skip this one, just bitching

I dreamed I was in a long, white, low-cut wedding gown. Marrying a prince—how he looked five years ago, not the Charles he’s turned into. Sigh…
Actually, I didn’t dream anything of the sort. Very un-gay of me, I know, but I couldn’t have cared less about the Royal Wedding. Well, that’s not true; I did wanna see pictures of the dress. What red-blooded American male doesn’t want to see the latest wedding dress trends? I loved Kate’s dress (hated Diana’s, poor girl). Actually, haven’t seen pictures of the train and such, so I think I like it, the top was very pretty. Instead of staying up to watch the wedding, I stayed up way too late (so tired) to watch three episodes of The Walking Dead. My real fear of zombies has become somewhat of a strange fascination. One I feel a little guilty about actually. I guess my conscience isn’t totally dead yet (for all those who are taking bets). I feel like I’m sinning watching zombie things. Kinda strange, huh? The show is actually really, really good. And, as in all good horror movies/shows, is much less about zombies and more about human relationships. However, the dreams I had were less about relationships and more about zombies. And HWMNBN (really?), although somehow not intertwined with zombies, thankfully. Nothing like waking up to religious guilt, queasy zombie feelings, and missing the man I’m not supposed to love about anymore. Fun stuff.
In addition to zombie stress, I’m trying to work out how to deal with people again. Despite my hermit tendencies, I know more people now than I ever have before. However, between work (kids), work (massage), and work (books), and family, I quite literally have no time, and even the rare moments I take for myself to simply not do anything but be with me leave me feeling guilty. Not helped by so many texts, emails, etc. either complaining about my short responses, insinuations of my selfishness (yeah, I’m selfish, I know), or endless pleading to get together makes me want to crawl even further in my shell. I haven’t even seen my best friend in weeks! And not because we haven’t tried, it’s just life. Granted, I’ve gone from extreme people-pleaser to complete hermit and am trying to find the balance. It’s rather confusing, and I’m tried of not getting to see so many people that I love so much while being made to feel guilty for not being enough for everyone else.
I know, poor me. Boo, hoo, hoo.
In an act of selfishness, and fiscal irresponsibility, I set aside three days this week to not do any massages. I also didn’t allow myself to go to movies (there are so many I really, really want to see right now) or anything like that. The days weren’t to be a hermit either; they were set aside to really work on finding an agent. I feel guilty about this too, since people see it as me not being available or a good friend or whatever. But, to me, not only is it a dream, but it is a job—at least a job I’m trying to get. I have to work at it! So, with these three days, I made a ton of progress, I hope to do this again in the next week or so, after I make a little more money so that I can. The more I contact, the more rejections I’ll get, but the more likely I am to find the one fool that will say yes!

gleefully stressed-out rejection

It’s been early twenty-four hours since its airing, and I still haven’t watched the ninety-minute episode of Glee. I know! I can’t believe it either. The fires of Hell are creeping up at an alarming rate. Not only is life difficult from lack of Glee, but it is nearly impossible to check facebook. I never noticed how many updates on Tuesdays and Wednesdays are in direct correlation to the most recent Glee episode. So far, I’ve avoided any major spoilers, although I have gotten a couple Britney one-liners that are going to now be regurgitated.
Yes, this is my hard life. Cry for me, Argentina.
Actually, yesterday was pretty stressful. I spent around four to five hours working on paperwork for the custody battle for my nephew. No pressure there! (After hand-writing eight pages, my hands actually swell. Both of them! I didn’t even write with my left hand!) I remember when it was nothing to go to sleep at one. Today, I feel like I’ve been smashed by a hammer. I’m not even sure I can make it through my recording of Glee waiting patiently at home for me. Yeah, it’s that bad.
Please keep the nephew issue in your thoughts and prayers. If I can only have one miracle, I’ll choose him over publishing any day of the week.
However, in that vein, I paid for a week subscription to an online literary marketplace. It’s supposed to help you find an agent. When I put in gay or gay fantasy in the search engine, tons of agents come up. When I read their bio, they always say NO gay fantasy or simply No gay fiction period. Very helpful. Money well spent. I submitted to two that actually said they were interested in gay literature. I heard back from one the very next day! At least her No was prompt.
Bitch.
Such a gracious loser, aren’t I?
The past couple of days, my blog counter has shown over one hundred people a day reading the blog. (Yeah, I don’t get it either.) If each of you would buy a book, that’d be great, or at least read it for free on the Refiner blog then write a stunning review on Amazon. That’d be really helpful. Thanks! If you don’t feel up to it, don’t stress. I completely understand, no hard feelings.





Bitch.

Red, Yellow, and Green

Leaving my parents’ house the other day, I had to stop at a red light less than a block away. Groaning, I looked over at the car next to mine. A gorgeous twenty-something man looked back at me. I didn’t even attempt not to start. He was beautiful. A picture in a magazine come to life. He stared back for several moments, unflinching. Did he find me attractive too? Was this a moment of fate? Does he just know how gorgeous he is and enjoys the attention? Still gazing at me, he lifts the bong from his lap and inhales deeply. After a moment of startled confusion, I died laughing. I’d heard of voyeuristic exhibition. However, hadn’t ever thought of it in terms of drug usage. Clearly, this man was enjoying being watched while he [insert your own drug usage verb here, I’d use the wrong one, I’m sure] and drove. Happily, I no longer felt hideous and disgusting by comparison. I felt damned superior, truth be told. After all, he might be prettier than I can ever be, but, at least I know how to do voyeuristic exhibition correctly! Or something like that…
As I waited at the second to last stop light before work, listening to my Thomas Michael Ford novel, Jane Bites Back (Jane Austin as a vampire—truly funny and entertaining), I wished I could drive back home and back again, I wasn’t ready to go to work, or quit listening to Jane trying to get published in her after-life. I glanced at the car next to me as the light turned green and we moved like cattle through the light. The man had a crossword puzzle spread out over his steering wheel, left hand holding the paper firmly against the handle as he maneuvered his car to the left while his right hand jotted in letters. I’ve always thought crossword puzzles were akin to golf (as in shoot-me-in-the-head boring), but maybe doing them at sixty miles an hour would be more exciting.
If you happen to see me driving around town inhaling deeply, misspelling words, sans pants, please be polite and wave.

knowingly blasphemous

It’s been a rainy couple of days. While I couldn’t live in such weather for long, I love it at times like these. It ushers in the same cozy feeling that it did back in Missouri (sans lightening storms, sadly). Just wanna curl up with a book and drift away. Then again, when don’t I want to do that?
Easter weekend was wonderful. I spent a ton of time with my family and got some of my favorite pictures of Gavin. And, you know me, getting a good picture qualifies as a successfully great time, regardless of the actual events preceding.
A few weeks ago, a new friend inquired if Easter was a struggle for me—due to church, God, ect. Mostly brought on by the conversation around “The Shack.” I said no. Turns out, I was wrong. Church was rather miserable yesterday. On one hand, it took everything in me to sit through the service. On the other, I was appalled at my own rudeness. I kept it in check, but it was very hard to keep my thoughts and reactions to myself. I didn’t have any new thoughts, and there was nothing I haven’t already spoken of here, but it was nearly impossible to not scoff audibly.
While I hate to actually say some of the things I’m about to say, while I’m going to sugar-coat some of the things I’m going to say, while my thoughts aren’t fully formed, these are some of the scariest thoughts for me. There is much I don’t mind questioning about God, religion, faith, etc. This area (the resurrection) is rather terrifying and crushing to be cynical over. I have no problem with dying and coming back to life. For some reason, that makes total sense to me. We’re talking about God here, why would that be a struggle?
For a couple years now, I keep coming back to: He made the rules. He knew exactly what would happen. He set it up.
He knew Adam and Eve would do what they did. He set up the rules to be separated from Him, and in turn made the plan of salvation. He’s the one that required a blood sacrifice; no one else came up with that rule. He’s the one that put the tree in the garden with a No-No sign. He’s the one that created man, who, it seems is faulty according to Him (which, if you question that aspect, you’re blind. Look around. We’re pretty faulty.). On and on and on. I don’t like the thought of Jesus’ crucifixion. I don’t like that my actions/choices/sins put him there. However, He made the rules and then plays the martyr (even as I type that, I cringe and feel damnable). However, to me, it’s true, it’s where I am with things—call a spade a spade, be honest with where I am. And again, there isn’t one person I love that I can’t see myself dying for. If it would save Gavin, then nail me to a cross, do whatever you want to me. Truly. And even beyond that, I can’t see myself choosing life if it were even some kid I don’t know that they were telling me they were going to throw in a fiery pit if I didn’t sacrifice myself. If I think I would do it, how much more would I expect God to do it. And I didn’t even make the damned rules! If there were some being or power that were here before God, or there were some limitations to God, then I could accept it, be thankful for it, understand that He is operating out of a system that is beyond His control and he did everything he could do within that system to redeem those he love. But if my dad would have said if you break this rule, that will cause me to stand in front of a careening semi, that’s his bad for being smashed, not mine. As horrible as that is, that’s kinda how I see all of this anymore. And, to be honest, I hate that I see it that way (which, by the way, it so far from any issues with gay, not gay, yada, yada—they don’t connect at all—except maybe for the fact of where the questioning began and where it has come to now).
Of course, we all know I hate sermons too. 98% of them I could do better in my sleep or have heard a billion times and each time am expected to act as if it is a revelation that shatters the world. Even yesterday, the reasons the pastor presented were three fold. I don’t think I remember all of them. 1. Someone told him. 2. It’s documented (not exactly right, but that was the gist). 3. He’s experienced it. Well, all those are great, but are true about every religion. Someone told him—he spoke that that’s how we learn everything, someone told us. We didn’t arrive at the knowledge of gravity on our own. We were told. Documented. Proof that Columbus sailed to America in 1492. Documented. He’s experienced God. Self-explanatory.
Seriously? That’s the best he could come up with for an Easter service? Really? Someone has told him? That’s hardly the proof for anything. Who cares what someone tells you? Trust me, by now, my palms should be hairy and I should be blind. Maybe I really am in the huge of state of denial. Maybe I can’t see at all, except to French braid the hair on my hands. And, documented? It was also documented that the Earth was flat. By the church even! And he’s experienced God? Well, me too! However, I am willing to bet that damned al-qaeda fucker believed in his own experiences with god as he flew his plane into the towers.
I have respect for intelligent arguments and proof. I have equal respect (truly, maybe even more) for simply saying, ‘I believe this with everything in me and nothing can convince me that it’s otherwise’—delusional or not. However, brainless reasoning that a three year old would question makes me nauseous! Again, I know these are my own issues, and each one was triggered during that excruciatingly torturous hour (if I’d been allowed to laugh without hurting my family, it would have been rather fun—in a painful way). Again, I am left with this fact. I don’t know who God is or what all is true about Him. I feel I know more (feel more) about what isn’t true than what is. That, once again, I am left with this: I’ve gone too far with Him to go back. That I trust him, even thought I don’t understand him, even though he slay me. However, I must admit, that my him, apparently, is not the same him that others talk/preach about.

teacher joy

The past couple weeks have been very full and very up and down at work.
Last week, the day before I left for Seattle, one of my favorite kids freaked-out, which happens from time to time. During the restraint (during which he tried to bite [gotten pretty good at avoiding bites] and managed to dig his fingernails in my arms [just a little blood, not much]) he was able to slam me back into a cabinet. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing typically, except this is one of those open concept cabinets, without any doors, so I hit the edge of one of the shelves with both of our full weight on my tailbone. It’s bruised and hurts to sit. I can restrain just about anyone, so this tells you how strong my little fifth grader is. Flash forward, outside, a block away from the school, (no, he didn’t get out the restraint, the decision was made to end it) on the ground, knees bloody from the side-walk, arms in handcuff’s behind his back, as he fought with the police. The entire thing went on for about an hour. He’s still in the hospital (not the physical injury kind). Let me tell you, Seattle came at the right time for many, many reasons.
Yesterday, my all-time-favorite kid (one of two [losing both to seventh grade next year… gonna be rough]) made my year. He came to me in fourth grade, not able to say the alphabet consistently, not even knowing all his sounds. After three years of fights, arguments, and so much hard work, so much (on my part and his!) he tested out on grade-level! At sixth grade! From kindergarten level in fourth to sixth grade in sixth! Pretty unheard of! None of it is due to my teaching ability, although a lot it due to my behavior (old-fashioned strictness) ability. And, he’s worked his ass off, in this year alone, he made three year’s progress! If I never accomplish anything else in teaching, this alone was worth everything. Outside of managing behavior and anger and emotions in away that allow you to function in everyday life and build genuine relationships, the most important thing you can learn in school is to read. You can do nothing in life (at least easily) without the ability to read. Even if he never progresses past sixth grade level (which he will), you can function pretty easily in the world at that level. Most things aren’t written higher than that anyway. I can not express how proud I am of my little man (who’s bigger than me now, crazy), and even how proud I am of myself. He came to me with every teacher saying that he couldn’t be controlled, that he wasn’t capable of reading. It was so clear to me that it wasn’t about his ability to read (he’s very smart, and no academic disabilities directly related to his capacity to learn), but about his stubbornness and the fact that every other teacher had allowed him to intimidate/charm them into not forcing him to work or learn. Though there were many days both of us were in tears, and days when both of us were so angry at the other we could hardly see straight, we made it through. He was instantly one of those kids, even in fourth grade, that you could see past the bully, see past the refusal to do anything, see past the mean, snake-sly charm and see a beautiful, intelligent, and compassionate human just below the surface. The only thing wrong with him was the laziness and fear of others. Not sure how I’m going to manage without him next year, or his female counter-part, who has the exact opposite demeanor and who truly maybe the most angelic person I’ve ever met—an angel with learning disabilities, she’s a prettier version of Daryl Hannah). So excited for them to go out into this world and discover the joys (and, sadly, the pain) that it offers. So thankful that I’ve had the supreme blessing of having a small part in preparing them for what they have to face.

one more return

And….. I’m back!

Already at my coffee shop.

Already my new outlook has been tested. And, so far, I’ve passed the test (you know, for the whole three seconds I’ve been back). Whatever, I’m glad I went. I think I’m finally on a path that might go somewhere.

I got turned down by another agent. Whatever. (see above)

I noticed something that kinda surprised me. I’ve always loved riding planes. However, the takeoff has always kinda scared me. Thrilled me, but scared me too. Just the realization that I truly have no control over my life and death. Even as a kid I realized that. I would pray and pray during take off. Pray that God would save my soul. That he would allow me in Heaven with him should I die.
I still pray at takeoff. I prayed what I’ve prayed for the past few years. It’s not a written prayer or anything, just the only one that makes sense. “God, my life is in your hands. Do your will.” What struck me this time was that this prayer is a lot scarier than the other. I’m not begging for forgiveness or making deals. Just the acknowledgment that I know that he knows that I know that I have no more delusions of being in control of such things. No longer do I struggle to do so. Strangely, it’s a lot less scary.

Un Choose

It’s time to give him his thirty minutes. I definitely didn’t yesterday. I hit the ground running and never stopped until after three this morning. I was going to go for two nights in a row, but I don’t think I have it in me. Especially with an early flight tomorrow. We’ll see.
I did have one thought yesterday. Not especially deep or new by anyone’s standards, but one that I hadn’t been able to really grasp until yesterday. Honestly, I’m not really sure how much I believe it—one of those things that could just be bullshit or one of the lies we tell ourselves.
I remember very clearly the day I decided he would be the one I’d spend my life with. Granted, I didn’t choose to love him, but I did decide, CHOOSE, that I would accept him fully, every aspect of him. I talked about it before. We’d been together about a year. Long enough that I was figuring out what our everyday life together would be like. The things that were wonderful, the things that weren’t. You know, nothing huge, just some small things—things that you simply have to deal with when you’re with someone who’s not identical to you. I asked myself if any of those things were deal-breakers. Which life would be better, with him and with those small negative things or without him and those things. In every case, it was a resounding, With Him. I wanted him. I chose him. I chose that I would share my life with him, accept those imperfections, as he would accept mine. From that day on, those things, mostly, lost their importance. They quit driving me crazy and just became aspects of the man I loved and that was that. The point is: I Chose. Chose him forever.
Obviously, he chose something else.
What hit me was this: If I could choose him, not only feel love for him but choose to truly love him, then it might be possible to choose not to love him anymore. Or at least choose to not spend my life with him. I know that sounds stupid. It’s not like it’s an option to spend my life with him. However, once I made that choice, it was made. It wasn’t based on any condition or if’s or then’s. Even when he left, even now, two years later, that choice stays. Just because he’s gone doesn’t change that I chose him. My soul/heart/whatever is married to an absent person. Married to someone who isn’t. I haven’t been able to alter that emotion/fact/aspect within myself. I didn’t know how it would go away, and so far, it hasn’t. So, in the theme of choosing to live life, it hit me that maybe I can choose to not give him my life (it’s not like he was asking for it anymore, but once I gave it, I wasn’t sure how to get it back—maybe I’m a really bad STD, once you got me, you got me, want me or not…), choose to not choose him.
Maybe there’s not an action that needs to go along with that, as far as steps to take. Maybe it’s simply being aware of it and choosing it intentionally. In essence, though not in name, nor in the planning, maybe that’s the symbolism of this entire trip. Not only what I choose (life, laughter, living) but also what I will no longer choose.
Okay. Thirty minutes are done. Time to live.

unpause

Maybe the actual two-year anniversary of him leaving is Monday, since it’s the 18th, but, to me, it’s today. He left on a Saturday. In the aftermath of a torrential snow storm. I knew he was leaving the night before, and we had one last night together. Then we woke up, packed, cried, and at 3:13, he walked out the door.
Around this exact same time, including the time change, is the time I land in Seattle. The place that has been a refuge for the last two years. The place I’ve escaped to, the place, I’ve eaten, danced, shopped, cried, written, mourned his loss, left myself behind, have been someone else for two or three days at a time. And, here I go once more. With dreams of him from last night (constantly trying to text him, but never able to get the message to send to his phone---hmmmm, wonder what that means), I leave him behind and take him with me. The plan, at least symbolically, this time, is to leave him there. Leave him in Seattle. Leave us in Seattle. Not return. At least for a long, long time. Not going to sit and cry all weekend. Probably won’t shed a tear. I will give him half an hour of my time at a coffee shop, today or tomorrow; give him a moment as I fly back home on Monday, and then be done. Symbolically, and hopefully, soon, literally. To end the grieving, the hoping, the constant hurting. Time to live.

cold cream

Made another small step forward today. I bought ice cream. The new Blue Bell kind. I was afraid to give into the hype. Mainly because of the name, but also because of the hype. Blue Bell reminds me of Blue Bunny. And, while you might think that a product with the mascot of an adorable bunny couldn’t lead you astray, you’d be wrong. It’s some of the worst ice cream I’ve ever tried. Blue Bell, on the other hand, lived up to they hype (unlike The Shack). I think I may have gotten off-topic…… the small step was not the ice cream. I’ve been an ice cream whore my whole life, nothing new there. However, I was driving past HWMNBN’s and my grocery store and thought, “I’m gonna get ice cream.” Then kept driving so I could go to another grocery store. Then I realized I was being stupid. It’s been two years since I’ve stepped into that grocery store. Time to get that over with. We’d do our grocery shopping on Sundays and listen to ‘Sandcastle Disco’ in the car, and I loved every minute of it. Simply living our life together. Simple, pure, honest. Then, not so much. However, it was time. I turned the car around, parked, and bought the ice cream. I didn’t make a big production or meaningful symbolic gesture. Neither did I rush or advert my eyes from our favorite aisles (which would have been impossible, since ice cream was one of our favorite aisles}. I just bought the fucking ice cream. I think there are now only a few more things I have to face and then I will be done. Earl’s restaurant, which I’m not sure how I will face, as it was my first birthday dinner with him, followed by an amazing night; San Diego, which I plan to face in 2012; San Francisco, which I honestly don’t think I will ever face; and Rio Grande, which is his favorite restaurant, and they have my favorite homemade tortillas (outside of Old Town in San Diego). I gotta get that on out of the way soon. I think those might be the only places left that I have yet to force myself to go. Only four. Not too long ago the list would have been well over a page long. Four’s not too bad. However, I’m sure I’m forgetting something or somewhere, but whatever.
Who else could make buying ice cream a completely self-absorbed and over-analyzed experience that they had to write nearly a page about? I drive myself crazy.

zombie LESS

I feel like a million bucks right now. I was completely prepared to have to fight with the surgeon this morning. And while I was truly gonna raise a ruckus, I was also prepared to loose the fight.
After taking a look, she said that it looked like I was right. That it would heal, but probably never connect back together, so I’d have a permanent zombie rip in my throat. (Uhm, who tried to tell the surgeon’s head nurse that two weeks ago?) She said that she could simply cut it off, but she didn’t really see the need to do that, as no body would be seeing it. (Uhm, sorry, gay boys can’t have a rip in their throat, that would not be fun tear on impact…) I told her I’d like it removed. She said that I could come back in a couple months when I stopped hurting and she would do it then. After a pause, I said I’d rather just get it over-with, that I’m not in that much pain. After another pause, she said that she’d do it right then and there. I wasn’t expecting that. It’s what I hoped for, but never thoughts she’d go for it. So, after a few needles, scissors, and some stop-bleeding stuff, zombie rip is gone and I can begin healing in earnest.
It is such a load-off to have a doctor listen to me (I know my body, I knew the damned thing wasn’t right) and actually follow through with what I want done to my body and when. I really hate fighting to have to get those thing accomplished. I want this surgeon to take out my tonsils every time! She’s great!
She also bragged on me quite a bit, so I’m gonna brag on myself a bit as well. She said she did the same procedure on a man right after me, but had to remove less on him than she did on me, and that he woke up cussing at her after surgery and has called and emailed and complained about how much pain he in every day since. Still is. I knew my mom had always told me that she worried about stuff because I never complained about pain that should really be hurting me. Maybe I have disease where you can feel pain. However, as I do feel pain, probably not. (That was brilliant.) Who’s a tough little gay, boy? Who is? Me! That’s who!

1, 2, and 3

Update: Returning to the surgeon tomorrow. They are now finally letting me see the surgeon instead of her head nurse. Chances are, she will say the same thing—that I’m going to heal and I’m over-reacting to the rip in the back of my throat. We will see. One more day off work, which is really bad timing, but whatever.
Helpful Tid-bit: If you ever get the chance to have Ed Westwick (Gossip Girl) read you a bedtime story, you should jump at the chance. He is the narrator for my most recent book on tape, and it’s the sexiest and soothing thing I’ve ever listened to (and it’s not even a sexy book). He reads the chapters about the male lead, while some girl reads the chapters with the female lead. They really should have chosen a more suitable, sultry female. It goes from sexy and soothing, to loud and high and harsh. The story’s great, but Ed is even better. So, put that on your bucket list—be read to at bed time by Ed. And maybe a few other things. Just trying to help you out. However, if you get to check that off your list, you’d best be giving him my address so I can check it off mine as well.
Advice-Seeking: On a different note, I have a question for those of you with children. I’d really love your feedback. I’ve done some research on the internet, but have found more people with the same questions but not so many answers. Have any of your children (toddler age) gone through the stage of slapping or hitting themselves when angry or told no? If so, could you describe the incidents and your approach to handling it. Or if you know the developmental processes around it, that would be great as well! Thanks!

reviews of the bitter

I gave up. Twice.
(Semi-Spoiler ahead)
The Shack. I made it about half-way through. I kept saying that I’d finish it. Just so I could give it a full picture at the end. I couldn’t do it. I must say, the murdered daughter (at least I’m assuming she’s still murdered by the end of the book) was the lucky one. She didn’t have to be much of a part of the story, she escaped it a lot sooner than I did. Granted, I’m sure I had a bad attitude, but it was earned. I really was hopeful. I thought the book might give a new perspective as claimed by so many readers. Maybe it did. I wasn’t nauseous before I read it. I can see where the religious morons were offended by the book. God’s a big, black woman for one. Oh, shudder! God, a girl! A black girl! Maybe there’s more that offends them later on, I don’t know. I didn’t mind that part. It talked about God being neither male nor female, but simply other than us. That’s pretty Biblical. The part that got to me was the dialogue between the main character and the three characters of the trinity. Just so sappily saccharin. And every stupid religious cliché that exists. More and more of I’m God, so other, there’s no way to understand me. Love, love, love. Pain, pain, pain. God, God, God. Granted, I only got halfway through, but seriously. Unless the book did a one-eighty later, it seemed written for people who didn’t have two functioning synapses to communicate. Moving on, before I started to blame God for the creation of that novel. Goodness!
I switched to The Road. A movie that I thought was brilliant, poignant, and shattering. One of those movies that made me excited to write. To create. To move people with words. I was a little intimidated to start the book. To read an author who I would never be able to compare my own writing skills, who would be so far above me. Then, the unthinkable happened. The movie turned out to eclipse the book three times over. Very rare. The only other book I recall having such an experience with was Practical Magic—but at least I finished that one.
I hate not finishing books. It’s kinda like pulling someone’s life-support. Those characters died in my mind before their time. However, I can’t say I wasn’t grateful to see their light extinguished.
Moving on.

pro-life

I almost started off with: Thursday nigh was the scariest thing I’ve done in months. Then I remembered Monday, coffee with HWMNBN. That was scarier. Obviously. However, Thursday was fairly terrifying. Before we went to the bars, we ate at Hamburger Marry’s. It was scarier than the bars, because at dinner, you’re stuck at a table, nowhere to run away. It was bizarre, and for a few minutes, I almost had to leave. The last time I was there was over two years ago, and before that, for years, the only time I’d been there (or at the bars) had been with him. Memories accosted me. With sheer act of will, I shoved them away.
All in all, it was a fairly amazing night. Maybe it was the five and half beers, but I think it was more the act itself, but it was a manically happy experience, with an undercurrent of loss and sadness. More than anything, I focused on being proud and excited that I was facing these fears. That I was choosing life.
While I’m not a bar person, it was good to be there and see a few people I don’t get to see very much.
I was rewarded with the best date I’ve had in two years on Friday. Then a gorgeous day with my nephew yesterday. Now, six day till I go to Seattle. Yep, next Monday is the two-year mark and I am going to Seattle one last time. After that, time to move on from that city to new places to expand living once more.

the evening

Timing is everything. A long time ago, a friend of mine asked me to save last night for him. He wouldn’t tell me what we were going to do. This, being who I am, made me very nervous. I like to know what is coming, what to expect, and how to prepare. I had several possibilities in mind—some fun, some scary. None of them were correct.
Both due to his reasoning (why he said he was doing this for me) and things that have gone on recently with personal decisions and such, it all seemed very timely. A launching into attempting to live again, if you will.
In all, or even in part, it was ridiculously lavish. Lavish enough that if I let myself dwell on it, I’d probably be uncomfortable or feel guilty. However, one of the things I’m trying to work on is not over-thinking every breath. So, I went with it.
He took me to this ridiculously upscale restaurant on Larimer Street. For the life of me I can’t think of the name of it right now, but wow! it was great! He got us the two seats in the chef’s section, where you are basically in the kitchen—watching everything, talking to the chef, asking questions, etc. I loved it. It was like food network except interactive—and you get to eat it!!! Perfect!
After, he took me to. . . wait for it. . . a Janet Jackson concert! You know, leaving the restaurant at eight on a school night and walking downtown, no idea where I’m headed, and ending up at a Janet Jackson concert! What an experience. Part of what he said he wanted to do was to do things I would probably never do myself. And he was right. And, within reason, I love it when something like that happens. Takes me totally out of my element and opens up a whole new aspect of life/culture that I’m not in touch with at all. And, if you get the chance, even if you hate Janet or hate music or hate concerts (none of which are true for me), you need to go to a Janet Jackson concert. The people watching was some of the best I’ve ever seen. At times, I even struggled to attend to the moment due to all the people around me. It was awesome! All the different races, ages, and walks of life represented there. And the gays. OMG! The gays! Cracked me up! Over the top. Loved it!
It was an amazing, one-of-a-kind extravagant evening that I will never forgot. It was very humbling and sweet to be given such a unique experience!

following the crowd

I’ve been sick of the book “The Shack” almost from the first moment I heard of it. There will be spoilers in this blog. If you have yet to read this book and want to, stop reading now… The fact that fifteen billion people have told me, “Oh, you just have to read it. It’s wonderful. It would really help you.” hasn’t helped my desire to read it. The only thing that made it a tad bit appealing was that so many people in the religious community called it sacrilegious. However, since everything, including Olive Oil Mayonnaise has been sacrilegious at one point or another, that didn’t hold that much allure. (I do agree about the O.O. Mayo. Sinful.) I can’t stand books that the whole world says are life changing and a must-read to help you have a better understanding of God or help you be a better person. Partly because I haven’t seen anyone actually changed by such a book, and partly just because I’m an arrogant asshole who doesn’t like to be told what to do and thinks he’s better everyone else that needs to be bossed around by the book-of-the-moment. However, when I saw it on the list of sale books on my Audible website (where I get a lot of my audio books) for five bucks, I hit BUY.
I started it the day HWMNBN and I had coffee (actually neither one of us had coffee), I figured if there was ever a day I’d be willing to listen to self-help drivel, that would be it. I’m about a fourth of the way through it. For the first hour, I about turned it off twenty or thirty times. The guy reading sounds like a Sunday School teacher, and, especially with the tonsils, gagging just isn’t much fun. However, I pushed through (aren’t I tough?), and I’m rather sucked in. I can’t say I love it yet, but it is about a family (father, mainly) trying to deal with the murder of his eight year old daughter. That, more than the God factor, has kept me going. That aspect lets me forgive certain passages that would typically induce the gagging around how they speak about God, as I’m sure I would cling to tons of stupid things if I were in those shoes. Having a child in the family makes the book relevant for me. This morning, the man made his way to the actual shack, finally, where they found the bloody dress of his little girl (they never found the body) three years previous. The father broke, screaming, crying, ranting, and raving at God. Full of questions, full of hate, full of despair. I, of course, was crying right along with him. Partly due to imagining Gavin being lost to me, partly due to my own God issues. While I’m still confident that Monday was the right decision, it has definitely increased the crying. Oh, so fun. I’m going to see the book through. I want to see what happens, and I’m extremely curious how in the world people have complained about this book being sacrilegious. So far, it’s been Sunday School sickenly sweet. My rage, hurt, disillusion, questions, and such about God are too similar to what is brought up in the book. It really would be nice to have something said in a new light, a way that I haven’t thought of, something that could give me a little different insight into God. I don’t have much hope of that. Even if it didn’t answer any questions, I would be okay with that as well. However, I’m fearful of the same pat answers, cliché, and excuses that everything else offers. We will see…

return

Back to work today. I always get nervous. Kinda silly with how long I’ve been doing this. I’m excited to see the kids though. We will see how I hold up physically. Just doing little things around the house has worn me out. I’m anxious to see how today goes—I may have to take a nap under the desk halfway through!
Yesterday was a strange mixture of relief and sorrow. Going to bed was nice. I noticed the relief most at that time. I didn’t have to worry about running into him and not being prepared, I didn’t have to think about what I would say to him, I didn’t have to worry about getting pretty in order to talk him. It’s over. I can move on to whatever the next step is. However… as I knew seeing him would (which is partly why I wanted/needed to do it on my own terms), it brought everything back. Our Sunday night routines (last night felt like a Sunday with work starting today). His face and voice had grown a little fuzzy in my mind. Of course, those are crystal clear right now. I’ve wanted to text him so many times since yesterday. Just to share some little thought or joke or anything. I just miss him. I miss my husband and best friend. I won’t ever be able to understand how he doesn’t feel the same, but I do believe I’ll learn to live with the fact of it all nonetheless. I’m glad it’s over, and now I need to focus on building some of those walls back up again that crumbled yesterday.

over and done

Our time together was quite literally five minutes or less. Which was what I’d planned. I didn’t want a bunch of idle chit-chat.
He sat down and gave me a mermaid matchbox that he bought me in Mexico last week. He said he’d planned on sending it to me when he got back, but then he had the email from me. He’s still [….]—accidentally just typed his name.
I told him that I was going to start going out to places in the next little bit, and that I wanted to see him before I did that. I told him that I was in the same spot I was two years ago and that I could see him coming up and being all friendly when he saw me out and that it would just hurt me. He said that he would just smile and wave and if I wanted to come talk to him that he would let me make that choice. I said that would be perfect.
I gave him the book (Submerging, I never even would have started it if it hadn’t been for him). He told me how proud he was of me. We hugged. Said we loved each other. I left.
I got to the car, tears starting, but not too badly. I’d almost cried when we were together, I’m sure he could tell, but I didn’t. I had a seventy-five dollar ticket when I got to my car. I completely lost it. Sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
It’s been a little over an hour and I’m functioning. I’m glad I did it. I think there was a part of me deluded—I honestly didn’t think I’d cry. I really didn’t. Part of me hoped I’d see him and feel nothing or at least feel less. Once again, it was walking away from my husband who doesn’t want me or love me anymore.
Again, I’m glad it did it. I’m glad it’s over. It needed to happen, and it was the right decision. For me. Hopefully for both of us, actually probably is a non-issue for him. But it definitely was for me.
Time to begin living again. To whatever extent. Or at least time to make myself face more fears in the attempt to live. I also had a text waiting for me in the car from a friend who has been begging me to go out with him for a couple years. I texted him back and told him to take me out Thursday or Friday. So, here we go.
So glad it’s over. I’m so thankfully for the time I had with him, and am so ready for the feeling for him to be gone—or at least non-consuming.

sucking up the waiting game

I’m nauseous. After four days of not hearing from HWMNBN, I’d nearly decided that he wasn’t going to respond after all. That either his feelings shifted from lack of love to loathing or that he wasn’t as genuine and kind as I believed (which isn’t true). I heard from him tonight. He’d just returned from Mexico. We are going to meet. Not sure when yet, I gave him options of tomorrow or Monday.
Now, more waiting. The thought of seeing him is terrifying, and, sickly, like a fucking-moronic-school-girl, wonderful to simply be in his presence again for a moment. Sublime torture. I know, I know. I can’t stand me either.
Despite the conflicting emotions and the raging nerves, there’s also a sweet anticipation of knowing it will soon be over soon. Sure, the next step is scary too—actually going places where he might be and starting to be around friends again, but I think it is the step I have to take to begin living once more. Even if life can’t be like it was, surely it can be more like life than it is now. I’m fighting desperately for my books. I need to fight a little harder for me. It’s time. Ready to get the first step over and done.