This one has been a long time coming. I think the shock of this situation has been replaced by new even more shocking events that totally eclipse it in every way.
In 2004, I met a nice man, Adam (who will eventually become Secret Agent Man), on Yahoo Personals. Internet dating had progressed past infancy into adolescence, although it was still not as acceptable as it is today. Many of us were secretly searching for someone special with the aid of online services. Yahoo Personals would eventually become Match.com. I was living in Asheville at the time and working for a facility serving adjudicated adolescent males (Yes, it was a prison). My long-term boyfriend was constantly playing games. We had broken up. Adam was quite a bit younger, almost fresh out of college and working as a chemist in a healthcare facility just down the mountain. We connected immediately and made plans to meet. Several attempts failed and in those days, I hadn't quite got the memo on suspicious behavior. Several months into our online courtship, I received an email that he had recently met someone but was still interested in me. I don't know why I entertained it.
Adam was an exhibitionist. He loved to send photographs of himself often wearing only his birthday suit. One time I convinced him to masturbate on his webcam. He was a ham and loved having an audience. The issue of the "girlfriend" did not seem to deter him. Over the years that passed, Adam repeatedly declared his love for me. We were both going through transient times in our lives. I moved away to Boone for graduate school, he to Raleigh to pursue a career in the SBI. We lost touch, but then his access to records made me easy to find. I could never understand how the girlfriend would settle for moving around the state, for someone who couldn't quite take the next step. During the interim, I met my daughter's father and became pregnant. Our relationship was doomed from the beginning. It seems that Adam was always there.
The beauty of an online relationship is like that of old school penpals. It was easy to confide in each other, our fears, our dreams. As I moved into my new role as a mother, Adam came to visit on his wasy from here to there. We took my daughter to the park and had dinner. She was all but six months old. Many times he told me that I was the woman he'd always dreamed of, if only our timing was different, or that we lived in the same area. Almost the day that I was able to move back to Asheville, he had sold his home there and had accepted a position with the FBI in western Tenessee. I could map out a clear timeline of his life (clothed and unclothed photographs included)... his training for the SBI, FBI, SWAT... all of it was there in eight years of emails.
In the winter of 2011, he had plans to attend a court hearing outside of Asheville. We had planned to get together for months. That winter was a particularly harsh one. It snowed almost every week. That week was no different. The day before our long-awaited meeting, a heavy winter storm blasted most of the southeast, leaving the mountain passage from Tennessee to North Carolina completely impassable for several days. He was relieved of having to testify. It seems that time, nature, and the universe in general was against us.
Almost a year passed when we made plans to meet in Nashville for my birthday. Again, he had to work. After years, I was getting annoyed. I hadn't dated after my daughter's birth, so being blown off was just unacceptable. He sent several more emails over the coming months.
Adam attended NC State for his undergraduate degree. Every time I've seen Wolfpack merchandise or travel to Raleigh, I would think of him. In February, I was hired for my new position and in early March had a one-weekend search for a rental property. On my long trip back to Asheville, I began texting him about the move. It was then that he said that he would be travelling to Asheville in a week on his way to Quantico for training. It seems that all the pieces were coming together.
On a beautiful Sunday in March, I met him at his hotel. Now, I know what you're thinking, why would I do this? We had been friends and built up the moment for so long, that the only fear I had was that we didn't have the connection, that it was all unreal. That was not the case. Our time together could not have been staged by any film director. We had amazing sex, then went out into Asheville for an great dinner and chocolate (at my favorite chocolatier, of course!). Among all the dates I've had in my life, this one ranks on top. I was elated as we strolled through downtown, his arm around my waist. It was perfect. I found out that he had the option of flying to Quantico and that he chose to drive so that he could see me. I couldn't have been happier.
The next morning was hard. I didn't want to leave him; he didn't want to leave me. We held each other in the longest embrace. But the reality of the day and our professional obligations took over. On my way to work, I reflected on our time.... and then a dark feeling started to creep in. I told several of my best friends at work about the amazing time I had, but that I also felt something was amiss. I had even asked him if there was anything I need to know about him. There was just nothing. His response was, "That my life is boring".
So I Googled him. And that's when I saw in the search the name "Amanda" associated with him. And that's when it all became clear. This girl never settled. He was married. A property record search confirmed what I suspected. She was the missing piece. When and how long? My daughter's father cheated on me and I couldn't imagine how this would affect her. I always maintained that I wanted to know. Everyone in our social group knew about his extra-curricular activities. I would have approched the situation differently. I was tasked with communicating what I knew to his wife or to sit in silence.
In the end, I decided to call. I would want to know. Knowing the amount of cowardice that I had seen previously, I knew he'd never fess up. I dialed the number, mu guts were churning, and waited. A lady answered....
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
the power of education and choice
Now, I know that I already stated that I can't really talk about work. I have no problem reflecting on my career.
There are key components of my being that have shoved me down my current career path: the desire to learn and the belief in choice.
Since I can remember, I have always learned. I'm self-motivated and often would write research papers at very young ages because I liked to do research. My parents sacrificed a lot to provide a set of encyclopedias for my enjoyment. I read them, the whole set of World Book Encyclopedia in fifth and sixth grade. My first official research paper was over 20 pages not including an extensive appendices and index (I'm a little bit of an over achiever... I was 12).There's no surprise that by the time I was in high school, I was dissatisfied with the mediocre offerings of my local school. There were no challenging academic elective courses nor were there any rigorous arts courses. In the school system I attended, there was a great disparity between the five high schools.
One of my other traits, and one that I am proud of is that I can take any rule, tear it to shreads and expose any loophole within... then take advantage of it. That's exactly what I did. In order to serve my own desire for improvement, I worked the system to attend a different high school. This school offered a nationally- recognized choral program and an innovative theatre arts program. I immersed my self in both. This was in 1993-1994 before the advent of school choice in North Carolina, before the era of charter schools.
Charter schools have come a long way since their inception. It is no secret that the original legislation provided enough challenges to make one believe they were never meant to succeed. The folks who have come together to create schools of choice do so for many reasons, but what they all have in common is that they believe in a school that may never open its doors to children. Yet, they invest their time, their money, and their love to go through the gruelling process to bring the school to fruition.
I believe in the power of choice. I'm a capitalist. I believe that a competitive market for the one property right given to every person in this country is a powerful motivator to ignite innovation and rigor. Not every school can adequately serve the needs of every child. I look at my own education and see that is truth. And it's not that my assigned high school was bad. My parents and my siblings attended the school, and I eventually walked across the stage to graduate from that very school (as a junior, which is a whole other story of loopholes). But it did not serve my needs.
As a parent, I believe in my ability to choose the best education for my child. She is finishing up an amazing year of kindergarten at a fantastic arts-integrated charter school in western NC. I made the sacrifice of that education by taking on my new position here at the pink palace supporting charter schools. Her name was not pulled in any local charter lottery. However, we were afforded the opportunity to choose our local school through a new program in the traditional school system.
My work with charters has not always been grand. I worked with a school that closed down. The experience opened my eyes to the issues facing charters on a daily basis and how a few bad decisions can destroy years of work. I had a vendor employee threaten me to silence by stating that if I ever wanted to continue to work in charters in this state, I had better close my mouth (I was just a teacher and had uncovered and exposed illegal operations). Since that day, I've gone on to serve two other schools, both models of academic excellence and fiscal responsibility.
When I drive from my country road each morning as the sun rises on the the city, I remember the uninformed people I have encountered who promote the misinformation about charter schools and the gentleman (whose photograph I keep hanging over my desk) who threatened my work. I believe in what I do. I believe in the power of choice. I believe in education. And I dedicate my career to supporting all the folks in this state who believed in the impossible.
There are key components of my being that have shoved me down my current career path: the desire to learn and the belief in choice.
Since I can remember, I have always learned. I'm self-motivated and often would write research papers at very young ages because I liked to do research. My parents sacrificed a lot to provide a set of encyclopedias for my enjoyment. I read them, the whole set of World Book Encyclopedia in fifth and sixth grade. My first official research paper was over 20 pages not including an extensive appendices and index (I'm a little bit of an over achiever... I was 12).There's no surprise that by the time I was in high school, I was dissatisfied with the mediocre offerings of my local school. There were no challenging academic elective courses nor were there any rigorous arts courses. In the school system I attended, there was a great disparity between the five high schools.
One of my other traits, and one that I am proud of is that I can take any rule, tear it to shreads and expose any loophole within... then take advantage of it. That's exactly what I did. In order to serve my own desire for improvement, I worked the system to attend a different high school. This school offered a nationally- recognized choral program and an innovative theatre arts program. I immersed my self in both. This was in 1993-1994 before the advent of school choice in North Carolina, before the era of charter schools.
Charter schools have come a long way since their inception. It is no secret that the original legislation provided enough challenges to make one believe they were never meant to succeed. The folks who have come together to create schools of choice do so for many reasons, but what they all have in common is that they believe in a school that may never open its doors to children. Yet, they invest their time, their money, and their love to go through the gruelling process to bring the school to fruition.
I believe in the power of choice. I'm a capitalist. I believe that a competitive market for the one property right given to every person in this country is a powerful motivator to ignite innovation and rigor. Not every school can adequately serve the needs of every child. I look at my own education and see that is truth. And it's not that my assigned high school was bad. My parents and my siblings attended the school, and I eventually walked across the stage to graduate from that very school (as a junior, which is a whole other story of loopholes). But it did not serve my needs.
As a parent, I believe in my ability to choose the best education for my child. She is finishing up an amazing year of kindergarten at a fantastic arts-integrated charter school in western NC. I made the sacrifice of that education by taking on my new position here at the pink palace supporting charter schools. Her name was not pulled in any local charter lottery. However, we were afforded the opportunity to choose our local school through a new program in the traditional school system.
My work with charters has not always been grand. I worked with a school that closed down. The experience opened my eyes to the issues facing charters on a daily basis and how a few bad decisions can destroy years of work. I had a vendor employee threaten me to silence by stating that if I ever wanted to continue to work in charters in this state, I had better close my mouth (I was just a teacher and had uncovered and exposed illegal operations). Since that day, I've gone on to serve two other schools, both models of academic excellence and fiscal responsibility.
When I drive from my country road each morning as the sun rises on the the city, I remember the uninformed people I have encountered who promote the misinformation about charter schools and the gentleman (whose photograph I keep hanging over my desk) who threatened my work. I believe in what I do. I believe in the power of choice. I believe in education. And I dedicate my career to supporting all the folks in this state who believed in the impossible.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
What's going on with that cheese?
Most of you know that I am not a neat freak. I spent most of my life listening to my parents tell me that they would love to park a dumpster outside of my window and toss everything I own into it. Clutter does not bother me. I wish it did, and I wish that I actually cared, but I just don't. Laundry left in the dryer (when I actually use a dryer-- I'm a fan of clotheslines), dishes in the sink, etc., I don't worry about it. There are so many things in this world to worry about.
My siblings will corroborate that our mother is the opposite. We could never win growing up. One pillow out of place and the whole house was deemed a disaster area. I appreciate that she is the way she is while also acknowledging that I never will be. A dirty fork in the sink will never be the cause of a sleepless night. While I know that I probably need a partner to balance me out a bit, I know I can't sustain a relationship with someone on the OCD side of things.
"What's going on with that cheese in the casserole dish?"
"Um, I just finished eating it. I'm probably going to eat the rest for breakfast. Why?"
"Well, I was just wondering if I was going to wake up tomorrow and find it still on the counter."
"No, I'm taking it to work for breakfast."
"So you're going to leave it out all night? Is that a good idea?"
I was over at Mr. Burgerman's. He eats very late (like 10pm). I cannot do that. I each lunch at 11:30 am religiously every day. At that time of evening, my blood sugar is crashing and I turn into the Exorcist (minus the pea soup). I opted to bring a hunk of brie and some bread (a favorite standby) over for my own dinner. I love brie. I love it melted. It's the best of the dairy worlds... butter and cheese. Divinity. We're one of the few countries in the world that imposes insane food safety practices. A piece of cheese left out overnight isn't going to kill anyone (despite the public service announcements that say otherwise). If that were the case, I'd be dead ages ago. When I travelled around Europe I frequently had a piece of cheese, fruit, and bread in my backpack... for days. But this wasn't about food safety. It was about the cheese left for mere moments on the counter. And it was a very passive-aggressive way to get me to clean it up.
I did clean up the cheese because I understand the what he was feeling was the same anxiety my mother always felt when something was out of place. On the same note, it was a clear sign (if the other issues weren't enough) that Mr. Burgerman was not Mr. Perfect-for-Me. I love my mom, but I don't want to be married to her.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Home Sweet Home
This blog isn't all about love. I mean, if I were to live my life solely in search of a mate, I'd miss out on all sorts of other things like...
1970s wallpaper.
As I mentioned, I just relocated to Raleigh for work. I can't actually talk about work because it would be a breach of my confidentiality agreement. I do top secret government work. Not really. Most of what I do is public knowledge, I just can't go around blogging about it. I'll let the media do that for me. Please don't take my silence about it as a lack of passion. I love what I do and the difference the office I work in makes for education.
But there is an issue of 1970s wallpaper. In 2009, I purchased a fantastic new home in east Asheville on a half acre of property. It was new so it had new everything. I've spent the last 2.5 years making it mine. So now (actually next Monday), I will have left this home for a rental home here in Raleigh.
I try to see any glass as half full (ok, you got me, it's always half empty-- I'm a realist). This rental home has all sorts of good things going for it. It hard lovely old hardwood floors, it's located on 12 acres of forest, it's within 15 minutes of downtown Raleigh and Cary, it has a charming woodstove in the den, there's tons of space...
It was also built in 1975 and hasn't been updated since. Now the good thing is that the land ladies gave me permission to de-1970s the place. The areas that need a new paint job like the bedrooms are quite easy. However, half of the house is plastered in 1970s wallpaper. The kitchen was brown and orange with drawings of counter canisters in a repeat pattern. Other areas have garish, glittery textured print. The two bathrooms feature green and gold in one and orange and gold in the other. It's a nightmare.
Thanks to the help of family, we were able to take care of the kitchen, and two of the three bedrooms. I've half-stripped the dining room.
I just can't bring myself to even touch the bathrooms. Besides the gilded wallpaper, they have gold-flecked counters (which sadly, I will not be investing any time or money into removing). I have this dream that one day as I sink down into the rather large, deep bathtub, that I open my eyes to see that some gnome did all the work me. But then again, if I had the power to conjure up magical gnomes to do man-chores, that I would be able to conjure up an actual man.
Gnomes are cute, but I'm not into beards.
1970s wallpaper.
As I mentioned, I just relocated to Raleigh for work. I can't actually talk about work because it would be a breach of my confidentiality agreement. I do top secret government work. Not really. Most of what I do is public knowledge, I just can't go around blogging about it. I'll let the media do that for me. Please don't take my silence about it as a lack of passion. I love what I do and the difference the office I work in makes for education.
But there is an issue of 1970s wallpaper. In 2009, I purchased a fantastic new home in east Asheville on a half acre of property. It was new so it had new everything. I've spent the last 2.5 years making it mine. So now (actually next Monday), I will have left this home for a rental home here in Raleigh.
I try to see any glass as half full (ok, you got me, it's always half empty-- I'm a realist). This rental home has all sorts of good things going for it. It hard lovely old hardwood floors, it's located on 12 acres of forest, it's within 15 minutes of downtown Raleigh and Cary, it has a charming woodstove in the den, there's tons of space...
It was also built in 1975 and hasn't been updated since. Now the good thing is that the land ladies gave me permission to de-1970s the place. The areas that need a new paint job like the bedrooms are quite easy. However, half of the house is plastered in 1970s wallpaper. The kitchen was brown and orange with drawings of counter canisters in a repeat pattern. Other areas have garish, glittery textured print. The two bathrooms feature green and gold in one and orange and gold in the other. It's a nightmare.
Thanks to the help of family, we were able to take care of the kitchen, and two of the three bedrooms. I've half-stripped the dining room.
I just can't bring myself to even touch the bathrooms. Besides the gilded wallpaper, they have gold-flecked counters (which sadly, I will not be investing any time or money into removing). I have this dream that one day as I sink down into the rather large, deep bathtub, that I open my eyes to see that some gnome did all the work me. But then again, if I had the power to conjure up magical gnomes to do man-chores, that I would be able to conjure up an actual man.
Gnomes are cute, but I'm not into beards.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Falling forward
"Every person, all the events of your life are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you."-- Richard Bach
I am a believer in the cosmic threads that link us all to one another. As a teen, I felt an unexplainable magic in the universe, a sixth sense that told me that there is no such thing as coincidence. Each person, each event part of an elaborate weaving that makes guides each of us on our path, points out the truths we all know deep within the core of our being, and makes us the complex and beautiful creatures we all are. From Richard Bach's Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah to James Redfield's "The Celestine Prophecy", I know I'm not the only wacko that embraces this feeling.
I won't venture to predict who is the master weaver, if there is any one master weaver only that there seems to be a purposeful placing of texture and color in each encounter of our lives. These purposes imprint upon us, and if we are lucky, we learn about ourselves and are prepared for the next experience. We are given the answers to the deepest questions of our psyche.
Most of us are too busy in our lives to notice. I've always felt sensitive to the interworkings of the world around me. I notice the subtle changes in the angle of the sunlight as it brushes the earth in fall, almost the one day where the rays are longer and more golden than in the days before them reaching down like ribbons. You may think I'm crazy, but pay attention in September. One day the world around you will just be a a little different.
My quest for Mr. Perfect-for-Me has been quite a journey thus far. As I reflect on loves lost, I think of how each lesson I learned became a foundation to prepare me for what was next. You'd think I'd have all the answers by now, but I haven't always listened. I haven't always utilized the information. You'll see the patterns, the chain of mistakes I've made, some so similar, you may even hold your head and wonder why anyone could have been so stupid to repeat situations that seem quite obvious.
All tragic heros (or heroines) have a flaw, an achilles heel of sorts. Mine is that I follow my heart, ignore the warnings my mind sends, and have repeated the same mistakes over and over again. I can count very easily the men I have loved so deeply that I lost myself in them. And each time I was crushed, how I emerged fragmented, yet somehow more whole than when I began. I long for a love that the fibers of time cannot break, but only strengthen. If I am ever to find it, I have to continue to be willing to fall head-first with faith.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
A few disclaimers
Several folks have asked me about my ability and comfort on not only airing some really risque' aspects of my life, but the lives of others. I feel like I need to address it. I mean, while this blog is a way for me to process some insane experiences, it's also meant as entertainment. Each and every blog is written from my perspective (which is a little warped at times). I attempt to tell each story as my memory and, oftentimes, my heart remembers while also changing up the identifying information of the people I have encountered. I make pretty raw and crude judgments at times. These aren't readings for the meek and easily-offended. If you don't like profanity or sex, you shouldn't even bother with it. Stop reading now. And whether you're a friend, a friend of a friend, or a complete stranger, I hope you'll have a laugh along the way. I poke a lot of fun in these musings, mostly at myself. After all, I am getting myself into these situations in the first place. I make no apologies for anything you feel is inappropriate or rude. So sit back, grab some pork skins, and enjoy!
Fido rules the roost
Mr. Burgerman and I started spending more and more time together. At first it was mostly out and about town, trying new restaurants, etc. Then we began spending more time at his house. I'm a very much a leap-into-anything-head-first kind of person, so I can say that our relationship moved really quickly in a very short time. That is until I realized that the dog ruled the roost. I am an animal lover. I've had pets my entire life. I love my cat. I even love the six chickens we had back in Asheville.
Fido was the alpha male in the house. He would constantly pester us during meals. He did not like my being around, which to an extent, I could understand. Pets often take time to warm up to new people. But like children, giving in to attention-seeking behavior only re-enforces the behavior. So instead of telling him to go lay down as he would parade around the dinner table with toys, he would get up and entertain him. And more than once during us laying on the couch together watching television, I would find him missing only to discover that he was laying with the dog on the dog bed. (Folks, I wish I could make this shit up. I don't know what can kick your self-esteem in the ass faster, being ignored by your partner or finding that he prefers the warmth of his pet?)
On top of that, I made several invites to different activities like lunch (we both work downtown and have flexible schedules). Nope. Fido gets walked three times a day for at least an hour, which Mr. Burgerman records on an app on his phone, for what reason, I don't even want to know. I can put up with all manners of behavior (I mean have you read any of the other entries here? I haven't even gotten into some of the long-term courtship disasters yet!). But I cannot and will not compete with a canine.
It came to a point that Mr. Burgerman just did not have time to interact with me because of his self-imposed obligations to his dog. I finally drew the line when our dinner plans were postponed until a ridiculous hour and when I showed up I found Mr. Burgerman not at home. Fido was being anxious and he just had to walk him. He just couldn't wait ten minutes for me to arrive. He didn't have a pet, he had a spoiled child that he indulged at every whim.
If I couldn't sustain his attention in the honeymoon of our relationship, what would it be like six months from now? I also realized that any hopes of having cute coupley trips would be marred by the beast. You know he does not go anywhere without the dog. As my mind inserted the dog in every scenario (and I mean every scenario), I knew I just couldn't do it. Besides, it seemed they had a very good thing going, and who was I to interfere?
I guess I'm more of a cat person anyway.
Fido was the alpha male in the house. He would constantly pester us during meals. He did not like my being around, which to an extent, I could understand. Pets often take time to warm up to new people. But like children, giving in to attention-seeking behavior only re-enforces the behavior. So instead of telling him to go lay down as he would parade around the dinner table with toys, he would get up and entertain him. And more than once during us laying on the couch together watching television, I would find him missing only to discover that he was laying with the dog on the dog bed. (Folks, I wish I could make this shit up. I don't know what can kick your self-esteem in the ass faster, being ignored by your partner or finding that he prefers the warmth of his pet?)
On top of that, I made several invites to different activities like lunch (we both work downtown and have flexible schedules). Nope. Fido gets walked three times a day for at least an hour, which Mr. Burgerman records on an app on his phone, for what reason, I don't even want to know. I can put up with all manners of behavior (I mean have you read any of the other entries here? I haven't even gotten into some of the long-term courtship disasters yet!). But I cannot and will not compete with a canine.
It came to a point that Mr. Burgerman just did not have time to interact with me because of his self-imposed obligations to his dog. I finally drew the line when our dinner plans were postponed until a ridiculous hour and when I showed up I found Mr. Burgerman not at home. Fido was being anxious and he just had to walk him. He just couldn't wait ten minutes for me to arrive. He didn't have a pet, he had a spoiled child that he indulged at every whim.
If I couldn't sustain his attention in the honeymoon of our relationship, what would it be like six months from now? I also realized that any hopes of having cute coupley trips would be marred by the beast. You know he does not go anywhere without the dog. As my mind inserted the dog in every scenario (and I mean every scenario), I knew I just couldn't do it. Besides, it seemed they had a very good thing going, and who was I to interfere?
I guess I'm more of a cat person anyway.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Never ignore a first impression...
During some of the earlier weeks of my time here in Raleigh, I frequented a fantastic establishment on Hargett Avenue, The Raleigh Times. I was introduced to it by a friend and former colleague. On any evening of the week, the place was brimming with men from the barely-drinking-aged NC State students in their trendy Sanuco flip flops (Who, other than someone whose frontal lobe is not fully developed, spends $60 on flip flops?) to the big city, suit-wearing business and government workers. The bar is in the hub of downtown, easily accessible within walking distance of anywhere, and has an inviting atmosphere and outside seating. I fell in love immediately.
I vascillate from being totally awkward in social situations (I think I may have mentioned this before) to being quite a social diva. I'm not sure what inspires either although I suspect it's linked with my lifelong mental illness and alcohol intake. The Raleigh Times was like Cheers. While everybody did not know my name, it felt like they did. I had no problem from the beginning of saddling up to the bar and sitting alone. Conversation was plentiful with my bar-hugging commrades. On the evenings when I wasn't particularly in a conversational mood, I would sit cross-legged and jot down thoughts on a beer coaster. One such evening, I was seated outside watching the groups of people interact. The weather was splendid. I had a delicious hefe-weizen and a french dip sandwich.
There was a table of men seated in front of me. They were reinacting the events of a soccer game. Boisterous laughter, bantering, it was a stereotypical man-fest. There seemed to be a leader of this pack, a loud, older (by older, I mean not a mid-twentysomething I'm usually trailing after) man in business casual attire. I immediately deemed him and asshole. Until he invited me to their table and bought me another hefe-weizen. I enjoyed partaking in the fun. I have always been able to relate to male friends better than females. We talked about the one man getting married in August (I'm convinced he and his bride will absolutely melt in the heat here then), the other man's love for chicken wings (He's a match made in heaven for my lady friend, Aja, who is also a connisseur of fine wings), more soccer. The subject of chocolate and dessert came along. Can you see my new test for potential partners? The leader, who will soon earn the moniker Burgerman at work, advised me to skip the bar cake, he would take me to a pie specialty shop. I'm adventurous and he didn't give me the creeps so I ventured off. The pie shop was closed, so we went to the next dessert place, closed as well. But then we noticed the area's one and only gourmet chocolate shop. Closed. But I did make a mental note to go back there. While I can guarantee it will be no Chocolate Lounge, I can say it will hold me over until I make another visit west.
We ended up back in the heart of downtown at his friend's (the chicken wing guy) family-owned Italian restaurant. We had wine and tiramizu. Then we ventured off to another establishment and ordered more wine. That's when the call came in from his nephew. His nephew is one of those idiot teenagers going balls-out in his first year of college. His car had been booted for illegal parking and he needed a $90 money order. His wallet was in Burlington. Burgerman had just bailed him out of jail a couple of weeks before for stealing DVDs from Walmart (I ask, "Who does this?"... but then I remember his 18-year-old-I-have-a-whole-in-my-frontal-lobe mind and digress). I vow to give him an appropriate amount of shit when we see him. Apparently this is not his first boot and is actually a representation of over a dozen parking tickets. I know you have a hole in your brain, but you can read and the Thou-Shalt-Not-Park-Here signs are quite obvious.
We go to one after-hours convenience store after another. I've only seen stores like these on movies about cities. All sorts of personalities festoon the city at night and these places beg for the creme de la creme. We came up empty handed in the downtown establishments, so we ventured out closer to campus where we discovered a neat little store specializing in beer, blunts, and incense. It's practically on the State campus, so one can see why the selection had a focus, although I felt it was shockingly lacking in munchie-like items. Where were the Fun-yuns?
Now prior to this I discovered that Burgerman has a love for reggae, so much that his dog is named after Bob Marley and dons a Rastafarian-inspired collar. Naturally, he bought us both incense with his money order. By the time we liberated his asshole nephew from the confines of Boot-dom, it was just shy of 2 a.m. And it was Monday.
Burgerman would have a brief, special place in my life, but alas, remember the reggae-guru-named pooch? Well, he has a starring role in this saga.
Stay tuned for part deux. And remember my first impression. Always listen. My mind, even in it's crazy, rather defective nature, has never steered me wrong... if only I would listen.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Baby got back
About a week went by after the rather ridiculous date with Mr. Clean. I was receiving messages from members and actively sending them daily. It was very exciting. With all this attention, Mr. Right-for-Me could be as close as the next send button. I began a series of interactions with a young, intelligent Army officer stationed at the base just an hour away. There are quite a few military personnel as a result and the male-to-female ratio excellent for the ladies. The base town isn't much to be spoken about. I have to admit that I've never been there, but have been specifically told to stay out. I've never heard anyone living there say something nice about it. The weekends are a great opportunity for the young men to flock to the city looking for adventure. While I've sworn off anyone who makes, enforces, or advises on the laws, Mr. Special Operations Officer was too tempting.
We exchanged numbers and immediately began texting. It was really ridiculous. The copious amount of texts led to an, "Oh, shit!" moment for me by day two when I realized I was about 11 texts from running over my 1,000 per month allotment. Of course, I quickly upgraded. Four thousand texts in less than five days. We "talked" from morning, through the day (hey, I get an hour for lunch), until we both dozed off. He was witty, sarcastic, intelligent. A graduate of West Point, he was a baby at 26, but had served two tours in Afghanistan and one in Iraq. He was in a language school to learn Pashto, jumped out of planes on occasion, and had a firm belief in the military making positive change in the world. He was interested in me, my crazy hobbies, my work in education. I really liked him-- so much that I wondered how it would work out when he is transferred to Flordia in a year. I know, my silly girl nature was being an idiot. I hadn't even met him. I laughed so much. And he actually appreciated my blunt and usually profane nature.
On about day two, maybe three, he asked me to dinner the following Friday. I was still very new to the area and didn't know a lot about the restaurants. We both love ethnic food. I did a search and discovered global streetfood restaurant right downtown. It was on! We talked about how excited we were to meet. I find it so appealing when someone wants to spend time with me that sometimes I don't see anything of issue. Mr. Special Operations Officer was into fitness, which is only natural for someone in his line of employment. However, he had made several comments about how his last girlfriend "let herself go". Of course, I say I hope someone points that out to me. It was clear (even though I didn't see it) that this guy had a real problem if a woman puts on any weight.
Now, those of you who know me know that, "Baby Got Back" was written for me. My body is shaped liked my mom's side... tiny waste, luscious booty. I've been a runner, I kickbox, belly dance, and keep pretty fit, but my ass is my partner for life. Most men like it. But not this man. He was running late, which I excused because he was driving an hour to see me and traffic anywhere near downtown from 4:30 to about 7:30 can be a beast. I knew as soon as he arrived that the date would not go well. I was wearing my favorite classic black dress that accentuates my booty. Mr. Special Operations Officer was not impressed. He pinched up his face and barely spoke during the five-block walk to the restaurant and during the meal itself. I tried to make jokes to no avail. I couldn't figure out how someone goes from sending a thousand texts a day to being mute, but hey, I can't even begin to unlock the mind of an xy chromosome. It all became clear when our server asked us about dessert. Fatty here orders the chocolate souffle. I had talked about chocolate multiple times (My heart still grieving for The French Broad Chocolate Lounge). Turns out, he doesn't like chocolate and doesn't eat dessert. And judging from the comments he made next and the look of absolute disgust, he was appalled that I ordered the souffle. I guess my size 4 ass didn't need to have dessert. I am not one to hold back when someone exhibits keen asshole behavior, but this was an upscale place, the food was divine, and I had a sangria the size of my face. What did I do? Did I deck him? Did I call him an ass and stick up for women around the world who are constantly held to some waif-like portrayal of women? No. I did what any classy Fierce Southern Lady would do, I smiled really sweet, then I ate every bite of that souffle-for-two and licked the spoon. After all, if someone cannot enjoy the beauty of dessert, what other pleasurable aspects of life would he snub his nose at? I'm thinking that's perhaps another non-negotiable to add to the list. We said good-bye (after he paid for my gluttony). Then I promptly deleted him.
We exchanged numbers and immediately began texting. It was really ridiculous. The copious amount of texts led to an, "Oh, shit!" moment for me by day two when I realized I was about 11 texts from running over my 1,000 per month allotment. Of course, I quickly upgraded. Four thousand texts in less than five days. We "talked" from morning, through the day (hey, I get an hour for lunch), until we both dozed off. He was witty, sarcastic, intelligent. A graduate of West Point, he was a baby at 26, but had served two tours in Afghanistan and one in Iraq. He was in a language school to learn Pashto, jumped out of planes on occasion, and had a firm belief in the military making positive change in the world. He was interested in me, my crazy hobbies, my work in education. I really liked him-- so much that I wondered how it would work out when he is transferred to Flordia in a year. I know, my silly girl nature was being an idiot. I hadn't even met him. I laughed so much. And he actually appreciated my blunt and usually profane nature.
On about day two, maybe three, he asked me to dinner the following Friday. I was still very new to the area and didn't know a lot about the restaurants. We both love ethnic food. I did a search and discovered global streetfood restaurant right downtown. It was on! We talked about how excited we were to meet. I find it so appealing when someone wants to spend time with me that sometimes I don't see anything of issue. Mr. Special Operations Officer was into fitness, which is only natural for someone in his line of employment. However, he had made several comments about how his last girlfriend "let herself go". Of course, I say I hope someone points that out to me. It was clear (even though I didn't see it) that this guy had a real problem if a woman puts on any weight.
Now, those of you who know me know that, "Baby Got Back" was written for me. My body is shaped liked my mom's side... tiny waste, luscious booty. I've been a runner, I kickbox, belly dance, and keep pretty fit, but my ass is my partner for life. Most men like it. But not this man. He was running late, which I excused because he was driving an hour to see me and traffic anywhere near downtown from 4:30 to about 7:30 can be a beast. I knew as soon as he arrived that the date would not go well. I was wearing my favorite classic black dress that accentuates my booty. Mr. Special Operations Officer was not impressed. He pinched up his face and barely spoke during the five-block walk to the restaurant and during the meal itself. I tried to make jokes to no avail. I couldn't figure out how someone goes from sending a thousand texts a day to being mute, but hey, I can't even begin to unlock the mind of an xy chromosome. It all became clear when our server asked us about dessert. Fatty here orders the chocolate souffle. I had talked about chocolate multiple times (My heart still grieving for The French Broad Chocolate Lounge). Turns out, he doesn't like chocolate and doesn't eat dessert. And judging from the comments he made next and the look of absolute disgust, he was appalled that I ordered the souffle. I guess my size 4 ass didn't need to have dessert. I am not one to hold back when someone exhibits keen asshole behavior, but this was an upscale place, the food was divine, and I had a sangria the size of my face. What did I do? Did I deck him? Did I call him an ass and stick up for women around the world who are constantly held to some waif-like portrayal of women? No. I did what any classy Fierce Southern Lady would do, I smiled really sweet, then I ate every bite of that souffle-for-two and licked the spoon. After all, if someone cannot enjoy the beauty of dessert, what other pleasurable aspects of life would he snub his nose at? I'm thinking that's perhaps another non-negotiable to add to the list. We said good-bye (after he paid for my gluttony). Then I promptly deleted him.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
False Advertising... not just for infomercials!
My very first match date was not actually an easy arrangement. I contacted this guy more than once (is that desperation? I mean he did cyber "wink" at me!). He touted his love for cooking and gardening. He had a lovely photograph of his garden, several of him with some cute dogs (very smart, it looks cuddly), and one hilarious shot of him dressed up with other folks like the hair band Poison. What's not to love?
He suggested a local Irish pub. Nice. I love the pubs downtown, yet this one was somehow not in my chosen area. That's great. I discovered a cute little street full of local flare, artistically dressed folks, and an appeal very much like my beloved Asheville. All it needed was The French Broad Chocolate Lounge. It was perhaps lacking in dreadlocks, but one can't have everything. This pub was located within blocks of his downtown home. I arrived ten minutes early as usual. Did I mention punctuality is a non-negotiable unless there is blood or imminent death involved? I waited until an appropriate time to enter the establishment as no one actually walks up that early on a first date. At the prescribed time, I entered the bar. It was empty. A balmy day here in the Capitol, I selected a seat outside and ordered a Guinness. Liquid bread. Absolutely delicious. At ten after, I was starting to get irritated. Then a text buzzed in, "on my way". Really. I live 20 minutes out and I managed to find it and order a beer. Mr. Late showed up an additional five minutes later.
He was balding. Hmmm. So either the photographs were taken a good five to ten years ago or Mr. Clean has some sort of disease. I think it's both. The lying disease. He never offers an apology for being late. Perhaps this is standard courtship behavior here in the big city. It's annoying. And while I have no problem with a man's hair that turns loose, it's the false advertising that's pretty awful. We engaged in light conversation where Mr. Clean kept touching the back of my arm. If all the clues that Mr. Clean is not Mr. Perfect-for-Me, the sickening feeling in my gut like someone just ran over my dog that pervaded every time his paw touched me, did.
Then there were the other untruths... the garden. It was at a house he had five years ago. He doesn't garden anymore. The dogs belong to a friend. And the kitchen remodel that made him seem like the appealing handyman was just not happening. What I learned is that he was the first of a handful of engineers that I would encounter. There's a reason these guys are looking for love online (I know, very judgmental). Anyone whose social ineptitude surpasses my own and whose very being is saturated in lies is a "no". The experience was pleasant enough. We ordered a Guinness chocolate mousse that we shared. He gets a point for being ok with dessert... a future date will not, so I have to give credit where credit is due. And speaking of credit. This guy was so nice. He offered to pay for half of the tab.
He suggested a local Irish pub. Nice. I love the pubs downtown, yet this one was somehow not in my chosen area. That's great. I discovered a cute little street full of local flare, artistically dressed folks, and an appeal very much like my beloved Asheville. All it needed was The French Broad Chocolate Lounge. It was perhaps lacking in dreadlocks, but one can't have everything. This pub was located within blocks of his downtown home. I arrived ten minutes early as usual. Did I mention punctuality is a non-negotiable unless there is blood or imminent death involved? I waited until an appropriate time to enter the establishment as no one actually walks up that early on a first date. At the prescribed time, I entered the bar. It was empty. A balmy day here in the Capitol, I selected a seat outside and ordered a Guinness. Liquid bread. Absolutely delicious. At ten after, I was starting to get irritated. Then a text buzzed in, "on my way". Really. I live 20 minutes out and I managed to find it and order a beer. Mr. Late showed up an additional five minutes later.
He was balding. Hmmm. So either the photographs were taken a good five to ten years ago or Mr. Clean has some sort of disease. I think it's both. The lying disease. He never offers an apology for being late. Perhaps this is standard courtship behavior here in the big city. It's annoying. And while I have no problem with a man's hair that turns loose, it's the false advertising that's pretty awful. We engaged in light conversation where Mr. Clean kept touching the back of my arm. If all the clues that Mr. Clean is not Mr. Perfect-for-Me, the sickening feeling in my gut like someone just ran over my dog that pervaded every time his paw touched me, did.
Then there were the other untruths... the garden. It was at a house he had five years ago. He doesn't garden anymore. The dogs belong to a friend. And the kitchen remodel that made him seem like the appealing handyman was just not happening. What I learned is that he was the first of a handful of engineers that I would encounter. There's a reason these guys are looking for love online (I know, very judgmental). Anyone whose social ineptitude surpasses my own and whose very being is saturated in lies is a "no". The experience was pleasant enough. We ordered a Guinness chocolate mousse that we shared. He gets a point for being ok with dessert... a future date will not, so I have to give credit where credit is due. And speaking of credit. This guy was so nice. He offered to pay for half of the tab.
No hibernation in spring...
So I bet you are all wondering what happened to my blog? I moved to Raleigh at the beginning of April. What a change of pace! I hit the ground running in both the professional and the man department. Raleigh has a smorgasbord of men... anything from a reggae-loving architect to a hilarious and hot handyman. I opted to join match.com because of my social ineptitude while also frequenting typical man-hangouts (ie, bars). My Raleigh experience has a bit of both, but I'll be honest, the online world seems to be the way to go.
I am not new to the online dating world. I think I placed my first online dating ad in 1997. I caught a really great guy that I dated for several years and who I am still friends with today. I also caught a rotten FBI agent in 2004... he's the married one with two kids that will get an entry all his own (Just when you think shit like that only happens in movies, you live it!... at least I did).
I've never really "dated" in the sense that I've either been very single or been in a relationship. While this transition has been hard (My sweet daughter is still in the mountains with her fantastic grandmother finishing out the school year), this has been a grand opportunity to sow some wild oats and try out that nebulous, yet exciting concept called dating. On April 14, I cast out my line on match and hooked a series of carp, sharks, swordfish, and some ocean trash (hey, that guy is still out there!).
I would like to point out that none of the men I have encountered have been selected specifically for material for this blog. One of us contacted the other in general interest. And I did inform each of them of my intention to write about the experience regardless of outcome. Trust me, I'd rather meet Mr. Perfect-for-Me and toss aside this nonsense. But alas, the saga of mid-thirties singledom prevails. Dating isn't all bad and certainly helped me toughen my hide a bit and be a little more confident and firm on what is non-negotiable for me. Honesty will always rank at the top of the requirements list. No matter how bad something is, honesty is important. Without it, our relationships are like houses built on sand. And boy is there some dishonesty online! You have a risk-free way to sell yourself to a wide market of potential mates, and you lie? As of this very moment, I have had 3,379 views since my profile posted. You'd think there would be a keeper in there somewhere. Maybe there is. I'm waiting on it just now. I believe in jinxing a good situation, so I'll hold onto that jewel for now. You can bet your boots that he'll get his on entry if it doesn't work out.
WANTED:
A hot handyman who can build shit, fix shit, and throw it down right. Applicants will need to be unmarried and emotionally available. A background check, interview, and skill demonstration required. Ability to construct a thought into a sentence, and even better, a compelling conversation a bonus. Compensation negotiable and will be based on skill-level and previous experience.
No, my match ad did not say any of that... ok, maybe for about a day... but I did write and re-write my ad based on the responses. If I'm not attracting anybody I would even consider, why not change it up? It's much easier to write about my experiences than to try to write about myself in a way to attract a potential mate. I guess I could shell out $39.99 for the additional match service to write my profile for me. I cringe and also think I could better spend the forty on wings and beer down at the local bar that's bursting at the seams with eligible men of all sorts.
I am not new to the online dating world. I think I placed my first online dating ad in 1997. I caught a really great guy that I dated for several years and who I am still friends with today. I also caught a rotten FBI agent in 2004... he's the married one with two kids that will get an entry all his own (Just when you think shit like that only happens in movies, you live it!... at least I did).
I've never really "dated" in the sense that I've either been very single or been in a relationship. While this transition has been hard (My sweet daughter is still in the mountains with her fantastic grandmother finishing out the school year), this has been a grand opportunity to sow some wild oats and try out that nebulous, yet exciting concept called dating. On April 14, I cast out my line on match and hooked a series of carp, sharks, swordfish, and some ocean trash (hey, that guy is still out there!).
I would like to point out that none of the men I have encountered have been selected specifically for material for this blog. One of us contacted the other in general interest. And I did inform each of them of my intention to write about the experience regardless of outcome. Trust me, I'd rather meet Mr. Perfect-for-Me and toss aside this nonsense. But alas, the saga of mid-thirties singledom prevails. Dating isn't all bad and certainly helped me toughen my hide a bit and be a little more confident and firm on what is non-negotiable for me. Honesty will always rank at the top of the requirements list. No matter how bad something is, honesty is important. Without it, our relationships are like houses built on sand. And boy is there some dishonesty online! You have a risk-free way to sell yourself to a wide market of potential mates, and you lie? As of this very moment, I have had 3,379 views since my profile posted. You'd think there would be a keeper in there somewhere. Maybe there is. I'm waiting on it just now. I believe in jinxing a good situation, so I'll hold onto that jewel for now. You can bet your boots that he'll get his on entry if it doesn't work out.
WANTED:
A hot handyman who can build shit, fix shit, and throw it down right. Applicants will need to be unmarried and emotionally available. A background check, interview, and skill demonstration required. Ability to construct a thought into a sentence, and even better, a compelling conversation a bonus. Compensation negotiable and will be based on skill-level and previous experience.
No, my match ad did not say any of that... ok, maybe for about a day... but I did write and re-write my ad based on the responses. If I'm not attracting anybody I would even consider, why not change it up? It's much easier to write about my experiences than to try to write about myself in a way to attract a potential mate. I guess I could shell out $39.99 for the additional match service to write my profile for me. I cringe and also think I could better spend the forty on wings and beer down at the local bar that's bursting at the seams with eligible men of all sorts.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Advice from Rob
I'm a firm believer in horoscopes. I've seen some so incredibly accurate, that I swear the astrologer must really be talking about me. Rob Brezsny, the Free Will Astrologer, publishes nationally. His weekly horoscopes also appear in a local publication Mountain Xpress. These past few weeks for me have been complete upheaval. I'm preparing to move across the state to take a high profile position in state government. I'm saddened by leaving some of my best friends and colleagues here. My daughter will be staying behind for two months with my parents to finish off her year in kindergarten. And 2012 has been a dating and relationship nightmare. At some point I'll write about the three men who have made their mark on my life this year. Needless to say, "asshole" is a fitting word to describe two of the three. Ironically, Rob Brezsny knows this... for Scorpio for this week Rob says:
"Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem," said author William Gibson, "first make sure you are not, in fact, just surrounded by a--holes." This is a good time to check in with yourself, Scorpio, and see if Gibson's advice applies to you. Lately, the jackass quotient seems to have been rising in your vicinity. APRIL FOOL! I was half-joking. It's true that you should focus aggressively on reducing the influence of jerks in your life. At the same time, you should also ask yourself rather pointedly how you could reduce your problems by changing something about yourself.
I am always one to be accountable for my own deficiencies and choices, so this first count of relationship woe starts at the very beginning. As I work on identifying faults within my own life, I look at those who have shaped the person I am.
In August of 2007, I was completing my final training for my school administration certification with Hickory City Schools. I had been a stay-at-home mom for a year with my daughter, Isabel, and I was ready to get back in the work saddle. After all, Uncle Sam financed my education, and he would soon like it to be repayed. Throughout my career, I had problems with being taken seriously. I don't fit the profile of your standard principal. I'm not old, a man, or bald. I have a ridiculous name that's more like a show name for an exotic dancer and I can still pass for about twenty-five. During that year at home with Isabel, I drove over 5,000 miles across the state of NC looking for work. Nothing seemed to pan out. Then a teaching position opened at Catawba Valley High School, a local alternative school located in Hickory. I had spent three years working in a juvenile prison with the NC Department of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention, so alternative school kids were right up my alley of expertise. I was immediately invited for an interview and discovered the principal of the school was my own middle school social studies teacher. Now, I was an over-achieving middle school student with a host of personalities. Like most kids, I went through the grunge, punk, skate-boarder, prep, cheerleader, head-banger, new age phases... you get the picture. Despite my chameleon personality, I was a good student who was highly competitive academically. But what does this teacher and potential supervisor remember about me?
"So tell me, how is Steven Jones?" He grinned.
Steven Jones. I shuttered. Anyone who knew me from those days knows that my entire world revolved around the Most-Awesome-Boy-of-All-Time, Steven Jones. I was crazy about him like any adolescent girl is over her first crush. Steven Jones was the son of a local Baptist minister. He was elusive, eccentric, and was the first boy that ever asked me to "go with him". He had beautiful dark curls and tend to brood out from behind his round, John Lennon spectacles. Our first "date" was a skiing trip with his church. I couldn't even stand up on the skis. I completely wiped out on the tow rope at the bunny slope. It was embarrassing. It didn't matter to Steven. We spent the evening inside the lodge talking. Steven and I were a happy couple for about two weeks. Then we broke up. Then we got back together. Then we broke up again. During the good times we shared secret kisses in the dark on the band field trips. During the bad, we scowled at each other as we passed in the halls. And so the see-saw went. For almost four years. We discovered second base in the basement of his church during Wednesday night services. He was my first real-life boy obsession. We were both Scorpios and loved each other (and stung each other) like Scorpios do. I wrote poetry, books, made art... everything was about Steven. So it is Steven that shaped my vision of boys and eventually men. When we broke up for the last time in tenth grade, a friend of mine wrote me the nicest letter. In it contained the simplest advice, "If it's meant to be, then it will be". This friend eventually went on to marry Steven Jones.
I wish I could remember the moment that I let him go. The initial misery of our separation was deep and painful. But like all grief, it subsided, tip-toed out, and I barely have any memory of it at all. A few years later, Steven Jones sat beside me in my college freshman astronomy class. He did not even acknowledge my presence even though I greeted him every day. It's not that I had any desire to have Steven back in my life. Who knows what dark memories and emotions were still haunting him? I don't like being ignored. You'll see from stories yet to come that much of my behavior (and some I am not proud of) stems from that very concept. We are all shaped by the people who come into and leave our lives. Steven shaped mine in ways I have yet to discover. One thing is certain, my obsession with Steven had a profound affect on the lives of other people. It disguised the person I thought I was and left a lasting impression. I cringe when I think about all of my accomplishments from those days. Yet, I was remembered for my infatuation with a boy. I've never really gave more than a brief thought, but as I have sat across from many a friend over the years, I realize that I am often defined by the man-of-the-moment. I am consumed by him so that only a whisp of me is left. It is this tragic flaw that has left me desolated more times than I care to count.
So for 2012, I vow to myself to reduce the jackass quotient in my life and to work on my own character flaws.
"Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem," said author William Gibson, "first make sure you are not, in fact, just surrounded by a--holes." This is a good time to check in with yourself, Scorpio, and see if Gibson's advice applies to you. Lately, the jackass quotient seems to have been rising in your vicinity. APRIL FOOL! I was half-joking. It's true that you should focus aggressively on reducing the influence of jerks in your life. At the same time, you should also ask yourself rather pointedly how you could reduce your problems by changing something about yourself.
I am always one to be accountable for my own deficiencies and choices, so this first count of relationship woe starts at the very beginning. As I work on identifying faults within my own life, I look at those who have shaped the person I am.
In August of 2007, I was completing my final training for my school administration certification with Hickory City Schools. I had been a stay-at-home mom for a year with my daughter, Isabel, and I was ready to get back in the work saddle. After all, Uncle Sam financed my education, and he would soon like it to be repayed. Throughout my career, I had problems with being taken seriously. I don't fit the profile of your standard principal. I'm not old, a man, or bald. I have a ridiculous name that's more like a show name for an exotic dancer and I can still pass for about twenty-five. During that year at home with Isabel, I drove over 5,000 miles across the state of NC looking for work. Nothing seemed to pan out. Then a teaching position opened at Catawba Valley High School, a local alternative school located in Hickory. I had spent three years working in a juvenile prison with the NC Department of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention, so alternative school kids were right up my alley of expertise. I was immediately invited for an interview and discovered the principal of the school was my own middle school social studies teacher. Now, I was an over-achieving middle school student with a host of personalities. Like most kids, I went through the grunge, punk, skate-boarder, prep, cheerleader, head-banger, new age phases... you get the picture. Despite my chameleon personality, I was a good student who was highly competitive academically. But what does this teacher and potential supervisor remember about me?
"So tell me, how is Steven Jones?" He grinned.
Steven Jones. I shuttered. Anyone who knew me from those days knows that my entire world revolved around the Most-Awesome-Boy-of-All-Time, Steven Jones. I was crazy about him like any adolescent girl is over her first crush. Steven Jones was the son of a local Baptist minister. He was elusive, eccentric, and was the first boy that ever asked me to "go with him". He had beautiful dark curls and tend to brood out from behind his round, John Lennon spectacles. Our first "date" was a skiing trip with his church. I couldn't even stand up on the skis. I completely wiped out on the tow rope at the bunny slope. It was embarrassing. It didn't matter to Steven. We spent the evening inside the lodge talking. Steven and I were a happy couple for about two weeks. Then we broke up. Then we got back together. Then we broke up again. During the good times we shared secret kisses in the dark on the band field trips. During the bad, we scowled at each other as we passed in the halls. And so the see-saw went. For almost four years. We discovered second base in the basement of his church during Wednesday night services. He was my first real-life boy obsession. We were both Scorpios and loved each other (and stung each other) like Scorpios do. I wrote poetry, books, made art... everything was about Steven. So it is Steven that shaped my vision of boys and eventually men. When we broke up for the last time in tenth grade, a friend of mine wrote me the nicest letter. In it contained the simplest advice, "If it's meant to be, then it will be". This friend eventually went on to marry Steven Jones.
I wish I could remember the moment that I let him go. The initial misery of our separation was deep and painful. But like all grief, it subsided, tip-toed out, and I barely have any memory of it at all. A few years later, Steven Jones sat beside me in my college freshman astronomy class. He did not even acknowledge my presence even though I greeted him every day. It's not that I had any desire to have Steven back in my life. Who knows what dark memories and emotions were still haunting him? I don't like being ignored. You'll see from stories yet to come that much of my behavior (and some I am not proud of) stems from that very concept. We are all shaped by the people who come into and leave our lives. Steven shaped mine in ways I have yet to discover. One thing is certain, my obsession with Steven had a profound affect on the lives of other people. It disguised the person I thought I was and left a lasting impression. I cringe when I think about all of my accomplishments from those days. Yet, I was remembered for my infatuation with a boy. I've never really gave more than a brief thought, but as I have sat across from many a friend over the years, I realize that I am often defined by the man-of-the-moment. I am consumed by him so that only a whisp of me is left. It is this tragic flaw that has left me desolated more times than I care to count.
So for 2012, I vow to myself to reduce the jackass quotient in my life and to work on my own character flaws.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Advice from Grandma...
My Grandmother Bernice passed away in 1998. I was not quite 21 at the time. She had been married young, birthed 11 babies (only one set of twins!), and survived many years of abuse from her first husband. She offered me two pieces of advice in my youth:
"It's better to be an older man's darling than a younger man's slave." I've never found that it made that much of a difference, although I have noticed that younger men ten to have a propendency to treat their older gals more like a mom... so I guess she was right. Mom always cleaned up the messes. I've always had a liking for younger men and even as I age, I noticed that my preference for men have not. Is it that I have a secret desire to be a Cougar when I grow up? Or perhaps it's that I haven't really acknowledged that I have aged. Twenty-five seems like only yesterday when almost a decade has slipped by.
The other advice was less advice and more of a gift. Hidden beneath a pile of pots and pans in my cupboard is a small, tattered, slightly greasy brown bag. Inside it is a cast iron grilled cheese pan. This pan has never been used. Before the era of Tangled, there was the wisdom of the southern lady: a good frying pan is good for more than just frying bacon (or grilled cheese). A good frying pan of the right size can release one from all sorts of evils. This frying pan is known as the "husband killer". Its size and weight make it ideal to do damage when aimed at the head of an abusive husband and not too heavy where the lady can't get a good swing.
It's fortunate that I haven't ended up with one of the assholes I've encountered over the years lest I should need to use this greatly prized gift. I don't think Grandma ever anticipated that I would end up husbandless. But I thank her for giving me the wisdom not to be any man's slave and the tools that I need to liberate myself should I foolishly end up in that situation.
"It's better to be an older man's darling than a younger man's slave." I've never found that it made that much of a difference, although I have noticed that younger men ten to have a propendency to treat their older gals more like a mom... so I guess she was right. Mom always cleaned up the messes. I've always had a liking for younger men and even as I age, I noticed that my preference for men have not. Is it that I have a secret desire to be a Cougar when I grow up? Or perhaps it's that I haven't really acknowledged that I have aged. Twenty-five seems like only yesterday when almost a decade has slipped by.
The other advice was less advice and more of a gift. Hidden beneath a pile of pots and pans in my cupboard is a small, tattered, slightly greasy brown bag. Inside it is a cast iron grilled cheese pan. This pan has never been used. Before the era of Tangled, there was the wisdom of the southern lady: a good frying pan is good for more than just frying bacon (or grilled cheese). A good frying pan of the right size can release one from all sorts of evils. This frying pan is known as the "husband killer". Its size and weight make it ideal to do damage when aimed at the head of an abusive husband and not too heavy where the lady can't get a good swing.
It's fortunate that I haven't ended up with one of the assholes I've encountered over the years lest I should need to use this greatly prized gift. I don't think Grandma ever anticipated that I would end up husbandless. But I thank her for giving me the wisdom not to be any man's slave and the tools that I need to liberate myself should I foolishly end up in that situation.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
10,000 Ways It Didn't Work
"If I find 10,000 ways something won't work, I haven't failed. I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward". --Thomas Edison
Through most of my early twenties, I was happily coupled with some “nice” man or other… each of whom I was convinced would turn into Mr. Right. But no matter how many times you kiss a toad, he does not turn into a prince. If anything, he gets even more toad-like. I never imagined in those days that I would spend a half a decade (so far all of my thirties) single and for the most part, celibate. Most days feels like a scene from Bridget Jones, straight down to imagining that my dead body would be found half-eaten by wild dogs… except in my fantasy it’s more like by obese, dog-like pervert cat, Tiger. I have no doubt that when he watches me showering that his fantasy is eating my carcass. It’s funny that in the years since Bridget Jones and Sex in the City, the answer still remains: Why are there so many unmarried women in their thirties? It is not that we are covered in green scales or that there aren’t any decent men out there. However, I look around at my dear friends who all are rowing with me in the vessel of thirties singledom and see some very clear reasons why each of us have found ourselves in this situation. I think it’s important to note that we are all fairly attractive, (mostly) level-headed, with a good education, established careers, and home-ownership. One would beg to even wonder why we would even need a man in the scenario at all, except that all of us have certain desires that no toy (or endless supply of batteries) could ever quite fill. And despite the fact that I can fix my own lawnmower and change my own oil, I want a man to do the “man” chores. It’s not sexism. It’s being practical. And part of doing "man" chores is satisfying an incredible sexual appetite. It seems to be a win-win for all. Except it isn't and never has been because as my lady friends and I are discovering living the paradoxical lives as fierce Southern ladies does not bring in the men, only the bacon which we can happily bring home and fry up on our own. So what does a fierce Southern lady do? And how does she conquer the expectations of women that run thicker than molasses in December? Well, she learns from ol' Edison to know the 10,000 ways love didn't work and perhaps glean some knowledge about herself and life along the way.
Through most of my early twenties, I was happily coupled with some “nice” man or other… each of whom I was convinced would turn into Mr. Right. But no matter how many times you kiss a toad, he does not turn into a prince. If anything, he gets even more toad-like. I never imagined in those days that I would spend a half a decade (so far all of my thirties) single and for the most part, celibate. Most days feels like a scene from Bridget Jones, straight down to imagining that my dead body would be found half-eaten by wild dogs… except in my fantasy it’s more like by obese, dog-like pervert cat, Tiger. I have no doubt that when he watches me showering that his fantasy is eating my carcass. It’s funny that in the years since Bridget Jones and Sex in the City, the answer still remains: Why are there so many unmarried women in their thirties? It is not that we are covered in green scales or that there aren’t any decent men out there. However, I look around at my dear friends who all are rowing with me in the vessel of thirties singledom and see some very clear reasons why each of us have found ourselves in this situation. I think it’s important to note that we are all fairly attractive, (mostly) level-headed, with a good education, established careers, and home-ownership. One would beg to even wonder why we would even need a man in the scenario at all, except that all of us have certain desires that no toy (or endless supply of batteries) could ever quite fill. And despite the fact that I can fix my own lawnmower and change my own oil, I want a man to do the “man” chores. It’s not sexism. It’s being practical. And part of doing "man" chores is satisfying an incredible sexual appetite. It seems to be a win-win for all. Except it isn't and never has been because as my lady friends and I are discovering living the paradoxical lives as fierce Southern ladies does not bring in the men, only the bacon which we can happily bring home and fry up on our own. So what does a fierce Southern lady do? And how does she conquer the expectations of women that run thicker than molasses in December? Well, she learns from ol' Edison to know the 10,000 ways love didn't work and perhaps glean some knowledge about herself and life along the way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)