Every once in a while, and it doesn't happen often, I encounter a woman who restores my love for the female sex. Today, her name was Monica.
She stood at the 292 bus stop in downtown SF. She reached about 5'11" and probably weighed 250lbs. Her face was soft and smiling. She had rosy apple cheeks, and deep, dark chocolate brown eyes that brought that animated, Disney princess sparkle to life.
She approached the kiosk and exhaled loudly. It wasn't a breath of exhaustion or annoyance (which is what one usually hears at bus stops) but rather one of contentment.
"I'm so happy to be here!!" she exclaimed, twirling around to face me.
It took a moment before I realized that she expected a response. I replied with what I hoped was a satisfactory and slightly uninviting "yep". I couldn't possibly fathom what she meant. As soon as I answered her I became acutely aware of a sharp odor of sweat and urine, and equally wary of the homeless addict muttering explicatives behind me.
Monica, however did not appear phased by the rank and pervasive smell and continued to bubble about her lovely day: " I just got back from a reunion for my culinary school...PLUS I had a quick 15 minute date with this guy I met on plentyoffish.com"
She was grinning ear to ear and seemed out of breath from excitement.
I inched a few steps closer to the edge of the curb. The stink wafted stronger under my nose. I looked back at Monica, and then turned my face into the stench. Braving the combined dangers of passing out from the wretched odor and being clipped by oncoming traffic were risks I was willing to take to stand just a few feet apart from this elated girl...Could she be mildly retarded? I mused.
The overt sign of my discomfort did not slow Monica's enthusiasm. She said "He was a really nice guy, you know? He bought me a Jamba Juice and we just talked and laughed...I think he's gonna be a great friend" and she actually sounded genuine. The girl looked down right positive that Harry Online-Dater would be an excellent addition to her group of friends. Again I searched her face for tell-tale signs of Down Syndrome.
She twiddled a curl of her hair between her fingers, stared off down Mission St, sighed and said "You know it's hard to find a companion...a romance..." I nodded an empty nod in her direction without turning to look at her.
"You must have a boyfriend" she added with conviction.
Slighty annoyed (whether it was at the innaccuracy or at the assumption I'm not quite sure) I gave my first full sentence response: "Nope, no boyfriend for me"
"Well that's odd. I think you're absolutely beautiful...You have really kind eyes"
Immediately my face softened and I ceased my dilligent search for any mental handicap. The girl was just genuinely happy, sweet and unperturbed by normal social cues.
"Thank you" I said, sincerity and apology seeping into my previously curt tone.
"Girls don't tell each other that stuff enough...we always think it...'You're beautiful' and stuff like that...but usually girls are mad about how great other girls are. Everybody's always hatin'. I'm just telling you what I see and what you probably don't hear enough"
I stood there, teetering on the edge of the curb from the strength of the smell, completely dumbfounded. I swayed a bit staring at the perfectly competent, rotund girl for a moment or two until I felt a slackness in my face that would probably make Monica momentarily question my mental capacity.
She then reached into her backpack and yanked out a book. It wasa fuscia self-help book about embracing one's femininity and sensuality. "Something something your inner goddess" was the title. She handed it to me and declared that it had changed her whole life perspective.
I opened it at random to a page that advocated fashioning a model of your vulva out of playdough and glitter and displaying in a prominent spot in your home, like your mantel. It seemed like a project that my friend A would attempt to do drunk, on her own out of sheer boredom after an especially compelling episode of Sex and the City...I could see her drunk on girlie cocktails in her Upper east side apartment giggling in front of her full length mirror.
Needless to say, the concept didn't appeal to my whiskey-shootin' glitterless self aside from the comic relief that I would get from the conversation I could generate with my newest mantelpiece addition.
I smiled and handed the book back to her. As I did, my bus pulled up. I put my hand out to shake hers and the moment I did, I felt a wave of positive energy surge up my arm into my chest. She smiled brightly and told me to have a great night.
I learned some great things from Monica that day:
1) I am beautiful
2) My vulva is something to be proud of
3) Being unprejudiced and flambouyantly kindhearted won't always kill me
I learned some things about myself:
1) I correlate genuine happiness and bliss with a diminished mental capacity
2) My cynicism is not an indication of intellectual superiority, but rather of a lazyness, fear or unwillingness to accept small tokens of happiness.
3) The world as I experience it will always be a reflection of what I percieve it to be. If I see the world as something to be battled against, it will always be a battle. If I consciously decide to look for the beauty in the frowning stranger at the bus stop, the world will be beautiful.
Thanks Monica.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Maybe that's what happens when a tornado meets a volcano
When Eminem released his new album, I admit that I was skeptical...let's face it, Encore and Relapse were subpar to say the least. The popish beats and anticlimactic, generic lyrics only spoke to creepers and posers. Both albums lacked any trace of the bitingly fierce poeticism that made Eminem one of the most influential artists of our generation.
All of the songs in Recovery convinced me that he truly is back to himself again. But one song in particular made me recall the most passionate relationship I've ever had. For a long time I have tried to refrain from publicly acknowledging the impact of this affair, or how often I think of him. But the song "Love the way you lie" on Em's new album certainly helped me confront the internal firefight that to this day, comes and goes (sometimes on the daily) in my own heart.
If you have yet to listen to the song, Em sums up every codependent, twisted, abusive relationship and raps about the cyclical nature that some how wholly consumes the partners involved.
For anyone who has experienced the vicious addiction of a mutually codependent relationship, the song opens windows to memories that you thought were locked up and put away forever.
"I can't tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like"...
But I guess it all starts with a shared need:
I was in London for a whole school year, had never been out of the country and didn't know anyone at all. Insecure, young, without purpose or direction, and woefully friendless.
He lived in London his whole life, had never been anywhere else. Life kicked his ass every day...he hustled. It was his way of earning the only power and respect that he could get out of the world...it didn't matter if the middle class regarded it as legitimate or not--if there was one thing he would never let go of, it was his pride.
To me, he represented the injustices and shortcomings of "civilised society". In my eyes he was smart, witty and charming, and horrifically misunderstood. He had such potential, but his status in life was determined before he even had a chance (or the means) to object. Nurturing all of these underdeveloped talents became my project. He knew his way around, was street smart, and he adored me...in the beginning, anyway. He embodied the stability and security that I desperately needed in my new, foreign home.
To him, I personified the unknown and the exotic. I quickly became the adventure and intrigue in what he considered a mundane existence....and I was the only person who seemed to have any confidence or faith in him.
You see, we needed each other...
"You ever love somebody so much you can barely breathe when you're with em? You meet and neither one of you even knows what hit em? Got that warm fuzzy feeling, yeah them chills"...
We spent every waking moment together. It was intoxicating. When we were together, it wad like being on some sort of upper. It was as if our senses were limited in a way....we were only aware of each other. We used to walk along the Thames every night, and I honestly couldn't tell you what it looked like, or what struck me about being in one of the most historically abundant cities in the world...But I can tell you that his eyes glowed golden and always looked like the end of a fire, still burning. The only architecture in London that interested me was his: always stolid, always bold, sharp and angular. I know he felt the same way, because every so often I would feel the heat of his stare on me...fervid and intense, as if he were tying to keep us both in that moment forever.
"You swore you've never hit 'em, never do nothing to hurt 'em. Now you're in each other's face spewing venom"
Crazy thing is, both of us had been hurt before...badly. We clung to each other in those early days as if trying not to drown. We stared at those jagged, ugly scars from past relationships, and tried to heal together...licking each other's wounds. "You are my world, my everything" he would whisper. I would say nothing, just hold on a little tighter.
Soon enough, we realized the complications of our situation. He had a baby on the way from a past relationship that didn't work out. I was only in London on a student visa for a year. He was a drug dealer, and I was determined to become a writer of sorts. He was wildly jealous and I was flirtatious by nature and as a prerequisite of my occupation as a bartender.
The rumours started flying, he started drinking and became his own best customer. I could see him spiralling and it frustrated me. His jealousy surfaced and took on many different forms--substance abuse was typical and his newest habit was verbal and emotional abuse. I was convinced that I didn't want this kind of relationship...but I wouldn't leave. Instead we ran, me chasing him in the rain, him grabbing my arm and forcing me to look into his pleading eyes, me wrenching him off and storming away..."where you goin? I'm leavin' you! No you ain't"....and he's right, I wouldn't leave. I stayed, because when it was going good, it was like nothing I'd ever felt before. I stayed because I was convinced that anyone who could feel that strongly about me, must really love me. I stayed to get my next fix.
It seemed that fire was always pumping through our bodies....until one day, the fire got out of control--it was the second time I found out that he had cheated on me. I was numb...I felt cold and lifeless. My dead eyes looked at him without seeing. My fire was out. I think that terrified him. He jumped up, and tried to beat the fire back into me. I didn't feel it. My body was like an old, abandoned, condemned house. There wasn't a trace of the fire and passion that once coursed through my veins. Suddenly they felt like empty hallways, with pictures hanging on a slant, dusty and neglected.
The worst part about it is that I had hoped that writing about it would allow me to let go. But that's the thing...
"if she ever tries to fucking leave again, Ima tie her to the bed and set this house on fire"
And he did. I tried to leave. Physically speaking, I succeeded. Got on a plane and left the country hoping to escape the pain. But we had chained ourselves together long ago. The end of us meant the end of Me. At least for a long time.
It's been a year...and I'm still addicted to him.
All of the songs in Recovery convinced me that he truly is back to himself again. But one song in particular made me recall the most passionate relationship I've ever had. For a long time I have tried to refrain from publicly acknowledging the impact of this affair, or how often I think of him. But the song "Love the way you lie" on Em's new album certainly helped me confront the internal firefight that to this day, comes and goes (sometimes on the daily) in my own heart.
If you have yet to listen to the song, Em sums up every codependent, twisted, abusive relationship and raps about the cyclical nature that some how wholly consumes the partners involved.
For anyone who has experienced the vicious addiction of a mutually codependent relationship, the song opens windows to memories that you thought were locked up and put away forever.
"I can't tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like"...
But I guess it all starts with a shared need:
I was in London for a whole school year, had never been out of the country and didn't know anyone at all. Insecure, young, without purpose or direction, and woefully friendless.
He lived in London his whole life, had never been anywhere else. Life kicked his ass every day...he hustled. It was his way of earning the only power and respect that he could get out of the world...it didn't matter if the middle class regarded it as legitimate or not--if there was one thing he would never let go of, it was his pride.
To me, he represented the injustices and shortcomings of "civilised society". In my eyes he was smart, witty and charming, and horrifically misunderstood. He had such potential, but his status in life was determined before he even had a chance (or the means) to object. Nurturing all of these underdeveloped talents became my project. He knew his way around, was street smart, and he adored me...in the beginning, anyway. He embodied the stability and security that I desperately needed in my new, foreign home.
To him, I personified the unknown and the exotic. I quickly became the adventure and intrigue in what he considered a mundane existence....and I was the only person who seemed to have any confidence or faith in him.
You see, we needed each other...
"You ever love somebody so much you can barely breathe when you're with em? You meet and neither one of you even knows what hit em? Got that warm fuzzy feeling, yeah them chills"...
We spent every waking moment together. It was intoxicating. When we were together, it wad like being on some sort of upper. It was as if our senses were limited in a way....we were only aware of each other. We used to walk along the Thames every night, and I honestly couldn't tell you what it looked like, or what struck me about being in one of the most historically abundant cities in the world...But I can tell you that his eyes glowed golden and always looked like the end of a fire, still burning. The only architecture in London that interested me was his: always stolid, always bold, sharp and angular. I know he felt the same way, because every so often I would feel the heat of his stare on me...fervid and intense, as if he were tying to keep us both in that moment forever.
"You swore you've never hit 'em, never do nothing to hurt 'em. Now you're in each other's face spewing venom"
Crazy thing is, both of us had been hurt before...badly. We clung to each other in those early days as if trying not to drown. We stared at those jagged, ugly scars from past relationships, and tried to heal together...licking each other's wounds. "You are my world, my everything" he would whisper. I would say nothing, just hold on a little tighter.
Soon enough, we realized the complications of our situation. He had a baby on the way from a past relationship that didn't work out. I was only in London on a student visa for a year. He was a drug dealer, and I was determined to become a writer of sorts. He was wildly jealous and I was flirtatious by nature and as a prerequisite of my occupation as a bartender.
The rumours started flying, he started drinking and became his own best customer. I could see him spiralling and it frustrated me. His jealousy surfaced and took on many different forms--substance abuse was typical and his newest habit was verbal and emotional abuse. I was convinced that I didn't want this kind of relationship...but I wouldn't leave. Instead we ran, me chasing him in the rain, him grabbing my arm and forcing me to look into his pleading eyes, me wrenching him off and storming away..."where you goin? I'm leavin' you! No you ain't"....and he's right, I wouldn't leave. I stayed, because when it was going good, it was like nothing I'd ever felt before. I stayed because I was convinced that anyone who could feel that strongly about me, must really love me. I stayed to get my next fix.
It seemed that fire was always pumping through our bodies....until one day, the fire got out of control--it was the second time I found out that he had cheated on me. I was numb...I felt cold and lifeless. My dead eyes looked at him without seeing. My fire was out. I think that terrified him. He jumped up, and tried to beat the fire back into me. I didn't feel it. My body was like an old, abandoned, condemned house. There wasn't a trace of the fire and passion that once coursed through my veins. Suddenly they felt like empty hallways, with pictures hanging on a slant, dusty and neglected.
The worst part about it is that I had hoped that writing about it would allow me to let go. But that's the thing...
"if she ever tries to fucking leave again, Ima tie her to the bed and set this house on fire"
And he did. I tried to leave. Physically speaking, I succeeded. Got on a plane and left the country hoping to escape the pain. But we had chained ourselves together long ago. The end of us meant the end of Me. At least for a long time.
It's been a year...and I'm still addicted to him.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
You Really Got a Hold on Me
I'm back in the land that I love. In the land of the free. Where the horizon is framed on three sides with towering, majestic redwoods. Where the sky is an endless blue open of possibility. Where shorts, havianas and fairy wings are the norm. Where Peter Pan's neverland is my reality.
I'm back at Camp.
Yesterday I went for a run after a long day of training for my new directing position...I ran from the top office at the entrance of camp down the main road and into the woods by Drake Campfire. Somewhere admist the thick forest of redwoods, I slowed my pace and looked up--I had entered the part of the woods known as the Valley of the Giants--They dwarfed me...Speaking generously, I might have been 1/5000th of their size...For the first time since all the hubbub of graduation, I felt small...
Now usually when I hear that word, I associate it with insignificance and there is nothing I hate more than being made to feel inconsequential. But though I felt small, I felt important...as if my smallness was only temporary and the Titans of the Valley were sheltering me from some destructive force and allowing me to grow.
For a moment I reveled in this comraderie with the trees, my new big brothers, and eventually continued on my jog to the top of the hill.
Dangerously wheezing and shockingly out of shape, I all but crawled my way to the mountain's summit. After dry heaving a little bit and slowing my heart rate to a tolerable beat, I lifted my head from between my knees to see that breathtaking sunset ahead....The mountains dipped and rose into beds of the Giants that I just ran through...just beyond the tree dotted land lay the ocean....And instead of feeling overwhelmed as I have when I looked into the beyond in the past few weeks, I felt excited!!
There is so much out there for me...and though I am writing from my world of minimum wage jobs and liberal arts graduate naivete, I feel I can safely say that my work here will prepare me for whatever it is that lies before me.
Stoked.
I'm back at Camp.
Yesterday I went for a run after a long day of training for my new directing position...I ran from the top office at the entrance of camp down the main road and into the woods by Drake Campfire. Somewhere admist the thick forest of redwoods, I slowed my pace and looked up--I had entered the part of the woods known as the Valley of the Giants--They dwarfed me...Speaking generously, I might have been 1/5000th of their size...For the first time since all the hubbub of graduation, I felt small...
Now usually when I hear that word, I associate it with insignificance and there is nothing I hate more than being made to feel inconsequential. But though I felt small, I felt important...as if my smallness was only temporary and the Titans of the Valley were sheltering me from some destructive force and allowing me to grow.
For a moment I reveled in this comraderie with the trees, my new big brothers, and eventually continued on my jog to the top of the hill.
Dangerously wheezing and shockingly out of shape, I all but crawled my way to the mountain's summit. After dry heaving a little bit and slowing my heart rate to a tolerable beat, I lifted my head from between my knees to see that breathtaking sunset ahead....The mountains dipped and rose into beds of the Giants that I just ran through...just beyond the tree dotted land lay the ocean....And instead of feeling overwhelmed as I have when I looked into the beyond in the past few weeks, I felt excited!!
There is so much out there for me...and though I am writing from my world of minimum wage jobs and liberal arts graduate naivete, I feel I can safely say that my work here will prepare me for whatever it is that lies before me.
Stoked.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
My God Don’t Stand No Cheatin’
I have given a lot of thought to my beliefs surrounding the issue of God and religion. Raised staunchly Catholic, I was given the firmest foundation of religious practice and background imaginable. I attended every Sunday mass for the first 18 years of my life. I was brought up to appeal to Jesus when life got too tough for me to handle on my own, and vividly remember doing so on my knees with my little hands forming an arrow to the sky…
”Dear God (I always sent God’s secretary my dictation for a letter to Him), I have a math test tomorrow and fractions scare me more than Ms. Gray. I was hoping I could call in a favor and you could miraculously make this kind of easy, or maybe let me sit by Erica Puccetti. Thanks, hope every thing is cool up there. Tell my dog Shooter I say hi. Love, Trisha Ann Duffy (Just so He didn’t get confused)”.
I was baptised, reconciled, communed and confirmed and still hold the highest esteem for the faith that my family and culture instilled in me. But in the midst of all this higher education and just life in general, I noticed that religion, while an excellent moral compass, was exactly that….just a convoluded way to morally guide the ancient peoples of the world before the advent of mass literacy, and codified law. All of the major faiths ask similar things of their adherents. “Thou shalt not kill, steal, covet thy neighbors wife”….It’s all pretty much the same, though some get more specific than others. So somewhere around my 18th birthday, I decided that I believed that Jesus, Moses, Mohammed, Buddha, Ghandi….all of them were pretty exemplary dudes who I should try to emulate in my daily life. Those are truths that I thought were indisputable….unless someone would care to uncover the Buddha’s secret double life as a Tibetan druglord, or Ghandi’s moonlight career as a narcissistic pimp-daddy.
These truths I held to be self-evident….but then, suddenly, nothing else was. I had to start from scratch. I know I’m no atheist. I believe in a higher power. I will always be a spiritual person….but now, after boiling my religious beliefs down to the bare bones, I was left without a spiritual foundation….Lately, I feel as if I have been groping in the darkness, trying to create my own spirituality…my own Tao.
René Descartes insisted in his “Discourse on Method” that math is the path to understanding certainty. He believed that certainty was the closest thing to perfection, and God was the only perfect being. Hence to him, math was the closest way to understanding God. So I suppose through the eyes of Descartes, people like Francis Bacon and I were ungifted beings that were not deemed worthy of the capacity to find God through math. ‘Sokay René, I wouldn’t want heaven to just be the one and only conclusion I drew at the end. While I’ll give him points for originality, I ain’t converting any time soon.
In fact, I think my God is perfect in HER imperfection. She isn’t just one conclusion—She is every possible conclusion you could come to. She is the pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, the lake at the top of the mountain, the diploma at the end of 4 years of hard work. She is the beautiful, conclusive epilogue at the end of a turbulent romantic epic. Dessert after dinner. Cigarette after passionate love-making. Applause that follows a grand finale. Paycheck on a Friday afternoon. Guinness on a Friday night.
She embodies my every victory….When Failure makes me her bitch and knocks me to my knees, I look up to the heavens, as most people do, searching for God….If I look hard enough, maybe now I’ll see Her….Most times, I imagine that she looks just like me….but with the eyes of my Uncle Eddie, or my Grandpa Don, or my Grandma Marge….because I see my successes best through the eyes of those who love me most…my own eyes reflect things back like fun-house mirrors---all distorted like.
That’s all I got for now…more on this later…
”Dear God (I always sent God’s secretary my dictation for a letter to Him), I have a math test tomorrow and fractions scare me more than Ms. Gray. I was hoping I could call in a favor and you could miraculously make this kind of easy, or maybe let me sit by Erica Puccetti. Thanks, hope every thing is cool up there. Tell my dog Shooter I say hi. Love, Trisha Ann Duffy (Just so He didn’t get confused)”.
I was baptised, reconciled, communed and confirmed and still hold the highest esteem for the faith that my family and culture instilled in me. But in the midst of all this higher education and just life in general, I noticed that religion, while an excellent moral compass, was exactly that….just a convoluded way to morally guide the ancient peoples of the world before the advent of mass literacy, and codified law. All of the major faiths ask similar things of their adherents. “Thou shalt not kill, steal, covet thy neighbors wife”….It’s all pretty much the same, though some get more specific than others. So somewhere around my 18th birthday, I decided that I believed that Jesus, Moses, Mohammed, Buddha, Ghandi….all of them were pretty exemplary dudes who I should try to emulate in my daily life. Those are truths that I thought were indisputable….unless someone would care to uncover the Buddha’s secret double life as a Tibetan druglord, or Ghandi’s moonlight career as a narcissistic pimp-daddy.
These truths I held to be self-evident….but then, suddenly, nothing else was. I had to start from scratch. I know I’m no atheist. I believe in a higher power. I will always be a spiritual person….but now, after boiling my religious beliefs down to the bare bones, I was left without a spiritual foundation….Lately, I feel as if I have been groping in the darkness, trying to create my own spirituality…my own Tao.
René Descartes insisted in his “Discourse on Method” that math is the path to understanding certainty. He believed that certainty was the closest thing to perfection, and God was the only perfect being. Hence to him, math was the closest way to understanding God. So I suppose through the eyes of Descartes, people like Francis Bacon and I were ungifted beings that were not deemed worthy of the capacity to find God through math. ‘Sokay René, I wouldn’t want heaven to just be the one and only conclusion I drew at the end. While I’ll give him points for originality, I ain’t converting any time soon.
In fact, I think my God is perfect in HER imperfection. She isn’t just one conclusion—She is every possible conclusion you could come to. She is the pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, the lake at the top of the mountain, the diploma at the end of 4 years of hard work. She is the beautiful, conclusive epilogue at the end of a turbulent romantic epic. Dessert after dinner. Cigarette after passionate love-making. Applause that follows a grand finale. Paycheck on a Friday afternoon. Guinness on a Friday night.
She embodies my every victory….When Failure makes me her bitch and knocks me to my knees, I look up to the heavens, as most people do, searching for God….If I look hard enough, maybe now I’ll see Her….Most times, I imagine that she looks just like me….but with the eyes of my Uncle Eddie, or my Grandpa Don, or my Grandma Marge….because I see my successes best through the eyes of those who love me most…my own eyes reflect things back like fun-house mirrors---all distorted like.
That’s all I got for now…more on this later…
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Overdue Apologies and Relationship Fat
Ever notice how exes seem to come out of the woodwork of your past from time to time? Usually it happens as casually as a next door neighbor popping their head out of their front door to give a little wave in your direction. I've found that this kind of check-in comes in text form and sounds a little something like this "Hey! How are you? I was just thinking you should come over because...(insert inane excuse to see you here)" But these little hello's often follow a dry-spell or a break-up....as if they want to feel out their options...The communication is rarely genuine, and if recieved well, ends in a booty call.
I thought I experienced this cliche myself last week, though the motivation for renewed contact surprised me in the end. It was a regular ol' Tuesday afternoon and I was minding my own business eating a chicken sammie for lunch. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. I looked down and couldn't believe my eyes. There on the screen was a number I hadn't seen for some time. I guess I could call him one of my exes. We dated for a second in the summer, and I should honor this guy by crediting him with the best first date I ever had.
He came to SF from Santa Barbara to take me out. We started out at my favorite Italian restaurant in North Beach and then walked across town to the Wharf. When we got there, we stumbled upon the Cannery....the outdoor bar was projecting the film "The Graduate" and we sat together, holding hands and sipping beers for a while. This was followed by a slow stroll to get dessert at Ghiradelli Square. We snuck through the electronic-key glass doors and onnto the patios of the expensive penthouses located upstairs, following behind some of the residents. This was probably the best view of the wharf that I've ever seen. We sat on luxurious patio furniture and shared a sundae while wood burning fire pits blazed away. We watched the city move beneath us and the water undulate on the horizon. Everything, the date included, moved with a fluid, natural rhythm. Later, we went and got a couple 40's and drank them out of brown bags on the mini beach at the end of the Wharf. I loved the lack of pretension. Nothing was overtly planned....we just walked and did what we wanted, and it just so happened that we always wanted to do the same thing. The night ended with dancing at a rooftop blues club. It was the closest thing to perfect that I've ever known.
Long story short, it turned out that the perfect night left little room for improvement. It was as if the best of our relationship was wrapped up in that one night...and once it was over, it was doomed to failure. Like all great things, it had to end.
But like most people, I was reluctant to let it go. Something that seemed so right for one night had to be worth holding on to. So I stayed, unofficially of course, flitting in and out of his life...Somewhere in October though, he wound up with a 19 year old girl that he met on an inebriated night in IV. I was there, hanging out with mutual friends at his house. She called him Jason all night long (a far cry from his actual name), they slept together, and have been together ever since. I guess I felt betrayed. I had worked on this connection for weeks, and hadn't slept with him...I didn't quite trust him, and rightfully so I suppose. But nevertheless I certainly invested time in this "thing", whatever it was...and in waltzed (or more appropriately, staggered) this young, naive girl who swooped up any attention I once had. I was gracious, and we stayed friends.
But there came a time, somewhere around January, that I realized that my friendship didn't mean much to him. After a brief confrontation, I discontinued all contact. Asked him not to call, and huffily hung up. I erased him from my life, deleting him from all portals of communication.
Now, here we are....last tuesday in May.
"Hey! How have you been? I haven't talked to you in forever! You should come by and see the puppies. Bring Charlie(my old dog)!"
I vagueley recognized the area code, but warily asked "New phone, who is this?"
"XXXXX!"
"Ooo...." My mind raced...what did he want to see me for? It had been 4 months of silence.
Apparently he had three puppies now, at his house. I had heard about one. One puppy wasn't enough to erase all the bad stuff...But three certainly were.
However hesitantly, I agreed to meet him that night at his house. Fortunately, one of my best friends is dating his roommate, so I quickly coordinated her presence so that I had a buffer there. She made me instantly more comfortable, especially since XXXXX's girlfriend was there on the couch when I arrived. XXXXX and I exchanged awkward pleasantries. He smiled and moved sheepishly as if somewhat cogizant of the wall I built to block him out.
I left his house that night feeling slightly better about the way things ended with him.
The next morning I got a text from the long forgotten phone number: "Thanks for stopping by :) I'm really sory about how I handled things between us. I feel really bad and there's no reason why we shouldn't be friends"
It was the first unprompted apology I ever recieved after a messy end to a relationship. A wave of relief washed over me. I even felt myself exhale deeply, as if I had stored up a ball of toxic energy that I buried somewhere in my stomach since that day and finally was able to release it. To be honest, I told myself and others that aside from the fabulous first date, I put little importance on my relationship with XXXXX.
Isn't it funny how the termination of a seemingly unimportant relationship can still make us immensely uneasy? A simple and genuine apology forced me to confront feelings that I had denied and surpressed for months of silence and indignance.
But not all of us are so lucky....there are many wrongs that will never be rectified. There are many wounds that won't ever heal neatly with the band-aid of an apology. Instead, they will form into jagged scars that present themselves and shock new significant others in future relationships--ugly and painful to look at.
For those less fortunate than me, who don't forsee such a healing interaction on the horizon, please take comfort in the inevitable:
His new-relationship fat ;-)
I thought I experienced this cliche myself last week, though the motivation for renewed contact surprised me in the end. It was a regular ol' Tuesday afternoon and I was minding my own business eating a chicken sammie for lunch. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. I looked down and couldn't believe my eyes. There on the screen was a number I hadn't seen for some time. I guess I could call him one of my exes. We dated for a second in the summer, and I should honor this guy by crediting him with the best first date I ever had.
He came to SF from Santa Barbara to take me out. We started out at my favorite Italian restaurant in North Beach and then walked across town to the Wharf. When we got there, we stumbled upon the Cannery....the outdoor bar was projecting the film "The Graduate" and we sat together, holding hands and sipping beers for a while. This was followed by a slow stroll to get dessert at Ghiradelli Square. We snuck through the electronic-key glass doors and onnto the patios of the expensive penthouses located upstairs, following behind some of the residents. This was probably the best view of the wharf that I've ever seen. We sat on luxurious patio furniture and shared a sundae while wood burning fire pits blazed away. We watched the city move beneath us and the water undulate on the horizon. Everything, the date included, moved with a fluid, natural rhythm. Later, we went and got a couple 40's and drank them out of brown bags on the mini beach at the end of the Wharf. I loved the lack of pretension. Nothing was overtly planned....we just walked and did what we wanted, and it just so happened that we always wanted to do the same thing. The night ended with dancing at a rooftop blues club. It was the closest thing to perfect that I've ever known.
Long story short, it turned out that the perfect night left little room for improvement. It was as if the best of our relationship was wrapped up in that one night...and once it was over, it was doomed to failure. Like all great things, it had to end.
But like most people, I was reluctant to let it go. Something that seemed so right for one night had to be worth holding on to. So I stayed, unofficially of course, flitting in and out of his life...Somewhere in October though, he wound up with a 19 year old girl that he met on an inebriated night in IV. I was there, hanging out with mutual friends at his house. She called him Jason all night long (a far cry from his actual name), they slept together, and have been together ever since. I guess I felt betrayed. I had worked on this connection for weeks, and hadn't slept with him...I didn't quite trust him, and rightfully so I suppose. But nevertheless I certainly invested time in this "thing", whatever it was...and in waltzed (or more appropriately, staggered) this young, naive girl who swooped up any attention I once had. I was gracious, and we stayed friends.
But there came a time, somewhere around January, that I realized that my friendship didn't mean much to him. After a brief confrontation, I discontinued all contact. Asked him not to call, and huffily hung up. I erased him from my life, deleting him from all portals of communication.
Now, here we are....last tuesday in May.
"Hey! How have you been? I haven't talked to you in forever! You should come by and see the puppies. Bring Charlie(my old dog)!"
I vagueley recognized the area code, but warily asked "New phone, who is this?"
"XXXXX!"
"Ooo...." My mind raced...what did he want to see me for? It had been 4 months of silence.
Apparently he had three puppies now, at his house. I had heard about one. One puppy wasn't enough to erase all the bad stuff...But three certainly were.
However hesitantly, I agreed to meet him that night at his house. Fortunately, one of my best friends is dating his roommate, so I quickly coordinated her presence so that I had a buffer there. She made me instantly more comfortable, especially since XXXXX's girlfriend was there on the couch when I arrived. XXXXX and I exchanged awkward pleasantries. He smiled and moved sheepishly as if somewhat cogizant of the wall I built to block him out.
I left his house that night feeling slightly better about the way things ended with him.
The next morning I got a text from the long forgotten phone number: "Thanks for stopping by :) I'm really sory about how I handled things between us. I feel really bad and there's no reason why we shouldn't be friends"
It was the first unprompted apology I ever recieved after a messy end to a relationship. A wave of relief washed over me. I even felt myself exhale deeply, as if I had stored up a ball of toxic energy that I buried somewhere in my stomach since that day and finally was able to release it. To be honest, I told myself and others that aside from the fabulous first date, I put little importance on my relationship with XXXXX.
Isn't it funny how the termination of a seemingly unimportant relationship can still make us immensely uneasy? A simple and genuine apology forced me to confront feelings that I had denied and surpressed for months of silence and indignance.
But not all of us are so lucky....there are many wrongs that will never be rectified. There are many wounds that won't ever heal neatly with the band-aid of an apology. Instead, they will form into jagged scars that present themselves and shock new significant others in future relationships--ugly and painful to look at.
For those less fortunate than me, who don't forsee such a healing interaction on the horizon, please take comfort in the inevitable:
His new-relationship fat ;-)
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Digital Naked Man
The Era of the Digital Naked Man
The advent of the cell phone markedly and drastically changed the dating world that we live in. Some of us remember when boyfriends had to call the house landline and invariably come into contact with your parents. However symbolic it may have been, there was always a gatekeeper at the threshold of possible romance, whether it be your parents, older brother, or roommate. Then once you were on the phone, conversations had to be moderately censored in anticipation of someone either accidentally or purposefully intercepting your call.
Enter the cell phone.
Suddenly text messages replaced phone calls. You could be asked out, complimented, degraded or dumped by a faceless, glowing, 1” x 1” screen. You could terminate a relationship with a couple of thumb clicks and a “sry” regardless of its longevity. In this way, I propose that the cell phone bred an infectious cowardice that henceforth plagued the dating world.
Some would disagree with me, I know, since the argument has been made that text messages are the 21st century’s equivalent of the love letter. I vehemently disagree with such a theory. The character constraints of text messages force a crudity of language so that “You are so beautiful” quickly morphs into “U R Hot” and their instantaneous delivery allows for fleeting and unstable feelings. In the years preceding the text message, love letters were a very serious business. One had to organize the letter’s transport, and wait patiently. Sometimes it took weeks of waiting before a reply was received. So, I certainly condemn those who claim that text messaging is the newest form of love letters. A drunken “Hey SXC, sup?” should never be compared to Lord Nelson’s correspondence with Emma Hamilton in the 1800’s, nor could it hold a candle to the letter writing of my parents in the 1970’s.
In spite of this blaring cowardice and transience of sentiment, there seems to be an exception to the rule—Cell phones have created a frankness of sexuality that has hitherto been relatively suppressed. Booty calls are commonplace. Making and receiving them is pretty standard. Sexting is considered a viable and encouraged form of foreplay. But perhaps the bravest side effect of mobile technology is the newest craze (or epidemic): The Digital Naked Man.
I bring this up because I have recently been bombarded with stories from my girlfriends regarding their experiences of the Digital Naked Man, and have come face to….well, sure, let’s say face—with him myself.
Situation 1: A friend of mine recently told me that as she was waitressing, the Riverside baseball team came in for the All-You-Can-Eat Pizza Night. As she served them pizzas, one player in particular seemed to take interest in her. She gave him her number, under the impression that the team just wanted an in on the party scene in IV. She invited them to a party at her house and wound up kissing the bold 1st baseman. After he left though, he sent her a text that makes the word “bold” wildly understated. After the typical “U R Hot”, came a full frontal picture that he took of himself in a mirror, fully erect at the thought of her.
Situation 2: I have another girlfriend who had maintained a mentor-like, but faceless relationship with a friend of a friend on facebook. Both of them were photographers and became acquainted via FB due to a mutual friend and admiration of each other’s work. One thing led to another and they decided to meet in Monterey (the central point between their two locations). A night of passion followed, and she left feeling satisfied with the meeting. After two weeks of silence on his end, however, she was stunned to receive a text request for sexual photos of her.
Situation 3: I recently received a photo of a male friend of mine that he took of himself. While it wasn’t necessarily explicit in content (it ranged from the neck down to the hips) it certainly was suggestive. I have definitely flirted with him in the past, but this was the first sext-photo that I ever received.
These women (and others that I have talked to) have all agreed that receiving such pictures puts them in an awkward social position. The brazen and unbridled sexuality demands a response. But what response could they give?
The Digital Naked Man is a clever ploy, really. To some, it demonstrates an open discourse of sexuality. To others, it resembles the time-old “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” clause, except there is no question preceding the showing of “mine”. It’s an assumed reciprocal situation! More often than not, the hesitant recipient of the Digital Naked Man manages to evade the desired response, and replies instead with a “wow, have you been working out?” clearly ignoring the hard-on that is staring them right in the face. You see, the common difference that I have noticed is this—Female recipients of the Digital Naked Man remain pretty aloof to his photographic advances. Speaking strictly for myself, a picture of him wanking it in front of a spotty bathroom mirror just doesn’t get me hot. And I don’t feel flattered that it is me that he’s allegedly thinking about in the process.
But in the end, the Digital Naked Man always adds a little intrigue to my day, so I guess if I’m not getting an elegantly constructed love letter, I don’t mind getting a little jolt of red-cheeked surprise from a sext-picture.
The advent of the cell phone markedly and drastically changed the dating world that we live in. Some of us remember when boyfriends had to call the house landline and invariably come into contact with your parents. However symbolic it may have been, there was always a gatekeeper at the threshold of possible romance, whether it be your parents, older brother, or roommate. Then once you were on the phone, conversations had to be moderately censored in anticipation of someone either accidentally or purposefully intercepting your call.
Enter the cell phone.
Suddenly text messages replaced phone calls. You could be asked out, complimented, degraded or dumped by a faceless, glowing, 1” x 1” screen. You could terminate a relationship with a couple of thumb clicks and a “sry” regardless of its longevity. In this way, I propose that the cell phone bred an infectious cowardice that henceforth plagued the dating world.
Some would disagree with me, I know, since the argument has been made that text messages are the 21st century’s equivalent of the love letter. I vehemently disagree with such a theory. The character constraints of text messages force a crudity of language so that “You are so beautiful” quickly morphs into “U R Hot” and their instantaneous delivery allows for fleeting and unstable feelings. In the years preceding the text message, love letters were a very serious business. One had to organize the letter’s transport, and wait patiently. Sometimes it took weeks of waiting before a reply was received. So, I certainly condemn those who claim that text messaging is the newest form of love letters. A drunken “Hey SXC, sup?” should never be compared to Lord Nelson’s correspondence with Emma Hamilton in the 1800’s, nor could it hold a candle to the letter writing of my parents in the 1970’s.
In spite of this blaring cowardice and transience of sentiment, there seems to be an exception to the rule—Cell phones have created a frankness of sexuality that has hitherto been relatively suppressed. Booty calls are commonplace. Making and receiving them is pretty standard. Sexting is considered a viable and encouraged form of foreplay. But perhaps the bravest side effect of mobile technology is the newest craze (or epidemic): The Digital Naked Man.
I bring this up because I have recently been bombarded with stories from my girlfriends regarding their experiences of the Digital Naked Man, and have come face to….well, sure, let’s say face—with him myself.
Situation 1: A friend of mine recently told me that as she was waitressing, the Riverside baseball team came in for the All-You-Can-Eat Pizza Night. As she served them pizzas, one player in particular seemed to take interest in her. She gave him her number, under the impression that the team just wanted an in on the party scene in IV. She invited them to a party at her house and wound up kissing the bold 1st baseman. After he left though, he sent her a text that makes the word “bold” wildly understated. After the typical “U R Hot”, came a full frontal picture that he took of himself in a mirror, fully erect at the thought of her.
Situation 2: I have another girlfriend who had maintained a mentor-like, but faceless relationship with a friend of a friend on facebook. Both of them were photographers and became acquainted via FB due to a mutual friend and admiration of each other’s work. One thing led to another and they decided to meet in Monterey (the central point between their two locations). A night of passion followed, and she left feeling satisfied with the meeting. After two weeks of silence on his end, however, she was stunned to receive a text request for sexual photos of her.
Situation 3: I recently received a photo of a male friend of mine that he took of himself. While it wasn’t necessarily explicit in content (it ranged from the neck down to the hips) it certainly was suggestive. I have definitely flirted with him in the past, but this was the first sext-photo that I ever received.
These women (and others that I have talked to) have all agreed that receiving such pictures puts them in an awkward social position. The brazen and unbridled sexuality demands a response. But what response could they give?
The Digital Naked Man is a clever ploy, really. To some, it demonstrates an open discourse of sexuality. To others, it resembles the time-old “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” clause, except there is no question preceding the showing of “mine”. It’s an assumed reciprocal situation! More often than not, the hesitant recipient of the Digital Naked Man manages to evade the desired response, and replies instead with a “wow, have you been working out?” clearly ignoring the hard-on that is staring them right in the face. You see, the common difference that I have noticed is this—Female recipients of the Digital Naked Man remain pretty aloof to his photographic advances. Speaking strictly for myself, a picture of him wanking it in front of a spotty bathroom mirror just doesn’t get me hot. And I don’t feel flattered that it is me that he’s allegedly thinking about in the process.
But in the end, the Digital Naked Man always adds a little intrigue to my day, so I guess if I’m not getting an elegantly constructed love letter, I don’t mind getting a little jolt of red-cheeked surprise from a sext-picture.
Monday, May 3, 2010
An A-Bomb of Clarity.
Pardon the violent connotation associated with the title of this post, but I did it for a reason.
You see, today I went through a series of ups and downs. I started my day with a bitter and determined resolve to get all the shit that left me Sleepless-in-a-Santa-Barbara-loft-bed out of my system and into the blogosphere. I meant every word of what I said in my last post, and felt a tiny morsel of relief after submitting it.
This morning:
I meandered aimlessly around my messy room--a cluttered reminder of the tornado of a weekend that I survived. Then I wandered into my car and found myself at Borders picking up a copy of a biography on Marilyn Monroe. My little sister has only recently revealed her to be "numero uno" and I truly agree. Plus, if there's any way to feel infinitely better about my current situation, reading about the life and secrets of a misunderstood, bipolar, sexually abused and tragically beautiful Hollywood starlet definitely takes the cake.
I did my little emo thang and listed to Rihanna's Rated R album on my way to work at the Meat Market.
Let me tell you, there's something truly mentally liberating in the action of slicing tri tip. I get my deepest thoughts and best ideas at the slicer, which kind of scares me 'cause shit, what am I going to do when I don't have one of those monotonous tools to aid my day dreaming? Maybe I'll buy one for my house on eBay.
At the slicer and between hot pastrami sandwiches, I found myself reflecting on something that I shall credit to my friend/coworker Sarah's father. He said
Then Fernando, a guy who has blessed me consistently with his crude and yet indispensible wisdom said
I didn't walk away from this with any communicable diseases...In fact, I walked away calmly and gracefully in a pair of strappy five inch Guess heels. In spite of all my internal wretching, I smiled assuredly and wished him the best.
This meat-market-moment of simplicity mushroom-clouded into the realization that even though my friends and I got played like Hendrix's guitar (pre-breaking) in our most recent romantic (or not-so-romantic) affairs, we came out of them with our pride. And with the full knowledge that we won't allow any such things to happen again.
For now, cynicism can be my saving grace but quiet acceptance of the past will let me move on, no regrets.
'Cause who wants those?
You see, today I went through a series of ups and downs. I started my day with a bitter and determined resolve to get all the shit that left me Sleepless-in-a-Santa-Barbara-loft-bed out of my system and into the blogosphere. I meant every word of what I said in my last post, and felt a tiny morsel of relief after submitting it.
This morning:
I meandered aimlessly around my messy room--a cluttered reminder of the tornado of a weekend that I survived. Then I wandered into my car and found myself at Borders picking up a copy of a biography on Marilyn Monroe. My little sister has only recently revealed her to be "numero uno" and I truly agree. Plus, if there's any way to feel infinitely better about my current situation, reading about the life and secrets of a misunderstood, bipolar, sexually abused and tragically beautiful Hollywood starlet definitely takes the cake.
I did my little emo thang and listed to Rihanna's Rated R album on my way to work at the Meat Market.
(No seriously, I work at a catering company called Country Catering and Meat Market....this is not a euphemism for a prostitution ring....sorry to disappoint).
Let me tell you, there's something truly mentally liberating in the action of slicing tri tip. I get my deepest thoughts and best ideas at the slicer, which kind of scares me 'cause shit, what am I going to do when I don't have one of those monotonous tools to aid my day dreaming? Maybe I'll buy one for my house on eBay.
At the slicer and between hot pastrami sandwiches, I found myself reflecting on something that I shall credit to my friend/coworker Sarah's father. He said
"I think that heaven and hell all come down to the last five minutes of your life. If in your last few moments, you look back on your life and are satisfied and happy with it--that's heaven. If you look back with regrets and unhappiness, that's hell"
or something to that effect. Remembering this fun-sized bit of wisdom was the catalyst of the A-Bomb of clarity that was about to hit...It set the stage for a change of heart. I started thinking about all of the good things that I have going in my own life: great friends, a wonderful family, good health, intelligence, no addiction problems, and an-almost-BA-in-a-totally-useless-field....and I started thinking, "eh, to hell with all those guys, I'm set!"Then Fernando, a guy who has blessed me consistently with his crude and yet indispensible wisdom said
"Seriously, stop frowning....unless you got the clap, there's no reason for you to be mad"
That was when the bomb was dropped. He's right!I didn't walk away from this with any communicable diseases...In fact, I walked away calmly and gracefully in a pair of strappy five inch Guess heels. In spite of all my internal wretching, I smiled assuredly and wished him the best.
This meat-market-moment of simplicity mushroom-clouded into the realization that even though my friends and I got played like Hendrix's guitar (pre-breaking) in our most recent romantic (or not-so-romantic) affairs, we came out of them with our pride. And with the full knowledge that we won't allow any such things to happen again.
For now, cynicism can be my saving grace but quiet acceptance of the past will let me move on, no regrets.
'Cause who wants those?
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