Poor Skunk

The skunk was diagnosed today . . . with a $1460 problem. This would be fine, my love for the skunk being deep, except that the skunk is not worth over $2000. And that is through my biased eyes. It has over 150,000 miles on it. And a possible bearing problem. In addition to the bad PCM thingy.

Can one hold a funeral for her car?

And can someone drive me there to pick up the skunk? From the expensive people?

My brother has offered some other options, but I think I may donate it. Makes me so sad though. My little racecar. Sigh.

This is the Last Day of Our Acquiantance

"This is the last day of our acquiantance
I will meet you later in somebody's office
I'll talk, but you won't listen to me
I know your answer already . . . "

It would be so easy. I could just smile and thank you for the cute gesture ("I've got a new word for you") . . . it was how we met, what roped me in. And I appreciate attention. And I don't like conflict.

And quite frankly, I expected you to start first. But you really just wanted to talk, to play friends, you really are just lonely. And you know I will be nice to you.

But you only contact me when you are sad and lonely. I know she is leaving you. And you can't say that the timing is coincidential. And I don't want to be that girl.

And so I laid it out for you. Sorry, I'm not in the same place anymore. And I'm not your rebound girl. And I'm certainly no trained monkey.

We have mutual friends, that I am unwilling to give up. So I will see you again. But this is the last day. Because like the song states, you have taken me for granted.

Not the Tomb Raider One

It was an interesting day.

Giving advice . . . when I don't take advice very well. Certainly don't do well with constructive criticism. Felt very much like the pot speaking firmly with the kettle about being black today.

Finished the baby hat that I'm not sure I'm going to send. QO doesn't have a last name . . . so I'm not sure how to address it. Okay, I'm sure he has a last name, I just don't know what it is. And why knit for people if you don't even know their last names? Very cute hat though. Just the right color blue . . . organic cotton yarn . . . very soft . . . almost wish it was big enough for me.

I just got off the phone. Talked Peter Pan down for a while, using tiny stitches on his shadow. Doesn't want to grow up . . . doesn't want to live like this though. Spinny, spinny, spinny. Conversation ended with how much he was attracted to Angelina Jolie . . . not the Tomb Raider one, when she was in Hackers was better, without the fake boobs. So much for the grounding conversation about being a grown up.

So now I'm tired. Kinda the theme for the summer. Just tired. Languishing. Perhaps the Fall will be better.

I did buy the cutest ballet flats though. Red. Shiny.

Pulled . . . or Finding the Bar Next to the Cyclotron

"I just commented on a post and now it's GONE."
"Yeah, I do that sometimes. I pull them. It was whiny."
"It wasn't whiny."
"It talked about work."
"Yes, it talked about work. It was revealing. But it wasn't whiny."
"Well, I can pull them. I usually put them back up after I get three or four more posts up."
"I just wondered if I was crazy. I had just commented."
"Nope. It's still there. You just can't see it."

Ah, the fine line of personal blogging. What is self-indulgent pratter and what is insightful? I was basically whining about my life . . . again. And I decided that wasn't pretty. So I pulled it to a draft. I always put them back up. I just wait, so that it is not the first entry one sees.

Basically what it came down to was that the internet (the "new" way to meet people . . . even though we've been doing it for years) is not working for me. And as I primarily talk to the waitress at Leo's and the barista at Starbucks, I would like to order something: slightly awkward skinny guy with glasses, dark hair, obscure sense of humor -- graduate degree a plus, but must be smarty pants. And one would think that you would be able to find that on the internet, cause isn't that where they all hang out? I need to find better nerd bars. Next to physics school or something. The ultimate question. Where do all the lonely engineers hang out?

Oh, yeah, forgot to add sane. The non-insane relatively good-looking lonely engineers who will worship the ground I walk on. Who are into alternative music. But not too into it.

And I wonder why I haven't met someone?

Anyhow, that was really what the pulled post was about: angst at not finding the nerd who will at least like me . . . though the nerd bar thing is a yummy thought.

Maybe Need to Run in Circles

I feel like a cranky child tonight . . . and was honest and told someone I was pissed, when I really didn't need to. I'll get over being pissed shortly. May be over it already.

And I feel like I really shouldn't talk until school gets out . . . to anyone. I realize that it is not them, it's me and how I am approaching things. I'm just over-tired, and perhaps over-stressed (never had a good gauge about when I'm really stressed, except maybe when I'm so stressed that I get hives and my esophagus closes up involuntarily). Like to think that I roll with it well, when I so don't, as evidenced by my physical symptoms to stress taking over.

And tomorrow is a different day. And in less than eight days, it will just be me, in my house . . . going for days without talking to anyone except maybe the Starbucks barista. And despite my insistence that I was "ditched" tonight, I really just needed to go to bed anyway.

So sorry, Princess. I didn't mean it. And it's too late to call and apologize tonight. Hope your car is beautiful and I will see you at Graduation. Sorry I was crabbypants.

But She Said "Snow Day"

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day . . . and someone said "snow day" very early in the day because of the weather forecast, so I ended up doing damage control all day.

"No, we are not going to have a snow day . . . it's not even snowing . . . look out the window."

And it is currently snowing. Messy on the way home . . . would have been better if I had left before 5 pm ( . . . yes, I can leave at 3:05, according to my contract, and I rarely ever do that, plus I have homework and a permanent 25 minute lunch . . . ) (I know, puppets of the evil empire have the easiest lives.) But it's not snowing enough. Despite the media foaming over the snow, it's not enough snow to shut anything down. I haven't even shoveled yet.

Why does the media get all rabid about the weather nowadays? Did they always do that? Or is it just that now it's the most colorful part of the news, with all their maps and graphs? Couldn't they talk about how Jenny is taxing all the things I love . . . martinis . . . pedicures . . . haircuts . . . pet grooming . . . (okay, I don't have any pets, but if I did . . . ) So I get to deal with a crabby constituency tomorrow who were all ramped up by the news and by someone coming over the P.A. And it will be Valentine's Day . . . which is a simply despicable holiday. I think I will need a martini. Definitely a martini kind of day.

So happy hallmark holiday. On this made up holiday, specifically thought up to make single people feel rejected and awful, I will be going to a high school band concert. Which means I can't have a martini. But on the plus side, I did not have to think of a creative gift for anyone. There. Thinking positive. Aligning that Chi.

The Ramp of Possibility

Okay, here's the deal.

Once upon a time, I decided to not date. I made the determination that I picked, or liked, or was attracted to, the wrong type of person and so I stopped picking, and liking and being attracted to. I ignored, well, basically my sexuality, (sorry Dad) . . . and it was easy to delve into work and not worry about other people. It was way easier than being disappointed or hurt. Plus, you could eat anything you wanted. I mentally shut myself off to that aspect of life, didn't even entertain possibility.

And I was very good at being alone. (still am, really) I do what I want to do . . . whether I have friends that want to go or not.

And despite the comments from Q.O. about being more positive . . . with the thought that things will work themselves out, that the universe will fall into place, I'm tired. I'm tired of the ramp of possibility and the fall. It doesn't matter if the fall is when I meet them and they have three kids and they aren't really divorced and their life is a mess . . . and then they look at me and say, "So . . . why is it you are 35 and haven't been married?" judgementally, like there was something wrong with me. (and yes, I realize that it is all in how you internalize the comment . . . he could have meant nothing by it . . . just making small talk . . . so we could instead go to the example of "Oh, you're skinny enough to date.") So the fall at the beginning, I'm tired of sitting in front of a person in the middle of an interaction, knowing I will never speak to them again. And I like to give everyone a chance, but frankly, there is a turning point. So should I just end things at that turning point? Should I just get up and walk out? Hmmmm.

I know that dating is a process. That you may, in fact, have to go out with a lot of people to find the right one. But the stories aren't enough anymore . . . and I'm not asking for marriage (God, they so freak out about that) but I would like to get to the fifth date . . . or maybe sixth months . . . because I'm really beginning to believe it's me that's the problem.

But let's talk about the other fall. When the ramp of possibility is higher . . . let's just say we get along. It's fun. Maybe it's that I think he is cute and therefore don't hear the annoying question or statement (I wonder what mine is . . . it's a two way street, I have to have one . . . and no, don't tell me). I had a great date last week. And it wasn't the date (although the Berkley Front is always exciting) it was the person I was with. The right combination of geeky and cool . . . glasses, I do love a boy in glasses . . . nice solid Midwestern values . . . liked to argue . . . called himself a liberal . . . had an interesting job we could talk about . . . never married, no kids and didn't live with his mom . . . oh, and wasn't gay. He was nice. Really, I'm just looking for that. That is so hard to find. Well, it's easy to find. I've met quite a few men that I find attractive and intelligent . . . but they all have girlfriends. So no possibility. But this one, there was no mention of a girlfriend. And I thought he was with me, in the "this is fun" thought. Up the ramp I go.

And I'm tired of this ramp metaphor. He didn't call. It's been a week. And despite what women think . . . and what other men have told me this week, he knows how to use a phone and no one is that busy. I will assume that he was kidnapped by pirates. Because that is so much cooler that not realizing that he was just a jerk, or even harder, that he is just not into me. But while he is out getting his peg leg fitted, I'm sitting here thinking, "Shit, I'm going to have to do this all over again." And I know it was only one date. But I thought there was a possibility and evidently, I'm a really sucky judge of possibility.

And I'm sure I'll get comments . . . and I'm not giving up. I may even email him and ask if he was kidnapped by pirates, if only to get the comforting line about being busy . . . or no response, but I can say I did the extra thing. But it is so much easier for me to suck into myself. Not as fun, but easier. I'm tired of the car crash. Maybe I should stop getting into cars. (See? Brand new metaphor.)

Or maybe I should get kidnapped by pirates.

Emily and . . .

the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day . . .

I remember the day, the moment, that I found Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day in my elementary school library. Now here was a book that wasn't all happy and sunshiny . . . here was a book that I could relate to. And if anyone has read it, I have had one of those days today. I didn't fall asleep with gum in my mouth but I probably should have, just to top it off.

"I think I'll move to Australia"

Explains It All, With Illustrations

I think this explains it all . . . except my disgust with itunes.

Closing a Chapter

Funny, the things that happen in our lives that allow us to move on . . . from longing and regret. Never anything earth shattering, sometimes just a soft sound or a rustling (metaphorically, of course).

And you always want the earth shattering, the end, the finality. Want to make it go boom and poke it with a stick, which never makes it better. But instead, it is like the state between being aware and daydreaming . . . you can't make yourself be in that state or remember it anyhow.

Today I got out of bed and it was okay.

Faith

The girls came to Royal Oak . . . which was very nice of them.

And we had a nice evening. And I was questioned (if not chewed out) for talking to RBBF.
"Aim higher" was the theme.

But how do you aim higher? No one talked to us. There was no one to talk to. And Royal Oak is so plastic . . . and truthfully, in my twenties, I did plastic . . . boobs up to there and underwear on the outside. And now . . . I just feel old.

Princess said that my mother just wanted me to date a "normal guy". But the only normal guy she could come up with as an example was some eighty year old psychologist that we used to work with. And I really don't think my mother was picturing me running off with Dr. H.

And what Princess doesn't understand is . . . I used to not care. I had accepted my fate. I had accepted that I would grow old and be alone. I had cared for my old people. It was okay. Until I figured out that there would be no one to care for me.

And now, I'm just lonely. I have great things. Great job, great house, just bought a bunch of great clothes . . . I have great friends that listen to me bitch and love me even though I'm a pain in the ass. A great family, whom I love . . . and who love me. But still . . . lonely.

And everyone tells me that you just have to have faith. The lego that you are supposed to click with is out there. And I am losing that faith . . . or maybe I didn't have it to begin with.

I never wanted it to be easy. I don't want Prince Charming to show up on my doorstep. I wouldn't believe him if he did, even if he had I.D. But I didn't think it would be this hard. And it is this hard.

And I'm tired of going out . . . dressing up and drinking . . . and having it be the same outcome as if I had stayed home in my jeans . . . and talked to my friends on the phone. And what my friends don't understand is that RBBF is in the same place . . . and it's nice to hear the male perspective of that. It's nice to hear that someone else might be fed up with the games and tired. Because I'm tired. And 35. And in my mind, I should have two kids by now. I know that I can't go with my mental picture . . . but still.

How can you keep your faith that everything happens for a reason (especially when it's been a miserable week)? And despite the "aim higher" lecture I received this evening . . . I just really want someone who can make me laugh and that I can stand for more than half an hour. And knowing me, I think that's a pretty high standard.

I guess I just want a reason to believe. And I didn't get it this evening.

Done.

To add to the angst, I tried to be nice to a person that I should've ignored totally from the moment I met him. And it went well for 1.5 emails. And then he was what he is . . . and all the resentment came out and I clicked "send". And it wasn't even half of what I wanted to say.

I'm sorry that you are so stuck . . . somewhere where the focus always has to be on yourself. It's a shame.

And yes, I am acutely aware that I am not perfect . . . far, far from it. If I were perfect, there would be no emails to send, because I would have ignored it as soon as it got ugly.

Matt Good wrote something that I found of interest . . . makes sense to me in this situation:

Our acts determine our true wealth.

When someone says that they love you, and you know that they mean it to their very core, that there is no doubt in any cell in your entire body that they are unconditionally sincere – then you are wealthy. There is no question that, for a time, financial wealth can secure the placebo of love, but it cannot create it. It cannot manufacture true love, just as it cannot ensure or secure happiness. To give ourselves to others openly and honestly, and to conduct ourselves with integrity and concern for the feelings of others, even if complete strangers, represents the sum total of our riches.

As I sit here looking out the window, lost in the haze of twilight, memories, and the talons of despair, I see a city filled only with poor people.

And I wonder how that happened.

see rest of entry here.

And I'm not so sure that I know what love is . . . anymore. Pitiful that some asshole can make me doubt that.

And it will all be okay. Tomorrow is another day.

Understanding the Angst

From this:

To this:

I look like a bad version of my Aunt Wyneth.

Compared to Sylvia

Princess has now compared me to Sylvia Plath all day . . . and while I secretly treasure the literary comparision (as I think I am a terrible poet), I don't think she was comparing me to her in a literary sense.

"If I read one more sad entry on your blog, I'll slit my wrists . . ." said Princess this morning. So no more sad entries, folks, cause Princess is threatening to harm herself. From now on only bunnies and kittens and daisies and frolicking.

There is a piece of salami on my porch. I think the squirrels brought it as an offering. Either that or Pam is back and wants to feed Angel salami. Not sure. But there is definitely a lone piece of salami on my porch . . . slightly petrified, some chew marks, so a bit used.

How's that for happy thoughts?

Sorry, Feeling Poetic (Two Days in a Row)

I have exactly what I had before I met you . . .
same eyes, same smile, same skill sets,
same smart-ass mouth that gets me in trouble.

And I am now to thinking
about what annoyed me.
And I can place it in front of
my thoughts of the good.
And that makes things easier.
And the patch of loneliness
left by you is tended . . .

I have exactly what I had before I met you.
Same likes and dislikes,
same goals and dreams.
You just opened a door on
a dream I already had.
What hurt was the slamming shut.

I have exactly what I had before I met you.
I don't know why it felt like
you took something away.
There was nothing to take.
That I didn't have more of, anyhow.

I have exactly what I had before I met you,
and now that I don't know you.

Stages of Grief

According to Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, there are four stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining and acceptance. She was taking about the process of death but the death of a relationship applies.

I think I may have slipped toward the anger stage.

Focus and a Sunny Afternoon

Okay, back to center.
Thank you for the reality therapy, mother . . . I'm lucky to have you.
Thank you for the hockey-like hip check, Princess . . .

No sense in being over eager for what is going to happen in life. It will either happen or it will not happen. I have a great job, great friends (who put up with all this bullhockey), and a great family (though brutal at times). All of that has happened.

School is over in a week and a half. My sister bought a great new house. The IKEA in Canton opens tomorrow. Alittle retail therapy and I don't have CD's all over my house (though I have yet to alphabetize them) and I realized that you could probably buy 7 different versions of the song "Suck" on Napster or something.

And despite what my mother says, I have really great hair . . . just ask the girl at the gas station.

Break up the Pity Party

Part of this is being pissed at myself for being such an jerk in my twenties, for not having the self-esteem to date "nice" guys. Wasting so much time. Not figuring out how cool I was until now.

Part of this is grieving for a friendship that is now a vacuum.

Part of this is that I thought someone thought I was special . . . and I wasn't wrong. But now I have to jump back into the pool. And I'm cold and tired. I'm thirty-five. And let's face it, there aren't that many people in the pool anymore.

Rest assured, I'll jump back in. I'm tired of being alone. But I have to hurt. Sorry. Have to. I'm giving myself a week.

When you find someone who respects you, makes you feel special, thinks you're cool, looks at you with a smile that makes you feel like you are someone . . . hell, I don't care if it was all pretend. It was worth every minute. And as much as I hate to say it, every minute of the pain.

I learned a lot about what I want. Thank you.

This Morning

I swear to god I was coming to grips last night . . . and now there is this morning. And tomorrow morning will be better and the next . . . until it is all a fond memory. But right at this moment, a piece of my soul is missing. And I don't know where to find it to put it back.

And I want to know which morning I can roll over and go back to sleep.

I keep telling myself that I was love with the idea of him . . . but in the abstract, the idea of him was pretty much a mess, so pretty much I actually loved him. I let myself fall in love with him. And now that's gone. And it will never be the same.

There is an Ani DiFranco song, "I used to be a Superhero, no one could touch me . . . no not even myself. But you were like a phone booth, that I somehow stumbled into . . . now look at me . . . I am just like everybody else."

How I long for the day that I'll just roll over and go back to sleep . . . or maybe not wake up at all and yet, how I hate that someday I'll just roll over and go back to sleep.

He didn't feel the same. I get it. Doesn't make this moment in time any easier. But I almost hate the fact I that I know that it will get easier.

I Hate

I hate that I had to wear sunglasses on a walk . . . in the twilight . . . because I am spontaneously crying.
I hate that I was sitting on my parents' porch this morning at 6:30 because I couldn't be in my house.
I hate that I threw all my refrigerator magnets on the floor because he was the last to spell something out with them.
I hate that I don't know whether I can't eat because I'm upset or because of the stomach flu.
I hate that he gave me the stomach flu.
I hate that I want to crawl back into my hard exterior shell that I'm so good at wearing.
I hate that I'm going to have to get back on the "playing field" of a game that I don't like playing anymore.
I hate thinking that I will die alone.
I hate that we broke up because I liked him more than he liked me.
I hate that I let my guard down and liked him in the first place.
I hate that the center of my body just aches . . . and again I don't know if it's the damn flu.
I hate that no one (not even him now) can do anything about how I feel . . . that it's just going to have to be time.
I hate that I can't hate him, because he is really a good guy. (but trust me, I'll work at it)
I hate that we had what could be described as a "good" breakup . . . if there is such a thing.
I hate that my heart feels like tinfoil that's been crumpled up and stomped on.
I hate that I feel like I am wasting time being upset . . . but yet am still upset.
I hate that despite the fact that I projectile vomited and broke up with my boyfriend (yes, I said boyfriend), I still have papers to grade.
I hate the fact that someday I'll have to run into him and I'll have to act blase.
I hate that I had to say, "Then this has to end."
I hate that my mother said "You just tried too hard." and "It was only a matter of time."
I hate the fact that my mother may have been right on both counts.
I hate thinking that she was right.
I hate the "what ifs" and the self-doubt that I have right now.
I hate the fact that I'm considering that maybe being the "crazy cat lady" is easier than going through this ever again.
I hate that I have to consciously remind myself of what a great life I have and what fabulous friends and family I have.

I hate that I feel so alone.