The Chemical Formula for Drama - Part I

I almost ended things with Doc Harley yesterday. I almost walked out of his apartment Monday night. Then I almost blogged about it yesterday. Wow, with all these almosts, I'm exhausted...its been a full week and its only Wednesday.

Our story begins with our lovely (and oh so modest) heroine preparing to see her boyfriend, whom she had not seen in a whole week. Imagine, if you will, the schoolgirl excitement of it all - the opening night butterflies in her tummy as she puts on secret saucy lingerie, replete with garters and stocking that she knows he likes. They had made plans on the telephone the night before, and she finds she has really missed him after a week's abscence. Despite having been up since the crack of dawn to take a train home from her Thanksgiving weekend, she is all energy and a tumble of overly awkward fumbling limbs as she prepares for their mini-reunion of sorts.

Now imagine her frustration when he is nowhere to be found; the endless rings and that hideous voice mail message in which a grown man somehow manages to camoflauge his voice to sound like a boy in the losing battle with awkward puberty. Granted, she was a half hour later in calling then she had originally told him, as she ran (well, okay, she who pays rent off of her credit cards actually splurged on a cab) uptown with her two ton suitcase in tow to drop off her things at her own apartment before heading downtown. But he's been a half hour or more late, as she recalls, and even left her out in the rain as a result. She leaves several messages on the voice mail with the voice that does not in any way belong to him, and tells him she is waiting at her apartment to avoid wandering aimlessly around the East Village waiting for him. She also text messages, at the risk of overdoing the communication attempts, because, well damnitt they had plans and where the hell is he?!!

Finally she receives a response to her text message informing her that they do still have plans for the evening and that he will pick her up at her apartment with the motorcycle. She writes back for him to call her when he is downstairs (she not only lives in a 5th floor walkup, but an embarassingly filthy pigsty 5th floor walkup at that) and receives a response that he will be there at around 9:30, a 45 minute wait at that point. While she is slightly irked by the delay, she puts it aside in lieu of the much more joyous excitement of anticipation.

The boyfriend arrives exactly on time, and they begin their journey downtown, when our heroine's stomach suddenly plunges to the tips of her boots, threatening to fall and be lost forever on 5th Avenue. He was out to dinner at some restaurant and that's why she was left waiting around? He didn't even bother to call her? But she hadn't seen him in a whole week! Wasn't he as anxious to see her as she was to see him? Had he not missed her at all and had her abscence gone unnoticed? The sting from the perceived slap in the face of it all is almost a physical reality. She mentions that she has not eaten, as they were going to cook dinner together at his place and he offers to take her anywhere to get food but at this point her appetite seems to have plunged south with her previously butterfly inhabited stomach that is now precariously perched on the pedals of the motorcycle whose roar seems to be ringing far louder in her ears than when they had begun.

She decides that if one is to pick and choose their various battles (a lesson she has yet to grasp fully), this is one that cannot go by without any action whatsoever; the lack of consideration on his part is too great to go unmentioned. She waits until they have dropped the bike off at its garage home, not wanting any distraction from what she wants him to hear.

"Listen, I really don't want to make a big deal out of this, but I feel like I can't not say something either...the next time we have plans and you go off to dinner at the last minute, can you please at least call and let me know?"

He draws in a breath and opens then closes his mouth, as if preparing to say something in his defence and then thinking better of it. "Okay. I will." Then, unable to refrain, he says, "It was a last minute thing, I had to go." "Well you could have at least called." "I was on the motorcycle, I couldn't call. I text messaged you and told you I was coming to pick you up. I knew yuo had stuff to do..." "Oh, what stuff would that be?" "Putting away your things and all." "I didn't get anything done, I merely waited for you because we had plans." "I'm sorry about that. I had to go to this dinner." "Well it just makes me feel very unimportant to you." He pulls her to him in an awkward hug, his bicycle in one hand and his girlfriend in the other. "You are important to me." She accepts this, as she desperately wants this night to be somehow special, something of the stuff of the romatic classic novels she has been revisting and not of the dysfunctional relationships theme so prevalent in newer fiction.

They go into the apartment together, but the boyfriend has to go pick up his computer from his office, as he informs her there are a few things he must get done. While she would have preferred he were overcome with desire fueled by the week's separation and had thrown her down on the dining table right then and there, she settles for a kiss, takes off her boots, and positions herself in the big chair so that just a hint of garter is showing as she takes out the compelling South African novel she is currently reading which is somehow subtlely steamier than her own life at that precise moment. When he returns (faling to notice the garter peek which becomes more clownishly obvious and less sensuously subtle as the night wears on), he offers her food and she makes a trite and overly obvious attempt at seduction, the metaphor in keeping with his offer. This is acknowledged but not acted upon, as the boyfriend has things he must do, which do not seem to be more important than what she would like him to do, but our heroine keeps her chin up and as always, takes solice in fiction and the lovely realm of her imagination that is always ultimately fulfilling.

After the infintely slow passage of time, the accomplishment of the boyfriend's tasks, an in depth but circumstantially out of place discussion on the civil war and slavery (our heroine having just returned from the south), and the obscenely comical rise of her dress in a garish attempt to reveal the still neglected garters and stockings, she bluntly tells him that she does not wish to discuss slavery and the economic motivation behind it when he is sitting in front of her in his underwear and she has not had sex in a week (with something not battery operated at least). He goes into the bedroom, where she finds him in bed, beneath the covers with the radio on and NPR holding court. She is stunned and literally stares at him, mouth agape, whether in shock, horror or frustration she has no idea. "What? What's wrong? Why are you staring at me like that?" You're going to bed? You're going to bed?!" "I'm tired. What? Close your mouth and come to bed." But she doesn't. She stands there, mute and frozen for a good minute or so, before turning around and heading for the solace of the bathroom with its glaring lights eliminating any option of hiding from the truth of her infinte disappointment in the entire evening that was supposed to be magical, not mundane.

TO BE CONTINUED..........

Spring Cleaning in Fall

I am having a day of clarity amidst all the ups and downs of late. I'm not quite ready to write about it yet, but one good things that I wanted to share is that I have finally realized that I am worthy of nothing but the deepest and kindest and most passionate and trusting of love.

And I should settle for nothing less.

I am listening to Simon and Garfunkle's Bridge Over Troubled Water, the song I insisted we play at my brother's funeral and the song I associate deeply with him. It just happened upon my ipod, set to random, but at exactly the moment I needed it.

He'd better fucking have my back..that's all I got to say about that.

I think I'm spring cleaning my internal closets in fall...or maybe I'm getting ready to go into hibernation, I don't know yet.

I do know I'm okay and always will be.

God Wants Me to be a Bitch Today

One of the automatons working at the sdj is talking with the womyn sitting in the cubicle right in front of me and he just declared that "This is where God wants me to be right now.", meaning the sdj. Now I don't know his god, I'm not hanging out grabbing a beer with his god or anything, but I have serious doubts that "God" is a fan of this company. In fact, I would go as far as to say that any god that believes in and supports managed health care is not a god I want any part of. Personally, I think if anyone would want someone to be working here, I'd look in the opposite direction for that answer considering the nature of the business.

Then again, some people just can't handle taking responsibility for their own choices I suppose.

Did I mention that God wants me to write bitchy blog entries about perfectly nice people?

Why Greyhound Bus Lines Can Go Fuck Themselves

I had a lovely time at home over the Thanksgiving holiday, despite the less than promising adventure in getting down south. It was a very typical Synge story; the type where upon hearing of the perilous journey my friends all shook their collective heads and sighed, "Only Synge. Of course this happened to Synge..."

I was forced by circumstance and wallet to take a bus down; an all nighter at that. I had wanted to leave enough time to pick up my sick friend from the hospital and get him situated before abandoning him for the long weekend, thus I chose to take a Greyhound bus, departing at 11:30pm, as opposed to the Chinatown bus, which leaves at 5pm. I also erroneously thought that Greyhound would be a little nicer than the often sketchy-as-hell Chinatown bus; had I only known exactly how very wrong I was.

The bus left promptly at 11:30pm and we were off to an excellent beginning of our trip, when all of a sudden the engine cuts off just past the entrance to the NJ Turnpike. The driver prayed to the gods and goddesses of bus engines and must have offerred up his first born because miraculously the engine starts again, and we are on our shaky way.

For about a mile or two, at most.

Evidently his first born was an inadequate offer, as the bus then breaks down again...on a bridge...with no shoulder...and its very windy.

This is the point where I begin laughing hysterically, much to the chagrin of my fellow passengers. This is also the point where, of course, my cell phone battery dies.

After much waiting and many threats from self described ex-cons currently violating their parole, the bus was finally towed off the bridge, where it was perilously perched and holding up traffic, to a very spooky isolated junkyard somewhere near the illustrous vacation destination of the world...Newark, NJ! Luckily, my seat mate, a very sweet cabbie from the Bronx, came equipped with a travel emergency kit, conveniently rolled into two mid sized cigars. We exited the bus into the freezing air of the junkyard, and proceeded to alleviate the stress stemming from our unknown fate. I, myself had also brought 3 mini airline bottles of cheap vodka, hoping to knock myself out for the voyage; little did I know how thankful I would be for this. After our little junkyard impromptu party, which was quite comical given the circumstances, we shuffled into the tiny trailer offices of the junkyard, where people were packed wall to wall with a standing room only house most theatres dream of. While this was nowhere near a dream, it was slightly warmer than the freezing exterior or the heatless bus; probably due more in part to the closely packed bodies than anything else.

After about 20 minutes of very uncomfortable standing and with the after-effects of our supplies really beginning to take hold, I decided that it would be better to brave the cold but comfy (yes, at that point they qualified as comfy) bus seats than to stay standing for an indefinite amount of time. My seat partner/angel and I made our way back onto the frigid but comparatively spacious bus, where I then proceeded to invent a new game of who can hit their head hardest when suddenly awakening with a jolt due to extreme cold. Had I not been passed out, it would have been unbearable; as it was, it was certainly no picnic and for someone as fucked up as I was at that point. I woke up apporximately every 3.5932 seconds shivering; at one point I remember one of the many passengers coming ion and out of the bus informing us taht it was snowing outside. Lovely. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and decided to go stand in the slightly warmer trailor and forgo any attempt at sleep.

This is when I discovered that it had been about 5 hours of waiting already, and the passengers who had been ruthlessly hounding (bad pun intended, I'm ashamed to say) the bus company telephonnically were still getting the run around and empty promises with no bus in sight. I waited my turn to get to charge my cell phone in one of their outlets and stood waiting. Finally, after a very long hour, at about 6am, another bus arrived to pick us up.

I understand completely and do not fault Greyhound at all, seeing as how Newark is so incredibly far from New York City, a virtual hub for bus travel. Naturally it would take anyone 6 hours to collect a bus full of freezing and starving passengers about 10 miles away!

I think the new bus driver was expecting a pack of rabid wolves by that time, but we were all so tired that we promptly fell asleep in silent warmth.

I arrived in my hometown, usually a mere 6 to 7 hours away, at 1pm; a total of 13.5 hours after departure, with only a phone number to call as any hope of compensation.

Happy Fucking Thanksgiving, Y'all!

My father proceeded to tell everyone we came in contact with (much to my embarassment at times) the whole weekend that Greyhound Bus Lines may leave you stranded for 6 hours, but at least they provided free pot (which was also not true, it certainly wasn't thanks to Greyhound). I'm certainly glad he found it entertaining.

I will never ever take Greyhound again; thankfully the train home was only 25 minutes late, as opposed to 6.5 hours late.

And Finally Something to Celebrate!

Vixanne gave birth to her beautiful healthy baby boy, Gideon, this morning at 5:48am. He is 7 pounds, 7 ounces and 19" long and the grapevine tells me that he is every bit as beautiful as his parents! Congratulations Vixanne and hubby and welcome Gideon!

It is ultimately beautiful and comforting to have the range of life experiences all at once; a reminder of the cyclical nature and the beauty of things flowing onward even amidst fear and illness.

Quizzing is Wonderfully Distracting

Stolen from Jon. I'm not sure how accurate this is, but umm...okay...I'll take it...

Your Seduction Style: Au Natural

You rank up there with your seduction skills, though you might not know it. That's because you're a natural at seduction. You don't realize your power! The root of your natural seduction power: your innocence and optimism. You're the type of person who happily plays around and creates a unique little world. Little do you know that your personal paradise is so appealing that it sucks people in. You find joy in everything - so is it any surprise that people find joy in you? You bring back the inner child in everyone you meet with your sincere and spontaneous ways. Your childlike (but not childish) behavior also inspires others to care for you. As a result, those who you befriend and date tend to be incredibly loyal to you.

What Kind of Seducer Are You?

Will Work for Cuddle and Shoulder

I am one tired very puffy eyed monkey who has to go to bed because tomorrow will be a hugely long day involving a session with Lady Charon, many hours at a hospital with my friend and then more hours getting them settled in at home and then an all night bus ride home for what does not feel like a joyous Thanksgiving. I just want to crawl in a hole somewhere.

And I really wanted and needed to cuddle up with Doc Harley tonight but he is not feeling well and was going to bed and somehow then became the recipient of my misdirected anger. I called him back when I got home and basically told him that he was pretty crappy in the emotional support arena; he then stayed on the phone with me while I gave very abbreviated replies, trying to be there telephonically for me. I didn't want him there telephonically; I hate the telephone and wanted him to hold me. I wanted him to use his freakin mammoth brain for just a second and realize that I may need him, and most of all I wanted him to just know it without me having to tell him. I finally got off the phone, saying, "I don't want to talk on the phone, I don't like talking on the phone. I want to go curl up into my roomate's breast and cuddle and have her hold me while I cry." I wanted to add..."like you should be doing!", but I didn't. I just said goodnight and agreed to call him in the morning when I wake up (he said he'd have the phone by the bed, in case he was asleep). Why can't he call me in the morning when he wakes up? Why can't he magically make everything better, because perhaps that's what I'm really wanting from him?

Its all confusing, and I'm so emotionally frail and exhausted at the moment that I don't know what I'm doing or saying. Its a good thing I didn't break up with him just because he's not feeling well and wanted to go to bed, like I had decided to do on the subway ride home from my friend's apartment tonight. Its just that I've been spending the last two days holding someone while they cried, and I wanted him to do the same for me. Why does it always feel like its only the womyn who come through when you need them? Why is it only the womyn who instrinsically know when you need to be held?

Teary Eyed 2 Seconds

A very good friend of mine is very ill; this sort of thing always puts everything in perspective, doesn't it? While the illness is not new, recent developments have put this at the forefront of my consciousness and the hyper-immediacy drowns out anything and everything else. I have spent a good part of the day dealing with the various levels of chill that accompany medical terminology and the rest of it sobbing. I am tired and drained and sobbed so loudly upon my arrival home that my neighbor diagonally across the hall came over to check on me. Its time for bed. I cannot write about this heartbreak or any other at the moment, I need to take something stronger than the bedtime tea I've been choking down and get some sleep, hoping for clarity and magic powers to appear somewhere in the night.

Going With the Flow Sent Me Over the Waterfall in a Wooden Barrell

The go-with-the-flow relaxation approach was great while it lasted...which was a record breaking 4 hours or so. Impresive, I know. Clearly I can talk the talk but trip and fall when trying to walk the walk. And I wasn't even chewing gum!

On Tuesday evening when I talked to Doc Harley on the phone, I asked if he was free for a date Wednesday night; I used the word date to differentiate from the hanging-out-at-home-with-friends kind of informal thing we've been doing a lot of lately. I wanted to do something just us, and something special and different at that. He said sure and voila! a date was made.

Or so I thought.

Last night while I was still at the office and we were text messaging back and forth, I had mentioned taking him out to a celebration dinner but by the end of the day he wasn't really up for it. Despite my initial selfish knee jerk reaction, I was very proud that I was able to realize that perhaps he had a long day and just needed to relax. I tend to forget that not everyone has a relaxed (albeit practically non-paying) sdj, like me, and that sometimes days can be long, trying, and stressful. Wow! I was being caring and accomodating! I was remembering that he has needs to and I should take those into consideration! Yay! Growth!

Or so I thought.

So the plan became to hang out at home, which I was okay with. I text messaged him that I was leaving the sdj at 7pm and that I would be there around 7:30pm; he wrote back that he was going down to the basement workspace. However, upon arrival in the midst of a monsoon, he was nowhere to be found. I called repeatedly, left several messages, and finally settled into a cafe a few blocks away to wring out my soaked person and have a glass of wine to soothe my soaked ego. I knew he was down in the basement, but I couldn't get into the basement without keys and he gets no cell phone reception in the basement. As the minutes ticked by, I became more and more upset. He knew I was coming over! How insensitive! I felt forgotten and unimportant and insignificant, to say the least.

I finally called again at 8:15, over half an hour later; much to my chagrin he answered the phone quite nonchalantly. I said "Where are you?" and he replied, "At home, on my couch. Where are you?". I was naturally quite taken aback by this answer and I said "I've been waiting for over half an hour! I called you like 5 times!" He said "I'm sorry, I was in the basement, I don't get cell reception there. Where are you?" I said "I left like 4 messages!" He said "i didn't get them except your text message just now. Where are you?" I told him that I was at a cafe around the corner and he told me to come over. He also mentioned that two of his friends were coming over for dinner in a bit. That little innocuous statement touched a raw nerve and just kind of set everything off. Not only was I left out in the rain, but then he had invited friends over for dinner? On a night that I wanted to spend with just him? I sat in silence for a moment and then I said, "You know, I think I'm actually going to head uptown." Naturally, he asked me, "What's wrong?" to which I of course immaturely replied "Nothing, I'm going uptown, okay?". He said, "Okay, well, call me when you get there, okay?".

I hung up the phone and sat in the not-so-comfortable cane cafe chair, staring out the giant window at the rainy bleak and miserable outer landscape which I was certain seemed to be the universe reflecting my inner landscape. I sat and stared, completely motionless and barely aware of what I was even feeling for quite some time; feeling only a symbiotic outpouring with the endless drops descending resignedly from the sky.

I finally summoned my wits from the deep depths of who-knows-where into which they had descended, paid the check and stepped out onto the street clutching my pink umbrella as if it were my only lifeline. Like a lost child, I wandered aimlessly for a few blocks, undecided as to what to do or where to go. I finally picked up my cell phone (the one just purchased for an exhorbitant amount yesterday afternoon because Verizon took off my insurance without my knowledge or permission when I changed my cell phone account last fall) and called Mr. Saucy Funnybuns.

"Hi!", I said in a desperate choked voice. "I'm coming over, okay?"
"What happened? What's wrong?"
[to be read as one long sentence inserting random overdramatic sobs throughout]: "I finally called DH and he said he was at home on the couch and didn't get my messages and I was forgotten in the rain and he invited his friends for dinner and I wanted time alone with him and he doesn't want to spend any time with just me! I told him I was going uptown and he asked if anything was wrong and I said no and he just said to call him when I get uptown, that's all!"
*pause *
*more pausing *
"Okay, well, you're welcome to come over...you're welcome to come over anytime, that's why you have keys. But are you sure that's what you want to do?"
"Do you think I'm overreacting?"
"Maybe just a little? Well, not overreacting, please! I'd never say you were overreacting. But I think this may be about something else entirely, Synge. I think this is more about the fact that you sent that text message and put yourself out there and he hasn't responded. I think its more about that than the fact that he invited friends over for dinner."
"But I was waiting for half an hour! And it was raining!"
"Listen honey, you do what you want. If you want to come here, come here. But if you're going to call him when you get here, you might want to just call him before you get all the way up here and then just turn around and go back downtown."
"Should I call him?"
"I think you should do what you want to do, I'm just saying if you're going to call him you should do it while you're still in his neighborhood, that's all."

So I called Doc Harley and I told him that I was hurt and upset. He was concerned and asked why and I told him that I had wanted tonight to be some time for just us (in all fairness, I had made no mention of tonight being just the two of us up until this point) and then he invited his friends over for dinner and I was feeling like he didn't want to spend time alone with me. He told me that it wasn't at all that he didn't want to spend time alone with me; his friend had spent all day building a desk and shelves for his office and he felt like the least he could do was invite him and his fiancee over for dinner. He said the friends wouldn't stay long and then we'd have some time to ourselves. He did apologize, and I asked if he thought I was overreacting and he said "Maybe just a little bit?"

So I went over there. I called back Mr. Saucy Funnybuns on my way, still a little tearful. As I approached his front door, the Funky Godchild was walking towards me on the block and gave me a big hug and kiss and asked if I was okay; I felt like perhaps I was wearing too much of my heart on my sleeve and should put on an overcoat but it turns out that she had been at Dh's place and knew I was upset.

When I walked into the apartment Doc Harley was on the couch smoking a cigar. He got up, crossed the living room to me, gave me a hug and a kiss and said "Don't be sad. Its okay! Everythings okay! I do want to spend time with you, I just had to invite over these guys because [friend] built these shelves for me. That's why I was in the basement when you called. I was staining the shelves." He actually told me not to be sad several times in the evening; while I know he was trying to be reassuring, the phrase "Don't be sad" is not exactly super reassuring to me.

So the friends came over for diner - and the thing is that I do love these friends. I think they're great and I really enjoy hanging out with them. It had more to do with me and feeling like I was unimportant and invisible, just in general, than it had to do with the fact of these friends coming over. We ate dinner and got into a bit of a political discussion (imagine that) that I was enjoying except for the fact that DH has the tendency to interrupt, as if his opinion and what he has to say holds far more weight and validity than anyone else's thoughts and opinions. Then we watched Southpark and part of Meet the Fockers.

And here we enter yet another difficult ground to navigate. DH loves TV and I hate the TV. I don't think Doc Harley fully comprehends exactly how much I abhor the TV. I would rather do pretty much anything...even clean, than watch TV. That to me is not spending time with someone. When I was in college, I used to get angry when I came home and my roomate was watching TV, because I get sucked in and its just not enjoyable to me in any way shape or form. I feel my entire being atrophy with each second that passes; it makes me want to scream! So far, I have compromised and watched TV with him a few times (albeit often burrying myself in a book after a little while because I can't stand it), but I don't want this to become a frequent activity. To me it almost feels like an impolite intrusion in our relationship, like the relatives that just don't know when to leave or something...only its an inanimate fucking object!

Okay, sorry, I didnt mean to go off on that, but my aversion to television is really that extreme; anyone who knows me well knows that about me. I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I was only allowed to watch one hour of PBS a day growing up; something for which I am eternally grateful to my parents for.

Finally, Doc Harley decided that for whatever reason, we'd watched enough of the movie and he told his friends goodnight and that it was time to go. He then took me to the basement to proudly show me the desk and shelves that his friend had built and that he was staining underground as I was drowning above ground. I made the appropriate oohs and ahs and we walked back to his place to have the little bit of alone time I wanted.

We had more than alone time and it was lovely; he was ummm, extremely attentive (not that he's not usually). I guess it was like make-up sex, minus the fight and minus the resolution really. We stayed up talking for a bit but he was starting to drift off as I was talking and keeping him awake. Finally he asked if he could just listen to the radio for a bit. I was a little pouty, but quickly fell asleep myself. In the morning he asked if I was upset that he didn't want to talk anymore last night; he explained that his brain just kind of shuts off when he falls asleep at night and when he wakes up in the morning (that brain of his is beyond my comprehension sometimes; while he's incredibly intelligent the leaps of logic he makes create these giant complex webs of art in my brain after a while and all I hear is the pattern not the words). I told him that I had forgotten, so I supposed I wasn't that upset. It showed he is trying to be sensitive of my feelings.

So I've been a bit upset all day; more so at the insensitivity shown by leaving me out in the rain when he knew damn well that I was coming over. He didn't know that I wanted time alone with just him, so I can't really fault him for that. But he did know I was coming over, he knew I was leaving work at 7pm, and he was still down in the basement staining shelves and a desk until 8pm. That is insensitive. That shows me that I am less important than a desk and shelves!

I am waffling between feeling completely justified in being overemotional and feeling like perhaps I am blowing things a bit out of proportion. I am also bleeding like a stuck pig at the moment so I am ubersensitive and ultraemotional; throw that into the mix and its one hell of a confusing/sobby/angry/apologetic/sensitive day. In one moment it feels like this is so huge and horrible and I should clearly end it all right now and in the next moment I think that perhaps Mr. Saucy Funnybuns is right and this all has far more to do with the fact that I put myself out there and have received no response and I'm feeling naked and vulnerable and scared and then I just think maybe its all because I'm having a really tough period because I took the Plan B pill this month and my hormones are all screwed up.

I have no fucking idea which feeling to listen to.

So I'm going to go to Mr. Saucy Funnybuns' apartment and drink copious amounts of wine while crying on his shoulder; while it may not resolve anything, it will make me feel better.

Trying to Relax Into it All

I was asked by Sarachkah where I stand now, Monday morning (okay, so its not morning anymore) in the light of day and if I saw Doc Harley this weekend. I'll answer the second question first, as that's far easier to formulate a coherent answer to, then I'll clumsily attempt to answer the first...ha ha ha.

Saturday morning I awoke to a text message from Doc Harley inviting me to ride out to New Jersey with him on the motorcycle to visit his father. I figured I would have to see him sooner or later, and that clearly this indicated that he had no intention of bolting (unless he was going to dump me during lunch at his father's house, which seemed rather unlikely) so it seemed in my best interest to go, no matter how anxious I was as to whether it would be awkward or not. I scrambled into the shower, got ready in record time and when I bravely emerged onto the street, things were completely normal and not at all awkward. The lunch was lovely, the motorcycle ride out there glorious, and not one single mention was made of the text message written about so much as of late. It was as if it had never happened. It is still there, in my phone, so I know it did in fact happen and was not some melodrama created entirely in my head. But its as if it never happened.

I had DH drop me off at my apartment, as I was taking Mr. Artsy Hotpants out for his birthday and needed to go home to get ready. I asked if he wanted me to call him when I was leaving MAH's apartment and he said "Yes, of course". I did, but he was already tired and ready for bed and it would have been another 45 minutes or more to get down to the lower east side, so I went home, with plans to meet him the next day.

Sunday he text messaged a few times and called and we made plans to make dinner at his place . I went downtown after the audition, and we met up right in front of his building. The deceased friend's daughter, the Funky Godchild, came over to have dinner with us...unfortunately her timing was ummm, shall we say not ideal? Slightly frustrated we went off to buy groceries for dinner, with a brief stop at his office to drop off some things, which became a not so brief stop as we shed our frustration (among other things). I returned to the apartment all smiles and made Shrimp Massaman Curry with rice noodles for the Funky Godchild and myself, despite Doc Harley's running commentary on the amount of time it took to make; it turns out good things come to those who wait and the Funky Godchild loved my cooking. More friends came over throughout the evening, and everything seemed quite normal - quite good in fact. No mention was made at any time throughout the night about the text message yet again, but it was clear by this point that he wasn't running.

It is now Wednesday, and I didn't have a chance in the last two days to complete this post. I'm probably in a different place than when it was first begun, but I'll still attempt to answer where I stand now, in the light of day on Wednesday evening.

He's not freaked out and not running; this is a good thing. The lack of any mention whatsoever of my late foible is worrisome, but what's he going to say? "Hey about that text message where you said you were in love with me...yeah, uh..well its not reciprocated."? Clearly he doesn't feel the same way or he's not ready to say it. I respect the fact that he did not say it out of obligation, and "very sweet of you...xxxx" is a hell of a lot better than "Uh-oh, I don't think we're on the same page here" or "I don't feel the same way about you."

I feel like I did not damage anything by my textual revelation, I just made a simple statement; one that was made without expectation. Yes, it was made with hopes, but no expectations. So while his silence was much louder this weekend, it has become less of a presence in my mind as the week has progressed. The most important fact remains that he is sticking around and still being quite wonderful. He behaves as if he at least cares deeply, so chances are that my fears of entering another year and half of trying to love someone who cannot love me in return are unfounded. I am not heartbroken or hurt, at this moment I am patiently waiting to see how this unfolds.

I am slowly learning how to just be and enjoy what is here and now. Oddly enough, I've been freaking out much less about the little shit this week, and questioning this much less. One would think logic would dictate the opposite, but then one would be wrong in this case. And pretentious - for calling themselves one. I'm also learning how to stand up for my needs but also learning to take his into consideration as well. For example, tonight I was going to take him out for dinner to celebrate an upcoming expansion of sorts in his practice that has kind of been in the works for something ridiculous like 2 years; he text messaged a little while ago that he wanted to stay in tonight, and I was incredibly disappointed. My first reaction was like "Great! So much for a sweet romantic evening! Oh joy...another evening in. With friends over no doubt. What is he avoiding spending time with me alone?" Then I remembered what Lady Charon had said about looking at things from a different angle and that being a doctor is an incredibly draining profession. So I wrote back "Long day?" The reply was yes. My first instinct was selfish, reactionary and all about me...an adult loving realtionship involves two people, not just one person and all her insecurities. I tend to jump the gun at times, and I'm trying to learn how not to do that.

So I have no idea if that answers your questions or not, Sarachkah. Where I am at changes every 10 minutes anyway, so perhaps the short version should have just been trying to relax into it all.

Back in the Game

Today I made my tentative (and utterly humiliating) re-entry into the world of auditioning. As Orphannie and I were saying on the phone earlier today, its been a week of taking risks and somehow surviving the ensuing embarassment.

I've been wanting to and needing to excercise the auditioning muscle and get back into the whole habit of putting myself out there on a regular basis, so I finally forced myself to go out this morning (yes, not only did I wake up in the morning, but on a Sunday morning no less!) and sign up for an audition slot. This has come on the heels of several weeks of self examination culminating in the realization that I have been spending way too much of my energy on other things and nowhere near enough on what I love most. A lot of this is due to fear, both of failure and of success; a dichotomy, as usual.

After mustering my guts, balls, chutzpah (and all other terms of that ilk), I marched off to the battlefield for my scheduled 2:50pm audition, fortified by the positive outcome of the critique and coaching session the Lone Star Talent gave me working through with my had-not-been-looked-at-in-over-a-year monologue.While working at home with LST, I felt very good about the monologue and my work; I was having fun, making bold but committed choices...it was looking great.

Too bad that didn't necessarily carry over.

I entered the audition room already nervous (I hate auditioning, and remember it had been a while) and the complete lack of pleasantries and hellos threw for a bit of a loop (again, it had been a while). I was completely unfocused and launched into the monologue without giving myself that tiny moment to focus; the ensuing crap that came out of my mouth and body can only be described as bad high school theatre at best. I redeemed myself somewhat, managing to pull it together about 1/3 of the way through the monologue...that is until I fucked up a line towards the end of the piece.

Did I mention it was Shakespeare? Umm, yeah. The good 'ol Bard. The good 'ol Bard whom everyone knows and who happenms to write in fucking iambic pentameter so that when you fuck up a line, even if you seamlessly run right through it it is alarmingly obvious. Yeah, nice one.

I somehow managed to finish the piece - the ending being the one time anyone laughed (it was a comic piece and when done right, really quite funny...the stress, of course, being upon when done right). They politely thanked me for coming in; I thanked them in return for seeing me and then tried to fly out of the door but had to humiliate myself further by backtracking to pick up a piece of paper I had left on the floor. Lovely. Huge points for professionalism there.

The really stupid thing is that I am very comfortable and at home with Shakespeare. Hell, I fucking studied it at the Oxford School of Drama in England (as did Orphannie, before me and for grad school). Yet I walked in almost begging to fail.

But at least I did it. I'm back in the game. I took that first step of re-entry, humiliated myself greatly, and now I can move on from there. There is a certain freedom that comes with humiliation, because you have nothing left to fear. You've fucked up, you've survived, and now you know that fucking up won't kill you.

Yay! I fucked up!

Very Sweet

I finally got a response, and I only had to wait 11 and a half hours for it!

At 11:38 pm, he wrote a text message to me saying "very sweet of you.....xxxx", immediately followed at 11:39pm by, "where are you? :-/"

I have no idea what that emoticon means. Perhaps it means "very sweet of you", but I've never been fluent in the different emoticons, so what do I know. At least we have a really funny new joke in the apartment! Thank god for The Lone Star Talent, who stayed up until I got home at almost 3am, to make sure I was okay and find a way to laugh through it with me.

Very sweet of her, dontcha think?

Naturally, I am three (probably more) sheets to the wind at the moment (and having great difficulty typing, to say the least). Hopefully I will still be able to laugh in the morning.

Thanks for all your wonderful comments.....very sweet of you...xxxx.

[must go cry copiously into pillow now...goodnight]

Humiliation or Only Synge Would Do Such a Thing!

Dear Goddess! I am fool! Worse yet I am a fool with a phone - a fool with a phone that has text messaging capabilities.

Dear Goddess! I am not only a fool, but a coward as well. A foolish coward who should not own a cell phone with text messging capabilities, unless I have the maturity, intelligence, and prudence to know when it is not appropriate to use said feature.

You already know where this is going, right? Must I confess my stupidity? Can I not just leave my shame unspoken?

This morning Doc Harley was being so incredibly loving and wonderful and I was just completely overcome with the urge to tell him how I felt. Being a social idiot however, what came out of my mouth was "Would you freak out if I told you, ummm...ummm" [insert look of terror, stutterring, blushing, and all other innapropriate behavior imaginable on my part]. He then pulled me to him and kissed me. Then he said "Tell me what?" and I froze. In a truly great acting feat I became a deer caught in the headlights; I felt it, man. It was honest and real. I connected with that deer feeling hard core, man. Finally, when it became clear that the speech center of my brain was unable to command my breath and vocal chords and mouth to comply, DH said "Why don't you text message me later what you wanted to say, okay?"

Umm, okay! Yeah! Text messaging! The coward's route! I won't have to see his face when I say it!

It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. And best of all, I was given permission to use such an impersonal medium! Granted, that permission was given with no knowledge of what was to come.

So on the subway home to change before going into the sdj I composed a text message and pressed the resend in digital, before I had a chance to woos out completely.

What the fuck was I thinking? Who the hell tells someone they're in love with them via text message? I complete social invalid, that's who!

The message read as follows:

I've wanted 2 say this but i've been afraid. so i'm taking yor suggestion,
cowardly tho it may be. u don't need 2 respond. i am in love w/ you. i just
wanted u 2 know.

Not only am I a social invalid, but I'm a horrifically poor writer as well. In my defense, however, I will say that you are very limited in the number of characters you can use in text messaging, so economization was in order.

When I got to my apartment, the freak out was naturally in full force. Thank goddess that my roomate, The Lone Star Talent, was there to apply soothing balm on the self-inflicted wounds I imagined to be covering the remaining shreds of my ego. I decided that I needed to spend an hour with her more than I needed that measely $10 from the sdj, and we had coffee and waffles while screaming about what glorious freakazoids men are and how ridiculous some of our reactions can be. At one point she ran into my room to prevent me from adding insult to injury by writing and sending another text message reading "Umm, ha ha? Just kidding. I take it all back." (or something equally as inane - I hadn't fully thought through the process, which seems to be a pattern, no?)

Of course he has not responded. How do you respond to a text message like that? Who the hell sends text messages like that? And of course my stomach is doing backflips and flying trapeze tricks in its own personal version of internal organ Cirque du Soliel, while my mind is frantically spurting out frightening subvocals and sentence fragments and primal screams echoing in my clearly brainless head.

And its already done! I can't undo it!

Can you think of a more ridiculous way to drop such an emotional bomb on someone? If so, please chime in to lessen my snowballing humiliation before I lose the ability to laugh at myself...thankfully, right now, I'm still seeing this as slightly funny even amidst the throes of nausea.

Oh Yes, Yet Again I am Hiding Under the Desk Crying for Absolutely No Reason or Evil Hormones Attack

I am a sad sad monkey today. Its purely hormonal, there has been no major tragedy since I last wrote and no one has died...yet I am still somehow feeling the overwhelming urge to crawl under my desk and cry. To those who would deny the existence of pms, I offer up exhibit one...oh wait, exhibit one has fled to the bathroom to quietly sob and sound the toilet paper nose blow trumpet call out to any sympathetic sisters who can provide momentary assistance in the form of compassionate understanding. We all know...we've all been there...on a regular basis in fact. Yet when pms strikes, it strikes with a vengence, erasing the memory and knowledge that this is temporary, hormonal, and will pass (only to revisit again and again like the crzay aunt who just can't take the most blatant of hints and makes you entirely miserable). It feels like nothing is right and nothing will ever be right again.

Logically, I can see (blurry though that particular field of vision may be) that I really don't have anything to be so sad about right now, but every little thing that occurrs is filtered through the heightened lens of pms and turns instantaneously into a greek tragedy.

I was going to give funny examples, but am just not in the mood to make fun of myself at this moment of fragility, so I think I'll go gorge myself on some chocolate and then feel even more like a fat ugly loser with no personality and bad skin. Mmm, sound like fun!

A Minor Bump in the Road

This weekend I had my first snag in the fabric of this relatively newly constructed relationship.

Doc Harley invited Mr. Artsy Hotpants to go with us to the Guggenheim and then to lunch or brunch afterwards to celebrate his high LSAT scores. Doc Harley has a very short attention span and tends to race through museums as if he's being chased by rabid bears; MAH and I move at quite a slower pace. This is a trait Doc Harley shares with my father, so I am relatively used to someone running off ahead and leaving me to look at the art at my own pace; I much prefer this arrangement to a compromise wherein the person moving at a faster pace is antsy and miserable and I am forced to move faster than I care to. However MAH was rightfully offended by this behavior. He had been invited out to spend the day with us and there we were abandoned by DH, wandering the museum on our own. MAH's point was that he wasn't spending the day with us, he was spending the day with me.

To then add insult to injury, when we finally left the museum and met back up with DH, we were informed that he had a prior commitment he had forgotten about. One of his friends and neighbors died suddenly earlier this year, and he took the friend's 16 year old daughter under his wing, acting as a surrogate father figure. The friend's daughter had a softball game that day which he had completely forgotten about and he had promised he would go to, as her father used to attend all of her games. While I was already frustrated, I could hardly argue with this, nor did I want him to miss the game, so MAH and I went off to have brunch on our own.

So MAH's day with the two of us became essentially a day with me. While this wasn't by any means a horrible painful experience, he had been looking forward to spending time with DH, and felt insulted and highly uncomfortable.

I felt absolutely horrible and deeply embarassed.

I have yet to learn that I am not responsible for anyone else's behavior.

The worst thing was that it put a bit of a strain between MAH and myself, at least until halfway through the first bloody mary. MAH felt uncomfortable and offended and I felt indirectly responsible for him feeling this way. I couldn't stand that there was any awkwardness between MAH and myself; I couldn't stand that MAH was upset. I became more and more upset, escalating the event in my mind to monumental proportions.

When Doc Harley returned from the game and picked me up from brunch, we went to the park for a bit. (MAH left without saying goodbye, feeling rude behavior deserved a rude response) I somehow managed to be both timid and fierce all at once in a confusing jumbled attempt at articulating my feelings. I tried in vain to explain my own personal concept of politess, which is definitely not shared by Doc Harley; I tried to explain why I felt that his actions were rude, and to find a middle ground compromise that we could approach future situations with. I also blabbered on in halted confusing riddles, as I tend to do when trying to verbalize my feelings out loud and unprepared. DH was great about listening, and did apologize for having unintentionally insulted MAH; he had no clue he was being rude at all. He said that he gets very antsy in museums and can't sit still for long (I already knew this); he felt it was better and even nice to let us go at our own pace rather than stay behind and be pissy and antsy or rush us through. He said he did make effort at the very beginning to talk with MAH and that he thought it didn't matter because he thought we'd have brunch together. He and I talked about the whole concept of what I call politess, and he feels that people should be able to do whatever they want and that when it becomes a matter of obligation then its a completely false giving and an insult to all involved. In my French upbringing (I may have been raised mostly in the US, but many of the ways I was raised are very French), politess factors heavily into any behavior, especially with those you don't know very well.

Doc Harley did apologize and MAH said today that it wasn't really all that big of a deal, but to me offending someone is a big deal. I feel good that we talked it out, and I do feel like he heard me, but I wonder if our very different perspectives and approaches will be an ongoing challenge or if we will find some sort of middle ground on which to reside. My parents certainly haven't, and it was very hard not to suddenly become my mother in that altogether familiar dynamic. Then again, I don't think its in any way grievous enough to outweigh all of the many good things about him. He is definitely like a big child in many ways, but a wonderful man in many others. His heart was in the right place with inviting MAH out, but his behavior left something to be desired. I definitely think when we spend time with my friends we should do it in a very structured environment, such as over dinner or drinks or something.

So at the end of it all, I feel like its not that big of a deal. It was on Saturday, and I was definitely embarassed, but I wonder how much of that was also intensified by the similarity to my father. I also wonder if I made it into a bigger deal than I needed to. I am proud of myself for bringing it up, and very pleased by how he listened and wanted to work through anything I felt was a problem. Its hard; I'm learning as I go along and working through problems has never been my forte.

The next day, I went to the Met with my favorite gay couple, whom I simply call The Boys; one of them kept wandering off at his own pace, leaving the two of us remaining behind...and I felt a little silly for making mountains out of molehills.

A Weekend in the Country or Overly Verbose Recounting of My Life as of Late

The Farmhouse

I was called out on my blogging laziness as of late - though its more about time availability and computer access than laziness I'd venture to say. This has been an odd week, both flying past the radar of my awareness and plodding endlessly along in horrendously elongated moments all at once. I have been searching in vain for a chunk of time in which to sit down and relay my life as of late and somehow its just been an impossibility. I suppose some weeks are just like that.

So the weekend was so very lovely - as I had hypothesized, once I finally got there I was incredibly glad I went. The outdoors and nature are the temple of my own personal spirituality; its my connective force and when I am away for too long I start to unravel. I had no idea how badly I was in need of some outdoor time until I actually got the salve for the city wounds I had no idea had been inflicted.

The trip began with us leaving two hours later than originally scheduled. Doc Harley had been big on us leaving as early as possible because we were riding the motorcycle and it gets quite cold when riding in the daytime, much less at night. So I left work early, threw anything that looked incredibly warm and a bunch of long underwear into a backpack in 15 minutes and then waited for an hour and a half. This didn't actually bother me at all; on the contrary I was just happy that it wasn't my fault we were leaving late. DH pulled up with the motorcycle and trailer attached, and we proceeded to get geared up. For me, this entailed putting on this special motorcycle pants and coat engineered to keep the wind out, protect you, and make yuo look like an abominable snowman. Once bundled within an inch of my life, I then rolled towards the bike and attempted to heft my exponentially increased frame into the bike without damaging DH, the bike, or myself. Doc Harley has special electric clothes that plug into the bike and keep him oh so warm and toasty, so with all my layers and his lack of we were about the same size. I felt so very butch.

Then we sat in traffic for a very long time inching our way towards and across the George Washington Bridge. That was definitely not the fun part.

Once we got going on the highway, I got to truly discover the joys of the motorcycle, which is quickly becoming one of my favorite modes of transportation. It was like flying but oh so smooth and more comfortable than a car. I was actually nice and toasty throughout the 4 hour trip except for my fingers and toes. I need thermal socks. A lot of them.

The colors were spectacular; we floated through the vibrant dreamland of a million and one great works of art.

The farmhouse was charming; cold, but absolutely charming. This lovely couple that I've met a few times were already there when we arrived several hours late, luckily they had wine and a fire going outside. We settled in, had some wine, Doc Harley started the homemade vegetarian lentil soup he was making for me to have all weekend, and then we went out to sit by the fire with the other couple. I happen to enjoy their company a lot, especially the woman whom I will dub The Persian Princess since she is from the land I was born in. At one point The Persian Princess and I started bellydancing to some of the bellydancing music she had on her ipod. We danced together for a very long time, and it was such an odd bonding experience - just the act of our bodies moving rhythmically together interpreting and navigating the space where the music travelled through our bodies. It made me think that we were somehow participating in an age old ritual that was not in any way time or place specific, but something womyn have done for years and years. It was like venting and communicating and liberating something deep within all at once.

Or maybe I was just tipsy.

By the time we stopped, we had stripped down to only our bras and jeans (bellydancing is quite a workout, you know); needless to say the boys were enjoying the dancing as much as we were. Lets just say that I really enjoyed the great outdoors Friday night; and boy was it hot.

Saturday we went for a gorgeous motorcycle ride through the mountains, spent quite a bit of time sitting by a brilliantly noisy stream, and found this absolute treasure of an art gallery with an even bigger treasure of a little old man who was the artist creating these fantastical sculptures with found objects. Then we headed back to make a fire and start dinner. I, unfortunately had a bit too much wine Saturday night and somehow ended up completely passed out quite early. All I remember is Doc Harley coming in and gently taking off my clothes and tucking me into bed. I had intended to work on the gigantic wings Saturday night, but the unexpected nap forced me to work all morning on Sunday instead, while DH packed up everything and cleaned up everything.

There were a few frustrating moments as well. He is frighteningly like my father in some respects, such as the tendency to make suggestions in a way that sounds more like an order than a suggestion. I know he doesn't intend it that way, as at one point when he said "Put that bag in the trailer" I snapped back at him and he responded with "I'm sorry. I won't try to be helpful anymore." He's also like an impatient little kid; when he decides he wants to do something he wants to do it right then. When we were in the gallery, the Persian Princess was buying a sculpture; Doc Harley had already bought his work of art and he was hungry and ready to go. He said "We're going now, we'll meet you back at the house." instead of just waiting a few minutes for her to complete her purchase and finish talking with the artist. I said "You're not going to die of starvation for waiting a few extra moments for The Persian Princess to finish up here. Let's wait." And he did, it was just a little frustrating.

In the grand scheme of things, I suppose that the annoying habbits really don't outweigh the wonderful qualities that make me absolutely gaga over this man. My mother said "Look, no one's perfect. You're never going to find someone perfect so you either learn to live with the faults or you end it, but it sounds like this is pretty good and you really like this man so I'd stick it out if I were you and find a way to deal with it." She's right, I think it just triggered something in those moments being so reminiscent of the frustrating qualities of my father.

The truth of the matter is that I think I'm falling in love with this man.

On Tuesday night I went with Mr. Artsy Hotpants to the premiere of Craig Lucas' new film, The Dying Gaul,(which I highly reccomend, by the way. There's some absolutely beautiful acting in it) and got quite sloshed at the after party (just doing my duty to take advantage of free liquor, as any starving actor would do...plus I always get shy at these things). As we were walking/stumbling towards the subway, I blurted out my plan to inform Doc Harley of my feelings that night. Luckily MAH is a very wise and loving friend, who made me promise not to make the mistake of saying this drunk. I am a womyn of my word, even when messy drunk, and kept my promise. Instead I drunkenly said "I'm really drunk and trying to be careful what I say. MAH told me there are things I shouldn't tell you.", to which Dh responded, "If he told yuo not to tell me something, then by all means don't tell me!." I then said "Oh no, its not about MAH, its about you." Dh replied, "That's okay. I don't mind if people talk about me when I'm not there." To which I blurted out "No! Its a good thing! A really good thing! I'm just not supposed to say anything while I'm drunk!"

My god, its astounding what little grasp I have on subtlety. Thankfully I then passed out about 2.5 seconds later, a loud snore being the only sound emitted from my mushy brain.

Mr. Artsy Hotpants believes that I shouldn't tell DH how I feel. He asked me if I needed to say it. I said I supposed that I didn't. He then said "Right. You want to. You want to say it because you want him to say it back to you. That's why you shouldn't say it.". MAH says that he clearly likes me, he clearly wants to be with me and I should let that be enough right now. I suppose he's right, but at the same time I want reassurance. I want constant reassurance. I want an insurance policy that I'm not going to open myself only to be cruelly trampled and have my guts callously strewn about.

I'm not sure an insurance policy like that exists.

I suppose I ought to just take the little signs I get - the fact that he text messages me during the day just to let me know he's thinking of me. The fact that last night on the phone he suggested that we go to the Guggenheim on Saturday with MAH and then take him out to lunch to celebrate his wonderful LSAT score - he's thinking of my friends and clearly wanting to be a part of my life. These are clear signs that he wants to be with me and likes me. Why am I still frightened and insecure? Why is love a terrifying prospect, when really its a joyous one? Why am I such a fucking mess?

Please tell me I'm just human!

Training Hell

I am currently in training hell, spending an inordinate amount of time going over the world's most user friendly computer program that I can figure out on my own in a few hours. Its not that I'm so techno savvy that I am above training; no, the program is all point and click, drop down menus, etc. , its really that easy. But I am stuck doing this horrificly endless training this whole week whether I keep bounding ahead or not, cruelly denied access to my desk, my computer (my internet, though I'm totally sneaking at the moment)...I am reduced to constant doodling, most of which is ending up on my body, no doubt seeping poisonous toxins into my bloodstream at this very moment. This is how I deal with boredom; that and staring vacuously into space whilst the drool pools onto the keyboard.

Please someone shoot me now. I realize that in the very long list of potential miseries, this would probably be one of my very top choices were I forced to pick my poison, but it is currently seeming absolutely unendurable.