Somewhere on the Outside…

I think I’m going through a bit of a self-absorbed moment. Or maybe I’m lonely? I dunno. I read a great blog post recently about an amazing woman that my friend had encountered. It was a long story of like, love, and loss– how they met, what he felt, what wasn’t in return. I know the woman who inspired the post and yes, she’s as wondrous as he said in 2000 words. She’s a pretty woman, but who isn’t in this city? Her “selling point” is she’s got an inner glow like she’s beaming gold happiness (my theory on what was in the briefcase in Pulp Fiction) every time she opens her mouth. That’s a rare find past the age of 10, especially in the QC.

His post is just another in a long list of male declarations and acts of feeling that I’ve witnessed lately. And I wonder what these women are doing to bring out the inner-romantic and gentlemen in my male friends? And like how the f*ck do I inspire it? Can I? Is this like one of those rare traits like dimples that are only given to a privileged few?

Having all this insight into the male mind is a gift and curse. Like I know what men do when they’re interested, so I can’t entertain anyone who comes through half-assed. My tolerance for anyone less than fully smitten is nil.

Next topic.

I’ve cancelled two dates in the past week because… well, frankly I just didn’t feel like going. I’m tired of meeting new people. Like we’ll sit at some restaurant I’ve likely been to before and we’ll talk about all the same things I’ve talked to a hundred other people about. At best, maybe they’ll get “me” and I’ll get “him” and we’ll have a second date that’s just like a hundred second dates that I’ve been on before.

I had this idea for a short film once. It started with a suitor sitting on the left side of my couch. (They all sit on the left.) It’s his first visit to my home so I’m unfailingly polite. I ask if he wants something to drink; he asks “what do you have?” I run off a list of juices (I don’t drink soda). He picks one. I go to the kitchen, select his choice from the fridge (Everyone always asks for orange juice!) I return with his drink, hand it to him in a bar glass. Cut to the next scene. A new suitor, the exact same scenario and the guy looks exactly the same as the last one. I’m wearing the same outfit. After I ask what he wants to drink and answer his query with a list of options and he picks orange juice, the film fades to black. The End.

I will marry the first man who sits on the right and asks for apple or cranberry or grapefruit.

Next topic.

My favorite episode of Sex and the City is Splat! It’s the one where the chick says “I’m so bored I could die” and then accidently falls out of the window. The whole episode is about explaining the appeal of The Russian for Carrie. He’s not The One (what the hell is The One? A penis-possessing Messiah sent to relieve single women of their boredom?) but he’s an option in a world where choices seem to have ceased existence. Carrie could stay on her single path and risk becoming The Vogue Editrix—50 and desperate. Or maybe she could be the pathetic, partied too-hard, too long chick that falls out the window. With options like that, who wouldn’t choose a possibility with Mr. Just Okay?

Are these the choices women are left with if they don’t settle down early or worse, just settle?

Next topic.

I’m not one who make believes
I know that leaves are green
They only turn to brown when autumn comes around
I know just what I say
Today’s not yesterday
And all things have an ending
But what I’d like to know
Is could a place like this exist so beautiful
Or do we have to find our wings and fly away
To the vision in our mind?

-Stevie Wonder “Visions”

Next topic.

I think I’m becoming a pessimist.


When the Realization is Clear..

Look in my eyes/ Tell me what you see/ Do you see perfection in me?/ To you, do I look complete?/ Now take one more look pass my celebrity/ That’s where you’ll find the real me/ To you, do I still look complete?

I got every material thing I could ever need/ I got the love from my fans that adore me/And I’m grateful/ And I thank you so very much/ But my love for myself is lacking a little bit/
I can admit that I’m working on me/Staying faithful/ And what I’m trying to say is

Just like you sometimes I get down/Sometimes I just wanna cry/Sometimes I get depressed/ And just like me, tryna be complete/ Just understand we’re all just a work in progress

-MJB “Work in Progress” Growing Pains

After my emotional breakdown, I got to thinking that maybe it was time I stopped thinking for awhile. I figured I‘d get through Saturday, and enjoy the Breaking Dawn movie, then spend the weekend using no more than 10% of my brain power. Mother Nature seemed to be on my side as it rained most of the day Sunday so I didn’t feel like I was missing anything by staying in the house all day. I moved my laptop into my bedroom, got under the covers, and read gossip about my favorite celebs. I spent hours mindlessly googling pictures of Rhianna, Kelly Osburne, and Kelis, my three most-adored fashionistas, then debating for another hour who had the best style. At first it seemed like a three-way tie, but I picked a winner by wondering whose wardrobe I want to steal most. Kelly wins. Hands down.

Things were going well. Then the last bulb in the light fixture in my room blew, leaving me in darkness except for the glow of the computer and TV screens. But all was still good. Brain power was operating at 7% tops. The phone rings. I have a 15 minute conversation that leaves me feeling pretty much like Nina in the first five minutes of love jones and I decide that this falling in like shit really is played out like an eight track.

Liking someone should be the easiest shit in the world, shouldn’t it? But somehow it always ends up complex. I end up staring at the ceiling wondering “what the fuck just happened?” People can’t say what they mean, or we say it, then realize the other person doesn’t feel the same way. So then we feel stupid and wonder why in the hell we ever listened to any of the 10 people who told us to be more vulnerable anyway. Or sometimes we just have nothing to say and then it’s all “what’s the problem? Something must be wrong. You’re not saying anything.” There are all these weird expectations to live up to (I called. You didn’t. Why not?) and subtle games people play (I’d rather hear “I don’t want to tell you” than “I don’t know.” You fucking know!). Hints thrown, careful suggestions about what you might possibly want to change about me to get along better with you, schedules to match up. Today it takes you 5 minutes of winding sentences I don’t understand for you to finally say, “I think you’re great.” Three days from now, I’ll remind you of a Sade song. A night later, maybe you’re a square and I’m a circle. Get it, Cam?

What changed? Did I miss something? Misread the signs? Huh? I thought I was great? He’s getting off the phone. Fuck, my brain is in overdrive. Where’s my Mary? No, no, no, I will not listen to My Life.

So I lay on my back and stare up at the ceiling, or actually the covers because the comforter is over my head, and I think, “is it me?” Because it’s got to be me. At the very least, I chose the wrong people to get into. Then I think of the date that I tried to get thru on Saturday with a man that would do just about anything to get past the “like” stage with me.. (he won’t)….It’s never been the intent to be a serial dater, but I guess that’s exactly what I am. And I’d cry, but I  have decided that I wouldn’t shed another tear over any dude. What does it solve? It just makes my face puffy and I’d be unpretty in the morning. If I shed real tears, it’ll be for a real reason.

Thursday night one of my “ex’s” left my house.  We talked for hours laughing and joking, and discussing all the reasons why we didn’t work.  How if time would have given us the hand that we have been dealt now things would be different……So I’m sitting in the seat that he had just gotten up from and thought: maybe this is it. Maybe this is all I get in life. Maybe I get the great two story house, and the great job, and the great friends, and live in a great city. I get a great talent that I actually get to use, and people actually tune in and pay attention to what I write. I get some great vacations and some great parties and some great hair and great clothes along the way. Maybe I’ll get the great book deal, and maybe I’ll get the great car someday (although I don’t actually need it). And MAYBE I just don’t get the great guy. No one gets it all—at least not at the same time. And I don’t think I would trade in anything that I have to get that one more thing. I don’t want it all. I am happy with what I have. Why do I keep thinking I need more?

When I wrote that paragraph the first time, I wasn’t okay with that. Twelve hours later, I am. Maybe I give up to easy. . I’m trying not to give up on him…..  I know I‘m tired of meeting someone, easing my way into allowing myself to actually like him, (one at a time. I’ve tried to juggle and date like a guy. I can’t do it), then watching it all crash and burn. Again. Again. and  Again. I mean how many times am I supposed to try over and over at something before it kicks in that this is just not for me or I’m just not good at it? Isn’t that the definition of insanity? And don’t I have other sh*t to do with my in stereo, digital life than watch the same piece of it go to shit once again? Shouldn’t I just focus on further cultivating the things I know I’m good at it? Won’t I get a better doing that? 

I’m curtsie-ing center stage after a mediocre performance. I don’t expect an ovation. Please save any applause.

It’s Really Over…

Typically you’d think that if you were going to start a a whoa is me blog, it’d start with day one.  However, day one of my breakup was spent sobbing in the bed and playing Faith Evan’s  “Lately I” over and over in my I-pod so I was a bit incapacitated, needless to say.  Technically, this is really like day 8 since the previous week was spent fervently denying this breakup was actually happening in the first place. Regardless. Since stalking and being in a relationship by yourself is generally frowned upon and yes, quite pathetic, I guess I have no choice but to try to find a way to move on.

About a week ago, my three and a half, relationship to the guy I was convinced would father, my very adorable and highly intelligent children ended.  Yesterday, I finally accepted this fact.  I would love to say that our time together was pure and blissful heaven on Earth, but that would be a lie.  In reality, it was more a mixture of heaven and hell with hell increasingly butting into heaven’s time as the months progressed.  Only two people with as dysfunctional childhoods as our own could have possibly held on as long as we did. But throughout it all, this man became my advice giver, my confidante, my music suggester, candy supplier, my biggest critic, and my biggest supporter. Every detailed moment of my life for the the past three and a half years of my life I shared with this man. He was my friend most importanly an ear I could turn to. Through the good andthe bad times, he became my best friend. And I miss him like hell.

I’ve never experienced vulnerability of this magnitude, but it far outweighs the alternative of having never experienced the gift of love. If our journey leads us back together one day or our relationship dies here at this dead end, I am forever grateful to have caught a glimpse of what could be.

I know I’m not alone here. We’ve all been in love and lost love and said we were never going to fall in love again then did it anyways.  We play the cycle out over and over everyday. But no matter how many times we do it, breaking up sucks. Plain and simple. So I’m going to follow the best advice I’ve ever been given: If something is too painful, find a way to laugh about it.  I hope you can laugh with me.