Did I find me?

I feel good. I went home and I came back and that taxi ride home was horrendous but I survived it.

I worked the last three days with minimal drama. I did hate that everyone wanted to know how my “vacation” was. I could only shrug.

Going home is never the same. I love my family but we are so very different. Most of them were on their best behavior and I all but dared a few people to be their terrible selves. The only dig about my weight that my father made was when I hugged him in greeting… he couldn’t resist squeezing a love-handle. But he didn’t say anything and he didn’t make any jabs about any of my meals.

We watched the Rhonda Rousey fight and were glad we did so.

I went out with Miranda and some of the others after work. Not long just enough to detoxic from the week. Today is my Friday. I have the next day and a half off before I have to cover a shift for someone else.

SO… I’m hanging out with a Deep Ellum Double Brown Stout and The Guest. If you like stout beer, Double Brown Stout is a good one. If you like thrillers, The Guest is a good one. If you’re a fan of Dan Stevens, watch it. If you’re a fan of good-looking bad boys, watch it. If you’re a fan of half-naked men, just watch it. I can’t stop watching it. I love it. Also Annie’s Anthonio is my new haunting theme song. In the context of the movie, it’s incredibly creepy. So, I carry a bit of that thrill when I listen to it away from the movie.

I’m trying not to get caught up in the drama at work. It’s hard when people suck you into it.

I need a time capsule to capture these feel-goods so that when I’m not in this happy place, I can remember that it does in fact exist. I need some girl time with Laurel. We’ll make it happen soon enough.

It’s 2014, y’all!

Don’t read too much enthusiasm into that title.

 

I feel like I just climb out of a deep well of despair and anxiety.

Today was a terrible day. I slept later than I planned. I didn’t have all the ingredients for breakfast. I spilt juice on the floor. I broke my shower. I got lost on the way to pick up my new cellphone. Lost in a parking lot. I nearly spilled lunch on it before I got it charged. I jacked up my WiFi. My cat got banned from any room that had workers because she misbehaves and they think she has rabies. My uncle thought my Facebook post was an invitation to chat. My old phone won’t update my new phone’s address book. I didn’t get 60% of my chores done today.

 

And my phone rediscovered an old douchebag boyfriend’s phone number.

I tried to breathe through it and find all the silver linings but it sucked. I work in the morning and I hope I have clean socks. I’ve thought about smoking all day.

I just want to close my eyes and watch SGU on my eyelids. We should have that technology by now.

Also, my face is peeling off. I hate February allergies.

The word of the day is “inappropriate” because of everything.

Scroogey McScroogeface

Merry Christmas.

 That’s about all the Christmas cheer I can muster.

At least I decorated this year. Maybe I just did it last week.

I’m not feeling it. I haven’t felt it in a long time. I’m dreading the day. I know it’s okay. I’m going to be okay. I’m going to be with people. I have the day off work. I feel bad for not feeling it.

I haven’t been feeling much of anything that isn’t hunger, pain or anxiety or incredible sadness.

I haven’t posted in a while because I’ve been busy. And sick. Right before Thanksgiving I got sick. Everything I ate made me sick one way or another. I started looking for a doctor but after the last doctor I saw for non-back related problem, I’m skittish. My current predicament has brought that last one to the fore… over and over again. It’s dragging back into the pits of depression.

I cry at the drop of hat. I’m starting to cry right now. For a microsecond I had a thought about the child I almost had and never really wanted and bam! Tears. I’m an extremely patient person and I’m really good with kids. I just don’t want any myself. That may change. I don’t really have long to change my mind but I decided a long time ago that I didn’t want kids if I didn’t have someone to share them with.

It’s just one of the many things that makes me feel other and abnormal. I was getting good at not feeling that way anymore. Since I’ve been sick, I have been taking my supplements in a reliable way and I haven’t really been able to take anything for pain so my moods have been all over the place. I rationalize my mood. I allow it pass through and know that it will but it just keeps coming.

I’m going to actually get to a doctor as soon as I can figure out my plan. If there’s not a solution in that, I don’t know what else to do.

I’m going to spend Christmas with my second family. I’m going to miss my family. I’ll spend New Years at home because I don’t have the energy to go out and do something. I spent last New Years a blubbery mess. I spent the New Year’s before that pissed off at the people I couldn’t find. The year before that I was with a roommate. The year before that I spent it waiting for people to call and show up who never did so I clung to the worst boyfriend that I have ever had. None of it was good.

I’m not feeling the cheer and goodwill but I know. I KNOW. I just know there’s going to be a change soon. I can feel that. Good or bad, it’s going to happen and I will make it work. That’s what I do. I make things work.

Days off

Yet another day off and yet another day of not wanting to move or do anything that could be considered productive. I am in significant pain today… and for the last few days. Lumbar pain, cyatica, migraines and yet I hae felt more like myself than I have in over a year.

I’ll do anything to keep it this way.

I just finished reading 2001: A Space Odyssey for the first time. I’ve never seen the move. It wasn’t what I thought it would be but I can see the fingerprints it left over everything else I love. And I did catch the John Carter reference and I reveled in it. I love to read. I never stopped but I forgot how to enjoy it. I feel like maybe I should reread some books in the last couple of years to give them a new chance with my newly revived brain.

Today, I’ll try not to aggravate my aching bones so much. I’ll try not to convince myself that I have West Nile. I’ll try to be in the moment with the things I am doing. Maybe I’ll call my father this evening and catch up and not feel like I’m putting on a show for him. When I say I’m okay, I’ll really mean it.

I find myself thinking of my relationship with my father a lot these days. It’s not as close as it could be. When Mom was alive, she was the buffer and the link. Without her, all of us just kind of spun away from each other and he’s drawing us back. He doesn’t really know how and unfortunately for him, the woman he married has set forth a barrier that none of us are willing to cross, even for our father’s sake. I, personally, will treat no woman like a queen unless she’s shown she deserves it. Kindness, generosity and patience. The woman has shown her husband’s children none and express we should treat her as if she raised us. We were all grown and moved away when they married.

Dad wasn’t around much. My parents had a happy marriage but as a welder, you get more money for away gigs than you do from sticking around the home base. Four children meant he spent most of his time making sure he could feed and clothe us and pay for my mother’s medical bills. I remember the holidays. He saved his sick leave for times when we would all be together.

I remember holiday spent at barbecues and family gatherings with Dad supervising the wild antics of kids tumbling everywhere. I remember quiet afternoons learning to play poker and 21. Some of my favorites are not even things I can remember. I have pictures of Dad reading to me, indulging my toothless carpet antics. I hear the stories from my older sister who was 7 when I came into the world. I remember New Year’s Eve with Twilight Zone marathons. My Barbies were always outfitted with cardboard mansions and a blue ’57 Chevy. My She-Ra collection an indulgence because he didn’t like me playing with brother’s He-Man toys.

These days we chat about the weather, whichever desert he’s working in, what I put up with at work… my physical health. We don’t talk about his wife or, by silent agreement, my love life. He’ll fill me on in whatever he’d gleaned about my brother… because my sister-in-law hates my stepmother a whole of a lot more than I do. Sometimes he’ll tell me about  a movie she made him watch. Sometimes, I’m amused like the time she got him to watch Lars and the Real Girl. Or when he told me about the time he took a picture with a drag queen at the New York Pride Parade (my father is homophobic and I’m really surprised he didn’t punch anyone).

I teach him Lauren’s name because he keeps calling her Logan. He really thought, in hindsight, she was a boy and I have no clue why. She’s very clearly a woman and spent my entire surgery with him last year.

My father has given me a lot. My work ethic. My kindness. My generosity. My love of westerns and sci-fi (though mine now delves deeper than his ever did). My love of reading. My pragmatism. My romanticism. My coloring. My complexion. My love of the desert. My impatience with felines. My obsession with making sure the tops of my bread align in my sandwich. My inability to drink any liquid during the meal. My respect for anyone who wears a uniform.

The man has his flaws. He’s only learning how to speak to us. He has a temper and it has come out in inopportune times. I get my cutting remarks from that fire. His utter bafflement of dating (I share this. He really has no clue how much my mother ran that show). It took him a long time to realize that his children are not him.

I live far away from my family as it’s necessary for my sanity. When I’m in the midst of all of them, I feel like I’m drowning. Far away, I can breathe and I can be me and I can love them for who they are. I love the time we have when we’re together. Board games and movies while we catch up, work on whatever family function and give each other our time. Time is really all we have to give our loved ones. Time together, time to be ourselves and let everyone be themselves. I can be annoyed all I want at my siblings choices but those choices are what make them who they are and who I love.

I miss my family but really, we all are where we need to be in order to be who we want to be.

And so, with memories, love and support… I shall continue to be a nervous wreck until such time that I can convince myself that I am exactly who I need to be.

Looking for focus

I’m supposed to go to the laundromat today because all my other options became non-options. I keep thinking about the panic attack I’m going to have when there are too many people or just the one person who tries to talk to me. Truth is… the panic attack is not going to happen. I will be calm and collected and I may escape to the bathroom a few times and then I’ll rush to get out of there so I won’t fold anything and when I get home, I’ll bawl my eyes out because holding it together was entirely too stressful. I’ll go to bed without putting anything away, I’ll wake up exhausted and have to go through two more days of work before I can just sit at home and hide under a blanket for the entire day.

That’s right. My fear of outside is based on a fear of what MIGHT happen.

I’m aware that it is irrational. I am aware that I should probably be on medication for this or at least be under the care of a professional but I just don’t want to.

I keep looking around for anything to focus on but I just can’t find anything. My leasing off was closed before I got home so I can’t report the things I need fixed. I just keep eyeing the laundry detergent on the table and reminding myself that I need, REALLY need, to get this shit down. But I can’t move. I can’t.

Tried to read but my mind wandered off.

Tried to call my friends on the phone but no one is picking up. Lil Sis is on her way to work. Big Sis is with her kids at the circus. Best bud hasn’t returned my neurotic texts in nearly a week and I think she’s mad at me but I logically know she’s not, she’s just got shit to do. I’m so tired of staring at the fucking laundry detergent.

I have a few hours yet to get my shit together and get outside where the people are. I should probably stop by the drug emporium and pick up some kava kava and get my act together properf

And now I feel really, really tired.

Dating Over 30 #11

Yeah, I know. I’m late. Well, my Pirates of the Caribbean marathon was far more important than blogging.

Then I spent the last hour hiding under a blanket and messaging with a fellow from a couple weeks ago.

You know that moment when you say something clever to a guy and then realize you’ve already said that exact same clever thing to him before… and that moment when he calls you on it.

Yeah, that just happened. Only it happened in messaging and he couldn’t see me turning bright red.

Somehow I managed not to make a total idiot of myself over it and I think I just made a phone date. Lord help me. Seriously. I’m going to fuck this up. I got excited and now it’s all going to go down in flames of awkward and badness.

Usually, when I get like this I act cool. To myself. Seriously. I tell myself that it’s all good cause I’m totally gonna move to Canada and meet that smokin’ hot South African I saw on one of my Sci-Fi shows.

Cause THAT’S totally gonna happen.

I am MADE OF AWKWARD.

I understand now why my folks got married young. They were too young to overthink everything. When my mother was my age, she had three kids, a husband and a mortgage. When my father was my age, he’d been to war and riots and survived my mother and his first three kids, rebuilt a ’57 hardtop and landed two vehicles for the family. They had their shit together.

I don’t have my shit even a bit together. I’ve worked three jobs in the last week. I’m contemplating adding a fourth and all because I can’t find a roommate who’s willing to play by the rules.

I’m pretty much doing anything I can not to think about my phone ringing when this dude gets off of work.

Laurel St. James and her Ninja have all kinds of faith in me and my awesomeness that I do not have in myself. My freakin’ brother-in-law even says that I’m too awesome not to attract all kinds of men but maybe he’s a little too on the nose. I do attract a bunch of men but they’re all… wrong. Nice guys seem to overlook me and I wonder if we’re doing a bit of the same. Too self-deprecating to go after what we really want.

Enough! I’m going to go hide in my closet until the phone rings.

Happy Mother’s Day

I’ve had a rough few years… decades. Whichever. I’ve profoundly missed my mother in the last five years. I have a hard time talking about her sometimes because the freshest memories are also the worst. 11 years ago today, she was taken out of this world.

My mother was born in Redford, Presidio County, Texas. She was part of the third birthing to my grandmother. Twins. Two older brothers, one still in diapers and two newborns. My mother’s twin died of leukemia when they were five. Mom was told that until she started school, her mother had to set an extra place at the table for the tyke who was no longer there. She was a lefty, as most twins are. She was forced to learn to write with her right hand by well-meaning family members. No one wanted her to be mistaken for a child with an infirmity after all. It was a task she mastered fairly well. (I’m a righty and her right-handed penmanship was better than mine.)

Forced ambidextrous, she attended schools that forbade Spanish spoken out of Spanish class. Truly bilingual, my mother had almost accent-less English but again, that’s Texas English. It’s recognizable most anywhere. She was the oldest daughter, third-born (like myself), with four siblings that followed. She was responsible for taking care of everyone else.

Mom learned to cook early and to cook out of cans and boxes. It was cheaper, somehow, to buy groceries and trade them for the state rations the neighbors got. Maybe they just stretched further. It’s what they did. Course, Pop had a milk cow. There were chickens and goats. Some things didn’t cost much at all. They made do with seven kids born between 1946 and 1964. Fostering out this kid, having this one take care of that one. It was a rowdy house with four boys and three girls.

Mom told me that at some point she tried to get her mother to stop smoking by buying papers and loose tobacco instead of cigarettes. It didn’t stop her mother. Eventually, she did stop (and this was a habit forbidden to occur in my mother’s house later). To have money for things that teenagers wanted, my mother picked cotton during the summer. Make-up, new clothes that weren’t sewn by hand. When my dad started coming around, he wasn’t allowed to come around. There was a rule that only men who were joining the family could come by. That was a tall order for a sophomore in high school and her junior (repeat) boyfriend who lived around the corner. Dad asked Mom to marry him three times.

The first time she said no it was because she was still in high school. The second time, it was because he didn’t have a job, he enlisted in the Marines. Then it was because he was overseas and she didn’t know if he was coming home from Vietnam. She used the time to get her high school diploma, to get her LVN, to save money for their wedding and newlywed furniture. Then she had to make plans to be a military wife. They married in 1972.

My memories are peppered with funerals. I learned early on that nothing in this world is permanent. Mom lost her twin in 1958, her oldest brother to lupus in ’83, her little sister to severe thrombocytopenia in ’85, her mother passed in ’91 of leukemia, a little brother to a drug overdose in ’92. After her mother died, my mother found a lump in her breast. It was cancerous. They operated immediately. The doctors told my father that she had five years to live. TOPS. Fat lot doctors know about a strong woman.

My mother fought cancer for 12 years before succumbing a week after Good Friday in 2002. It was long and hard and the ups and downs and curves were many and sharp through several rounds of chemo, remission in sight and gone again twice, changing drug regimens, lymphedema in first her left arm and then her right, the removal of her other breast, then the skin cancer on her face from the radiation treatment of her breast cancers. We found out years after her death that the cause was not the breast cancer or the skin cancer. She was cancer free. It was because she had developed crystallizations in her lungs similar to cystic fibrosis.  She wasn’t a carrier or genetically inclined. Many things mutated through all the experimental therapies.

The side effects were always troublesome. Every treatment came with a long list of symptoms that 95% of patients experience. The usual sort of thing; nausea, hair loss, itchiness… it went on and on. Then there’s a shorter list that the other 5% experience. These things are usually odd and much more troublesome. My mother was always part of the 5%. The cancer drugs came with symptom drugs which came with symptom-symptom drugs. My formative driving years were spent chauffeuring my sister so Mom could rest or chauffeuring mom to her many appointments, laughing with doctors and their lame jokes. Getting close to the doctors was a blessing and a curse. It’s easy to be mad at a doctor you don’t like, harder when you know he’s a good person and the treatments are what they are.

I remember plainly the oxygen concentrator in the hallway, the tubes that ran the length of the house so she could be anywhere she wanted to be and not relegated to bed 24 hours a day. I remember massaging the fluid from her arms (techniques learned from the therapists she would see three times a week). I remember she had to go through menopause twice, five years apart. I remember giving her back rubs that just made her cry because they just didn’t help as much as they used to. I remember sitting on the back of the couch and giving up. I just held her while she cried because there was nothing else I could do but listen to her talk about what being a wife was like when you had cancer. She made my dad promise to leave before he cheated, not that he would have done either. I remember her sleepless nights when she would use the computer in my room to play solitaire just so she wasn’t sitting in the dark in her room by herself because my father was working a lot of out of town jobs to pay the medical bills.

The last conversation my mother and I had before she left that Easter was a fight about how “indecent” I looked in my Easter outfit. I decided to stay home rather than fight all weekend and be exposed to her in her foul moods. I knew, logically, that it wasn’t that she thought I was whore or that I was dressed like a whore but her medications, specifically the steroids, made her moody and irrational and the pain was constant. So, I stayed home with Bob the house ghost and celebrated Easter with pizza and a lot of writing.

Easter Monday afternoon when they pulled in, Dad gave me the baby, my niece, and called 911. Mom couldn’t breathe. She spent a week in the hospital hooked up to all sorts of machines. She was barely awake the one time I could bear to see her. I kissed her face and went home. I spent the time with my aunts and uncles and watching after my niece and little sister. She passed away that Friday evening (technically Saturday), after I had refused, again, to go see her in that awful place. My only comfort was that she was not in pain anymore. I remember crying so hard that I puked my guts out.

The following week was a bit of a blur of friends and family. Burying the family cat after a road accident and then finding out it wasn’t our cat, just one who looked a lot like our cat. Trying to make my instructors understand that I would be out for a week and no, I couldn’t gain access to the internet to mail in assignments. We drove to our hometown to have the funeral. I saw her at the wake and refused to see her again at the funeral. I spent hours photoshopping a photo of her to use for the funeral. The picture was old and damaged but we wanted a good photo of her and there hadn’t been one in a long time. It took a long time and it was hard not to just stare at the full picture for hours.

I love my mom. She was amazing in so many ways. She raised four dramatically different people and stayed sane somehow. My sister is now a teacher, married to a rocker and raising three children of her own. My brother is going back to school but is a welding tech, is married and has a son. My baby sister is cancer-free and struggling to get back to normal and get her bachelor’s. I’m fighting my nature and anxiety and depression but I’m working. I’m almost back on my feet after my surgery last year. My father is cancer-free and remarried and trying to make it work though they have dramatically different views of marriage and culture and family.

I try not to think about those last years. The panicked driving lessons because steroids made Mom paranoid. The disappointed way she looked at me when I dropped out of college.

I try to think of the way she helped me sell Dad on tech school. The way she made sure I got a night out with my friends every once in a while despite the fact I didn’t really get on with my friends or ask for money to go out or even ask for a night off from her and watching my niece. The way she must have handled me as a child because I’m realizing I must have been a trial for any parent, forget a parent of four who was also fighting cancer.

My mother was pretty devout. I know, either you’re devout or not, but she always wanted more for me spiritually than I ever felt I needed. My brain and spiritually are usually at odds and have been since I was a young child. I got kicked out of Baptist Sunday school (my father’s religion). I was severely misunderstood at Catholic Catechism (my mother’s religion). I don’t hug. I ask questions and expect answers to make logical sense. I didn’t behave the way other children behaved and my mother just rolled with it. She eventually taught me not to speak my mind so much (I measure my words much more than I did then). I learned manners, somehow. I wasn’t really as shy as every thought I was when I was a kid. Just very aware since very early on that I have a propensity to say the one thing I shouldn’t in certain company. My mother just rolled with it. Some how.

If we went shopping, it was with purpose because I couldn’t be in a dressing room for very long. The closeness and nakedness of other people freaked me out. If we went out to dinner, there was a flyby to the house afterward to drop me off. I don’t defecate or urinate in public restrooms. Can’t, won’t, don’t, there are levels that even I don’t understand fully yet. There were always books because I needed to be entertained lest I embarrass the family (this is a recognized need by all my family members, atrocious things come out of my mouth). The ability to go and sit in a corner, or on the floor, is always arranged for whatever the family function. Reminders to hug and greet were always made. Concessions made to wardrobe changes because this gal is allergic to everything. No flowers in the house, cotton clothing whenever possible, no toilet paper with dye (remember THAT from the 80s?), Tylenol on all car trips. Sunglasses in case of migraines. Pepto for the freak stomachaches, which I now recognize as anxiety.

The woman was amazing because that’s a lot to keep up with for even one child. Forget the joiner my older sister was (and still is! A teacher!) and the rambunctious brother (Evel Knievel impersonator) and my little sister who was born without a filter (not in the same way as me).

She was crafty. Handmade scrapbook covers, homecoming mums, quillows, heart-shaped jewelry boards, puff-painted shirts, book covers, book marks, doilies, afghans, potholders, dishtowels. All around her work schedule and children and household tasks.

I remember doing homework on my bed, listening to KROQ and my mother turning to me and asking what we were listening to. “KROQ, Mom. It’s a Bush concert.”

“But what is this song?”

“Come down.”

“Well, I like it.”

My mother liked Bush. My parents listened to ’50s music and Tejano and country. They didn’t listen to rock. My father felt that all rock in the ’60s and ’70s was hippie music and it was forbidden in our house. So, Mom saying she liked Bush was pretty miraculous… even if it was just the one song. I remember her singing to commercials and commenting that Peggy Lee sang it better or her humming to some song from the Rocking to the Oldies fitness program (don’t judge me, this was my primary exposure).

I remember when I had to taking over cooking duties, my mom was hovering as I spiced. She told me that I was using too much of this or that. I informed her that I was just making sure it was the way it ended up on the table. She didn’t know what I meant. Usually, Dad came home in the middle of meal prep and spiced behind her back. I ratted him out, unintentionally. She was incensed but let me have at it. Dinner tasted as dinner always did. Refried beans, Spanish rice and green chili pork in gravy. That last dish is still one that I can’t make to save my life. I really miss it.

I do remember other things. Banana pudding. The trick to perfect Spanish rice. Chicken casserole. Salsa. I’m slowly building my crocheting skill but I’ll never be at my mother’s level. I remember to have fun once in a while. I try to remember to say thank you. I try to remember to ask for help when I need it.

Make up and fashion still puzzle me but mom always felt that if I wanted it, I would learn it. People still puzzle me but as I understand myself more, I understand people more. I learned how to give men ideas in a way that made it seem like they came to it all on their own. I learned that parents fight and great parents don’t do it in front of their children. A clean house is a comfortable house. Punishments come in all shapes and sizes; the most effective can be done with a tone or a look. Children come in all shapes, sizes and manners. One size treatments do not fit all. Saying “I’m proud of you” and “I love you” are vital to a child’s development.

Every day I do something that my mother taught me. Every day I learn something that I forgot my mother taught me.

Today isn’t Mother’s Day. It is the day I miss her the most.

Dating over 30 #9

I’ve been so focused on conquering the ass at work that I haven’t even glanced at my inboxes.

Here’s the roundup.

IndiscriminateDouches:

“Do you have a jersey? Because I need your name and number.”

And also lots of repeats about lost phone numbers and the greatest thing happening when they “met” me today.

While I did manage to have a couple of okay days with the ass at work, I haven’t done much else. I was stood up by a potential roommate and stepped outside of my comfort zone once. I was supposed to do it again today but I’m in pain and I overslept. Excuses, I know but I’m still waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in.

I did manage to make a healthy breakfast and I’m trying a recipe in the crock pot. I’ve learned a lot about the grocery store. Like checking garlic before you put it in the basket. I lost a third of it after opening the package.

I need shelves. I learned that this week. Storage and organization are my home goals. And that roommate thing. That’s a goal. Not one I want but one I need.

I passed a test a work. It took two tries, technically four but two were discounted out of hand.

I’m starting to dislike not seeing people I know on a more regular basis. I may have to join a club or actually start going to the gym.

I’m getting pins and needles in my foot, my thigh and I can feel temperatures on my calf now. Things will come together. I just have to work harder for it. Maybe today I’m not getting out of the house. Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll walk to the library today and get a new card.

By observing my male coworkers, I have discovered the following: They have no clue what they’re doing.

One of my favorite fellows tried to call his girlfriend from his station and addressed her as “baby” then he had to recover when she had no clue what he was talking about. Based on his stories, they’re not in the same place in their relationship.

My least favorite coworker has a girlfriend and is trying to get her to buy him gifts he wants versus expecting him to buy her gifts and she just exists. I’m sure there’s more to her than this but I haven’t been enlightened.

My second favorite coworker is in love with the WeatherChannel girl. He was very disappointed to find she was married and his second favorite weathergirl is pregnant. He’s had a rough week.

Our last fellow in our area is newly single and trying to enjoy it but is dating all kinds of wrong girls because he can.

One thing they all learned this week? If a girl goes with a guy to Hooters, it’s a test. And it is. Even if girl say it’s not. It’s a test. I’ve done the same thing. A guy stares too often at the waitresses, then he’s an asshole. It’s an excuse and we all know it.

I’ve got friends of all ages. Couples in various stages of relationships. I have a friend in her sixties who reads romantic fiction. She claims her husband is all for it because she pounces on him afterward. I haven’t asked how the reverse works. They’ve been married 30-some-odd years.

I have a friend in her thirties who “allows” her husband his celebrity crushes though I know she wouldn’t cry if a train fell on the woman. They are happy and married six years (together for 10 years), I believe. She has “open” celebrity crushes which are with his approval and “secret” celebrity crushes that he has no idea about because it would upset him too much.

It’s all nonsense. It really is. We push it on each other. We endure it. We encourage it sometimes. Imaginary other people in your relationship. Generally it’s okay to discuss the merits of this girl or that guy from the TV but the second it’s a real person in your sphere of living, whether you know them or not, it’s a problem.

Green-eyed monsters rear their ugly heads and then it’s the end if there’s nothing holding anything together. Sometimes things just aren’t meant to last. Sometimes there’s enough there to fight for.

My parents were married in ’72 and remained so until my mother died in ’02. That’s a long time. Over half of my friends had parents who were divorced or were the result of a shot-gun wedding. I’ve not been witness to a lot of real world dating that I could feel like was a good example. My friends often went to wild parties that I never felt comfortable in. My siblings and I weren’t close when they were dating. When my father started dating, I made sure I was elsewhere… a whole state of elsewhere away. Thing was, he had no clue what he was doing either. What he had with my mom was one thing. The rest of the women (2 or 3) that he’s dated since she passed have been whole other breeds of women that baffle him.

So, no one knows what they’re doing. They just figure it out as they go.

Maybe it’s why I never listened to the friends who have told me I don’t “date” right. Those gals have suggested that loads of clubs, wild parties and tons of sex with strange men is the “right” way to do things.

OR that I should go to church and meet a nice guy there if I was going to refrain from sex.

Apparently, those are your only options. Chastity or promiscuity.

There are a broad range of dating options. I’m not restricted to never having sex outside of marriage or sleeping with every man who says “hi” to me. My close friends know me and have always known that wasn’t going to be me. Either one of those.

Maybe I do meet someone on one of these dating sites. Maybe when I get out of my weird little anxiety box, I will meet some dude at a library, bookstore, comic book convention and we’ll hit it off. Maybe I’ll kiss a few more frogs before I find a guy who cuts a prince-like stature. I hate that frog-prince story.

Until then, I will wade my way through guys who don’t read my profile, guys who are too afraid to meet a woman they like in person and my own anxiety. It’s getting better. I think. I could be wrong. All things are possible.

Dating Over 30 #8

I’m not in the mood this week. I’m finding that my pain levels directly correlate to my moods.

I’ve been in a paranoid state for about a week. Then yesterday in the middle of my shift, the pain just overwhelmed me and any shift of my hips sent pain shooting up my spine and down my right leg. I might have whimpered out loud. I could barely get to my car and the walk from the car to my bed was a little longer than it needed to be. I’m feeling marginally better today but now I have to suss out the sudden pain relapse so it doesn’t happen again. Good news though! I felt pain in my right leg. In the areas I don’t have motor control and normally don’t have feeling!

Anyway, dating stuff. I’ve not responded to any messages and some of them seem like they’re worth it. That makes me sad. It’s the pain causing depression causing doubt. My daily chant? Depression lies. It tells you that even if you take the chance, it won’t be worth it. Even if you want to try something, it won’t work. Depression lies.

It’s okay to try something new. To take a chance on someone new. It’s fine. It’s okay.

Having loved ones who don’t understand your depression is hard. My brother and I aren’t too close these days. He’s busy. I’m busy. We live far apart. He just tries to offer his shoulder. I admire that. My older sister is more understanding. She listens when I talk about my feelings of not being able to move because I’m scared of nothing in particular or that I’m so sad that potentially having eyes on me as I walk my garbage to the dumpster is terrifying. She understands that when she checks in and I beam “I cleaned my house” or “I took out the garbage” that I’m not being cheeky. I’m proud.

My little sister is young. Her filters are busted. She’s got a lot on her own plate. She can’t comprehend my feelings. She says insensitive things all the time and not to hurt me. She thinks she’s being honest and helpful. Honest I can handle. Trying to be helpful usually backfires. Disparaging my love of books and telling me to “get out there” doesn’t help. “Out there” is the scary place. I have my usual haunts that feel okay and I can go by myself. Going to those places when I don’t feel okay can cost me that comfortable place. I could go to a new place. Crowded with people. I could have a panic attack and be afraid of going to that place again.

I’m still getting used to my work schedule. I’m searching for a roommate. I’m trying to keep myself healthy, physically and mentally. Really, until I’m back on my feet, I don’t feel like I can go to a bar. I’m the lame person who has to be home by 11pm or I’ll sleep through my alarm and getting fired during my training period. Until I’m secure in my job, I can’t take a risk that will take me back to the place where at the beginning of the month, I’m only 10 days from homelessness. That’s the hugest blow my psyche can take right now.

My goals for today? Go through my messages and take an honest look at the fellows who took a chance and sent me a clue, clean my house, take pictures of my home, and rest. My back really does hurt and I think I left my ibuprofen in the car.

IndiscriminateDouches:

“¿Es tu padre un astronauta? Porque alguien cogió las estrellas del cielo y las puso en tus ojos.” (Is your dad an astronaut? Because someone took the stars from the sky and put them in your eyes.)

Just. Wow. Not many hits today. Just a lot of the same. “Hey, message me.” Though, one dude who asked me to chat with him kind of looks like Darryl from The Walking Dead. I should ask how he handles a machete.

10 Songs that get me through my week

I’m an awful singer.

Okay, that’s not true. I’m not a very loud singer. When I get loud, things get screechy. I had a purpose in my high school choir. Hit the note. I could do that. All my loud-mouthed brethren had to do was hear my note and belt it. I had a lot of fun doing it.

So, I sing to the radio when no one can hear me. It’s probably best that way. Energizing on the way to work and decompressing on the way home are pretty vital to my day. Not as necessary these days but still part of a familiar routine that I do enjoy.

Warning: Do not try to make sense of the mess and mass of what I listen to, it’ll only make your brain hurt.

Also, had to limit to songs I could find on youtube … it gave me a sad to realize that.

Great video; great bridge; great for shouting!

This is the only version of this song I like.

Love me some self-deprecating fellow!

Short and lovely.

I have two versions of this on my MP3 player which means I have one for either mood.

Songs from this era always remind me of my mom.

Two sure things: Death and Change

I set it to start when the song gets started; feel free to go back and listen to the band gearing up.

This was Saturday music in my house growing up.

Crazy ladies being crazy and loving it.

This is the best song in the universe and a great way to end a day.