Guyfriend once remarked on there being two types of single women in our age group in his city.
"There's yoga ladies and pet ladies, Rutte. That's it. Sure, there are women our age apart from those, but they're all married or divorced and with child and struggling to stay afloat or career gals, so they're not wanting to date. Not exactly looking for yuks, as they say. That leaves pet ladies and yoga ladies."
At the time, I'd smugly pointed out that I did not yoga, I box and kickbox. Guyfriend stared pointedly at my two dogs, one which was fixated on its frisbee, the other joyfully trying to plant his front paws deep within Guyfriend's groin. On the deck, the cat yowled rustily.
"You're so a pets lady. No question about it."
Point taken. In my defense, none of the animals are allowed to sleep in my bed any longer. This is truly the mark of a pets lady, a bed filled with fur and muddy paw imprints.
Anyway, this conversation about the ladies begs the question: what about the two categories of men? Guyfriend sidled away from this conversation, perhaps not wanting to be studied and classified. (Too bad.)
Let me just say that I believe there are two categories of people in general: those who categorize people in one of two categories, and those who do not. Buh-whum-BUM! But seriously, folks...there are two categories of males. Caveat, caveat: I've added several sub-categories to the first one.
It is my hope you will recognize some of the classification information as pertinent to your species of lover/brother/friend. Whether you ultimately choose to shoot, gut and tie the creature to the hood of your car is up to you.
Category 1: The Manchilds
Subcategory a: The Obsessive Collector/Hobbyist
Ah, perpetual youth! Mischevious imp, gleam in your eye as you survey toys and candy and material promises, oh my. Understandable when you're four, off-putting in 30 years time.
This type has either been over-indulged as a child, or cruelly denied all his callow heart ever desired. The result is the same, however: an obsession as an adult with amassing things. Tools, outdoor gear, ATVs, traditional bows, dirtbikes, mountain bikes, boards for surf and snow and skate. If you're attached to one of this ilk, you likely have one or all of these items in your home.
I do, as the X was this. Fifteen months after official break-up, my house still contains welders and large tool boxes and climbing gear and wheels for all manner of bikes and a skidoo...and...let's see, there's even a two foot half-built model airplane made of balsa wood with a little gasoline engine. I kid you not.
It's all still here because he lives in a city where he cannot afford to store it, but he's working on it. And I'm a goddamn patient woman. Anyway, he's this type. Entitled to pursue as many hobbies they can (or cannot) afford money- or time-wise, addicted to instant gratification. (This type, of course, is not native to the male of the species, as evidenced by these head-scratching SITC women of yore who shop compulsively for shoes/tchotchkes/whatever. But I date men, so reserve comment for them in this post.)
Subcategory b: BroMan
This closely-related sub can be easily identified by their referring to friends as "bros" and near constant fist-bumping. And beer orthodoxy (here it's Lucky lager or else).
They're usually a minor Collector or Dedicated Hobbyist, but live on the verge of poverty as all those wicked trips to Vegas and baggies of weed really add up. Chances are they feel most comfortable running in a tight cluster of other Manchilds, watching hockey together and opining on their dream boats (like, really, these guys tend to love boat engines).
Women are generally desired but unsettling. Females their own age are at best uninterested in long conversations which invariably start with, "Hey dude, d'ya remember when we...", so they gravitate to much younger women who have yet to form strong opinions or interests of their own. These gals are deemed easy-going. Sigh. Often these Manchilds are quite attractive, but are fatally paralyzed by a lack of empathy and imagination.
On a side note, the only close female relationship they typically have is with their mother. Yes, they're live-out mommaboys. To paraphrase Waylon Jennings: Mommas, don't let your babies grow up to be mommaboys. It's weird. My first boyfriend was a mommaboy, poor guy. I mean, she was unironic English as well, how rough is that?
Subcategory c: The Naughty Boy
Okay, the Collectors and BroMan may be expensive or perplexing, but they are at least fun if you pick up some of their lingo and roll with it. Not so the over-ripe Naughty Boy, most repellent of creatures.
A boyish manner may be tolerable or even a little cute when a man (and yourself) is floating through the 20s. Once the behaviour creeps into the 30s, however, it should be stamped out without mercy. Have you ever squirmed in the presence of a whiny man in his 40s or even 50s with his face set in a secretly delighted I've-been-a-bad-little-boy moue? Gross.
The only thing grosser is when mummywife is also present, and they bicker back and forth on some banal topic in a nightmarishly placid way that lends credence to the Freudian theory of the Oedipus complex, and she ends the conversation by sighing and smiling and rolling her eyes patiently boys-will-be-boys and he smirks and minces yes-we-shall and I puke a little in the back of my throat. For. God's. Sake. People. And this is what passes for "light conversation" with them. My stars. Personally, I'd be mortified to act this way in public, and I once danced topless on top of a semi-truck at a bush party. In my defense, I was 18 and drunk, but you people, you're perpetually, agelessly fucked.
Subcategory d: The Lost Boy
This sub is trixie, as he can be devilishly charming, sophisticated, intelligent, sexy, a stout friend and gifted conversationalist. (In a word: Guyfriend.) Be vigilant, as they are the most dangerous Manchilds of all because they have so much to recommend them, and initially appear so very interested in the women they choose. Beware.
Allergic to responsibility, the Lost Boy equates it to conformity and complacency. Don't try to tie these bohemians down with your staid concepts of stability, maturity and commitment. They're living the dream, man. I admire their adherence to this dream, but look askance upon their fickle and misguided emotional manoeuvres.
I object most to the self-deception. They avoid love by speaking of it most highly, and are practising Romantics in the worst sense of the word. Such lofty ideals allow them to run through women at a fast pace: Oh, she's great! She could be the One...oh, she slightly irritated me, or looked a little flustered this afternoon, or misprounced the word "hegemony"--there bursts my bubble. Next!
Discarding women and justifying it on the pretext of feelings-just-not-there seems cold, until you realize just how thick a protective shell they've created for themselves. They're terrified of mature, imperfect, occasionally inconstant love. It can be hard. There's always the chance it will dissipate or shift into neutral for a while, or that the things you prized about yourself or herself are eventually called into question. Romance is so much simpler. Dizzying passion, while fleeting, can be very certain. So that's their fall-back position: sexual adventure, emotional cowardice.
In old-fashioned times, these men were called rakes; later playboys; in not so distant times, players/playahs. However, as they age they deteriorate into slimy, deluded old sluts clinging to an outdated notion of self while still searching for (youthful, angelic yet intellectual) female perfection. Dreaming the dream, man. Bitterness, regret, bad teeth and chronic back pain result from not taking proper care of themselves in their youth, so they're best avoided.
I'm hoping when I wake up tomorrow it will be healed. This sort of optimism made me laugh at my own maleness--optimism being inherently male, dontcha know. And then I got to thinking about some of the men I have known, and how one goes about categorizing them.
Guyfriend once remarked on there being two types of single women in our age group in his city.
"There's yoga ladies and pet ladies, Rutte. That's it. Sure, there are women our age apart from those, but they're all married or divorced and with child and struggling to stay afloat or career gals, so they're not wanting to date. Not exactly looking for yuks, as they say. That leaves pet ladies and yoga ladies."
At the time, I'd smugly pointed out that I did not yoga, I box and kickbox. Guyfriend stared pointedly at my two dogs, one which was fixated on its frisbee, the other joyfully trying to plant his front paws deep within Guyfriend's groin. On the deck, the cat yowled rustily.
"You're so a pets lady. No question about it."
Point taken. In my defense, none of the animals are allowed to sleep in my bed any longer. This is truly the mark of a pets lady, a bed filled with fur and muddy paw imprints.
Anyway, this conversation about the ladies begs the question: what about the two categories of men? Guyfriend sidled away from this conversation, perhaps not wanting to be studied and classified. (Too bad.)
Let me just say that I believe there are two categories of people in general: those who categorize people in one of two categories, and those who do not. Buh-whum-BUM! But seriously, folks...there are two categories of males. Caveat, caveat: I've added several sub-categories to the first one.
It is my hope you will recognize some of the classification information as pertinent to your species of lover/brother/friend. Whether you ultimately choose to shoot, gut and tie the creature to the hood of your car is up to you.
Category 1: The Manchilds
Subcategory a: The Obsessive Collector/Hobbyist
Ah, perpetual youth! Mischevious imp, gleam in your eye as you survey toys and candy and material promises, oh my. Understandable when you're four, off-putting in 30 years time.
This type has either been over-indulged as a child, or cruelly denied all his callow heart ever desired. The result is the same, however: an obsession as an adult with amassing things. Tools, outdoor gear, ATVs, traditional bows, dirtbikes, mountain bikes, boards for surf and snow and skate. If you're attached to one of this ilk, you likely have one or all of these items in your home.
I do, as the X was this. Fifteen months after official break-up, my house still contains welders and large tool boxes and climbing gear and wheels for all manner of bikes and a skidoo...and...let's see, there's even a two foot half-built model airplane made of balsa wood with a little gasoline engine. I kid you not.
It's all still here because he lives in a city where he cannot afford to store it, but he's working on it. And I'm a goddamn patient woman. Anyway, he's this type. Entitled to pursue as many hobbies they can (or cannot) afford money- or time-wise, addicted to instant gratification. (This type, of course, is not native to the male of the species, as evidenced by these head-scratching SITC women of yore who shop compulsively for shoes/tchotchkes/whatever. But I date men, so reserve comment for them in this post.)
Subcategory b: BroMan
This closely-related sub can be easily identified by their referring to friends as "bros" and near constant fist-bumping. And beer orthodoxy (here it's Lucky lager or else).
They're usually a minor Collector or Dedicated Hobbyist, but live on the verge of poverty as all those wicked trips to Vegas and baggies of weed really add up. Chances are they feel most comfortable running in a tight cluster of other Manchilds, watching hockey together and opining on their dream boats (like, really, these guys tend to love boat engines).
Women are generally desired but unsettling. Females their own age are at best uninterested in long conversations which invariably start with, "Hey dude, d'ya remember when we...", so they gravitate to much younger women who have yet to form strong opinions or interests of their own. These gals are deemed easy-going. Sigh. Often these Manchilds are quite attractive, but are fatally paralyzed by a lack of empathy and imagination.
On a side note, the only close female relationship they typically have is with their mother. Yes, they're live-out mommaboys. To paraphrase Waylon Jennings: Mommas, don't let your babies grow up to be mommaboys. It's weird. My first boyfriend was a mommaboy, poor guy. I mean, she was unironic English as well, how rough is that?
Subcategory c: The Naughty Boy
Okay, the Collectors and BroMan may be expensive or perplexing, but they are at least fun if you pick up some of their lingo and roll with it. Not so the over-ripe Naughty Boy, most repellent of creatures.
A boyish manner may be tolerable or even a little cute when a man (and yourself) is floating through the 20s. Once the behaviour creeps into the 30s, however, it should be stamped out without mercy. Have you ever squirmed in the presence of a whiny man in his 40s or even 50s with his face set in a secretly delighted I've-been-a-bad-little-boy moue? Gross.
The only thing grosser is when mummywife is also present, and they bicker back and forth on some banal topic in a nightmarishly placid way that lends credence to the Freudian theory of the Oedipus complex, and she ends the conversation by sighing and smiling and rolling her eyes patiently boys-will-be-boys and he smirks and minces yes-we-shall and I puke a little in the back of my throat. For. God's. Sake. People. And this is what passes for "light conversation" with them. My stars. Personally, I'd be mortified to act this way in public, and I once danced topless on top of a semi-truck at a bush party. In my defense, I was 18 and drunk, but you people, you're perpetually, agelessly fucked.
Subcategory d: The Lost Boy
This sub is trixie, as he can be devilishly charming, sophisticated, intelligent, sexy, a stout friend and gifted conversationalist. (In a word: Guyfriend.) Be vigilant, as they are the most dangerous Manchilds of all because they have so much to recommend them, and initially appear so very interested in the women they choose. Beware.
Allergic to responsibility, the Lost Boy equates it to conformity and complacency. Don't try to tie these bohemians down with your staid concepts of stability, maturity and commitment. They're living the dream, man. I admire their adherence to this dream, but look askance upon their fickle and misguided emotional manoeuvres.
I object most to the self-deception. They avoid love by speaking of it most highly, and are practising Romantics in the worst sense of the word. Such lofty ideals allow them to run through women at a fast pace: Oh, she's great! She could be the One...oh, she slightly irritated me, or looked a little flustered this afternoon, or misprounced the word "hegemony"--there bursts my bubble. Next!
Discarding women and justifying it on the pretext of feelings-just-not-there seems cold, until you realize just how thick a protective shell they've created for themselves. They're terrified of mature, imperfect, occasionally inconstant love. It can be hard. There's always the chance it will dissipate or shift into neutral for a while, or that the things you prized about yourself or herself are eventually called into question. Romance is so much simpler. Dizzying passion, while fleeting, can be very certain. So that's their fall-back position: sexual adventure, emotional cowardice.
In old-fashioned times, these men were called rakes; later playboys; in not so distant times, players/playahs. However, as they age they deteriorate into slimy, deluded old sluts clinging to an outdated notion of self while still searching for (youthful, angelic yet intellectual) female perfection. Dreaming the dream, man. Bitterness, regret, bad teeth and chronic back pain result from not taking proper care of themselves in their youth, so they're best avoided.
I think that exhausts my knowledge of the Manchilds. On a simpler note:
Category 2: Men
Men are not macho, tyrannical or overly stern. They don't pout to get what they want. They're not control freaks, or abusers, and they don't have all the answers or know how to do everything. And they're not pussies, either.
What they are (and I've had very limited exposure, mind you) are patient, kind, interested in people and fallible. And they don't pretend to not know how to clean a kitchen or bathroom.
They don't automatically withdraw into icy silence, get furious or curl into fetal position when challenged, preferring to ask questions instead to determine if they have just cause to be irked, or if they misinterpreted or misheard a comment.
If you're at a party together and he's getting tired, he looks to see if you're having a good time; if yes, he decides that maybe you should both stay a little while longer without him shooting pained, desperate looks or visibly sulking in the corner.
I know, it sounds crazy. But I've met one, honest. I think. Keep you posted.
Pet lady out--
19 July 2010
Revenge of the Sithren
Hiya folks. I write to you feeling a mite creaky, following a weekend of cavorting with children and man. A BBQ I went to on Saturday was going on regular pleasant enough. I was managing to appear normal in front of my Honey's acquaintances and friends, for a while at least.
Then Honey started refreshing my drink for me, and handing me large amounts of Crown Royal on ice, and I started to get a mite feisty. Then two small boys appeared with plastic light sabres, and I was like, no way, and they were like, yeaaaaah, uh-huh it's STAR WARS TIME, and I was like woo-hoo, bring it bitches!
We then proceeded to chase each other around like maniacs. The older one had honour, but the smaller one would just huck his plastic haft at my legs when I wasn't looking. To be fair, to be only given a haft and not a full sword is mega-lame. I might be angered, were I a small child trying to scowl convincingly like a Sith.
Unsurprisingly, I now have giant, light-sabre shaped bruises on my right thigh and a constellation of smaller ones on my shins. I wonder what the worthy adversaries look like. I was careful not to actually strike them but laughed loudly every time they accidentally hit their own hands or fell down. I will be World's Best Mother, if it ever comes to that.
As a party-goer, I likely became a little obnoxious. I demanded cake as the evening drew to a close. Everyone else had forgotten about it, but I could see that damn ice cream cake every time I opened the freezer to get more ice. Everyone else was on beer, had no need of ice, but I would reach in for a handful and have that cake mock me in its plastic dome. On outing the cake, I think the others were grateful, at least they tore into it with the alacrity of starving wolves. Luckily, my date and I went home after only one round of "Sippy-cup: the Drinking Game!" I was already lickered up nicely, I didn't want to get punchy. At least not in public.
Apparently, when I drink rye I like to practise Brazilian jujitsu as a means of foreplay. Ooooo, I feel frisky, why don't you get your sexy ass over here and let me leg-lock you for, oh, 15-20 minutes? I do not recall the particulars, but apparently I was being coy. Honey apologized profusely for the thumb-sized bruise on my forearm the next day; I dead-eyed him.
"Look, babe, I wanted to be dominated. Look at my legs (covered in huge kickboxing and plastic light-sabre bruises). I can take a litle tussle. I was begging for tussle. And I got me some fine tussle. I just can't believe you let me go on for 20 minutes...Did I really leg-lock you that long?"
Apparently yes. Purrrrrrr....Later, on my beloved CBC radio, I heard Bonnie Raitt talk about seeing Howlin' Wolf play live and going ga-ga for him in spirit because he was a magnetic mountain of a man. "Every strong woman wants to be dominated by a strong man," she rasped, and chuckled at her pronouncement. I agree with Ms. Bonnie. On occasion I like to feel overpowered by my loving, sexy, good-humoured mate. Not always, not even often, but once in a while it is incredibly hot to feel physically out-matched by someone strong that I trust with my body. Of course, in my case I like to make them earn it.
I couldn't figure out why my neck hurt on one side, either, until Honey demonstrated how hard I was pressing one side of my face against his cheek. At one point he just had to grab my head and push it to the other side. He recounted this with a mix of awe, pleasure and mild confusion. He is so good-natured I'm in a state of constant rut, just to see if he'll oblige.
Apparently, it's too late to play demure so I figure I'll keep going full steam-ahead. You see, I started the relationship completely by accident. I was convinced I was leaving town to go to school far away, and was likely not coming back, so heyo-hiya, let's just have a good time. I could let it all hang out because I wasn't invested in the outcome, beyond getting laid and having some summertime yuks. Then my departure got called as a bluff, and here I was two months into dating the sweetest man, and durn if I wasn't a girlfriend when I'd swore an oath not to be this year. And damned if I didn't mind it after all.
In short, acting like one is leaving town shortly freed me up to be myself, both with Honey and my friends. I've never had better friendships nor a better mate. So go figure. Carpe fuckin' diem! Now I go to rest my weary, sated, bruizied bones.
Buenas noches, chiquitas
Gretchita
Then Honey started refreshing my drink for me, and handing me large amounts of Crown Royal on ice, and I started to get a mite feisty. Then two small boys appeared with plastic light sabres, and I was like, no way, and they were like, yeaaaaah, uh-huh it's STAR WARS TIME, and I was like woo-hoo, bring it bitches!
We then proceeded to chase each other around like maniacs. The older one had honour, but the smaller one would just huck his plastic haft at my legs when I wasn't looking. To be fair, to be only given a haft and not a full sword is mega-lame. I might be angered, were I a small child trying to scowl convincingly like a Sith.
Unsurprisingly, I now have giant, light-sabre shaped bruises on my right thigh and a constellation of smaller ones on my shins. I wonder what the worthy adversaries look like. I was careful not to actually strike them but laughed loudly every time they accidentally hit their own hands or fell down. I will be World's Best Mother, if it ever comes to that.
As a party-goer, I likely became a little obnoxious. I demanded cake as the evening drew to a close. Everyone else had forgotten about it, but I could see that damn ice cream cake every time I opened the freezer to get more ice. Everyone else was on beer, had no need of ice, but I would reach in for a handful and have that cake mock me in its plastic dome. On outing the cake, I think the others were grateful, at least they tore into it with the alacrity of starving wolves. Luckily, my date and I went home after only one round of "Sippy-cup: the Drinking Game!" I was already lickered up nicely, I didn't want to get punchy. At least not in public.
Apparently, when I drink rye I like to practise Brazilian jujitsu as a means of foreplay. Ooooo, I feel frisky, why don't you get your sexy ass over here and let me leg-lock you for, oh, 15-20 minutes? I do not recall the particulars, but apparently I was being coy. Honey apologized profusely for the thumb-sized bruise on my forearm the next day; I dead-eyed him.
"Look, babe, I wanted to be dominated. Look at my legs (covered in huge kickboxing and plastic light-sabre bruises). I can take a litle tussle. I was begging for tussle. And I got me some fine tussle. I just can't believe you let me go on for 20 minutes...Did I really leg-lock you that long?"
Apparently yes. Purrrrrrr....Later, on my beloved CBC radio, I heard Bonnie Raitt talk about seeing Howlin' Wolf play live and going ga-ga for him in spirit because he was a magnetic mountain of a man. "Every strong woman wants to be dominated by a strong man," she rasped, and chuckled at her pronouncement. I agree with Ms. Bonnie. On occasion I like to feel overpowered by my loving, sexy, good-humoured mate. Not always, not even often, but once in a while it is incredibly hot to feel physically out-matched by someone strong that I trust with my body. Of course, in my case I like to make them earn it.
I couldn't figure out why my neck hurt on one side, either, until Honey demonstrated how hard I was pressing one side of my face against his cheek. At one point he just had to grab my head and push it to the other side. He recounted this with a mix of awe, pleasure and mild confusion. He is so good-natured I'm in a state of constant rut, just to see if he'll oblige.
Apparently, it's too late to play demure so I figure I'll keep going full steam-ahead. You see, I started the relationship completely by accident. I was convinced I was leaving town to go to school far away, and was likely not coming back, so heyo-hiya, let's just have a good time. I could let it all hang out because I wasn't invested in the outcome, beyond getting laid and having some summertime yuks. Then my departure got called as a bluff, and here I was two months into dating the sweetest man, and durn if I wasn't a girlfriend when I'd swore an oath not to be this year. And damned if I didn't mind it after all.
In short, acting like one is leaving town shortly freed me up to be myself, both with Honey and my friends. I've never had better friendships nor a better mate. So go figure. Carpe fuckin' diem! Now I go to rest my weary, sated, bruizied bones.
Buenas noches, chiquitas
Gretchita
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