Those Were Different Days (Joce)

We're sitting around the table, everybody on their second or third margarita, worn out from a long hot day, but the mood is light and easy. Somebody asks Brandon about his sister, she's had a lot of trouble with men in her life, good juicy gossip: Her live-in boyfriend got somebody else pregnant and left her, then the next guy she dated was dealing heroin. Heroin! And went to jail. "She's just one of those girls," says Brandon, "that if you tell her she's pretty, tell her that you love her, that's all it takes. She holds on and won't let go." Everybody laughs. We all know girls like that. So insecure, so desperate for the approval of a man, oblivious or forgiving of the red flags. We pity them.

I laugh, too. I laugh at Brandon's sister and those poor, pathetic girls starved for the affection and validation of a worthless, piece of shit guy. I laugh but I don't say anything. Because, in my heart I know that I, too, am that girl. I order another margarita.

I made the error of writing about love in May as if I knew something, anything about it. As if being love thirsty for all these years and years has given me insight into what love is. As if keeping a blog about relationships and dating and feelings qualifies me as a love expert. What a fool!  Enter swift karmic retribution -- I got tangled in a couple of flash-in-the-pan relationships where the word love was bandied about, one was just a lie, a messy, twisted love lie, and the other was unwanted and non-reciprocal love. I realized I know nothing about love. Not one little thing.

I used to think, up until about a week ago, that my big relationship character flaw was having too much empathy for others. Did he have a bad childhood? Was he unloved by his mother? Was his heart broken in 15 different places by 15 different women? Is he naturally timid? Or mean? Or manipulative? I understand. No problem. I can help him overcome. I can heal his wounds no matter how deep or wide. My comforting and kindness and nurturing will make him whole again. He will change. He will love me, too, eventually, finally, and we will live happily ever after.

Wrong.

Proof of Water in the Desert (Joce)

On my most recent trip to Tucson, I made a point of driving down the street I lived on when I first moved to the desert. My 330 square foot apartment was tucked into a tiny little jut of a dusty street in the Iron Horse District just a hop, skip and jump from one of the sleaziest bars in town, The Buffet. Open 23 hours out of 24, they closed the bar for an hour each morning to hose the place out, and the drunks would stand out on the sidewalk, weaving, bleary-eyed and red-faced as the morning sun. The closure was usually about the time I was taking my dog on his a.m. constitutional, across the Rattlesnake Bridge, down a pathway lined with prickly pear and gravel, and back. The bar flies and I would eye each other warily, likely, me, more wary than them.

It was an accident, perhaps a mistake, that I was newly 30 years old, 1,000 miles from the town I was born in, 1,500 miles from my adopted Midwestern home, living in a place where I didn’t know a single person, not one, for hundreds of miles. The desert was a desolate, desperate, dirty place, full of down-on-their-luck folks. Everything was old and weathered and run-down. It was really, really hot.

I learned the route from my job, to home and back again, and spent my evenings and weekends venturing in larger and larger circles to find my way; the grocery, the gas station, parks, shops, anywhere that might make me feel less lost, less alone. Eventually I started to make friends, discovered where to buy good produce, a nice bottle of wine, where to go on a hike, where to have a meal, see a movie. My community grew and grew. I took day trips, explored the outer reaches of the city, found the hidden gems, cute shops, cafes, shady gardens. By Thanksgiving I had three different invitations to join friends for a holiday dinner. I instituted a regular girls night. I started dating. Tucson became my home. Tucson friends, my adopted family.

Revisiting that street, driving past The Buffet, the run-down buildings with the barred windows, made me terrified for my past self. Unbelievably, I can’t remember now what it must have been like then, but I imagine how daunting it must have felt to be the stranger in such a strange land.  Remembering made me sad.  I’d gone up against that challenge. I was all alone, with nobody to help me, nobody to comfort me, to encourage me along. But it also made me proud that I survived, that I prevailed, that I actually thrived despite it all. And that I did that. All by myself.  

Ghosts of Different Days (Joce)

About the only thing that’s perfect about me is my vision. I haven’t taken an eye test in years but it’s never tested lower than absolutely flawless. As a kid, I thought I was really missing out on an accessory opportunity by not getting to wear glasses or bright blue contacts (keep in mind I was also jealous of the girl who broke her leg because she got to wear a pink cast.  Everybody signed it!). I’ve since come to realize that the additional expense of a medically required accessory leaves a little to be desired (sunglasses are more than enough) and I’ve reallocated my jealousies to wishing I had perfect hair, or perfect skin or a perfect ass. Even more unfortunately, there isn’t a glasses equivalent for the ass - that accessory that remedies the less than perfect characteristic. Unless you count Spanx. Which I don’t. Spanx are way less cuter than a pair of specs.

Supposedly hindsight is 20/20. Mine isn’t. The further I get from the past, the harder it is for me to recall what happened, what was going on, how I felt, what I said, how I reacted. I’ve never been one of those people that could recount, word for word, a conversation. Or remember a date, an anniversary. I’ve had lifelong friends that I can’t remember for the life of me what their birthday is. What year did I graduate from college? Good question. What was I wearing? Probably, likely, something cute, but, unless there’s a picture from the moment in question, your guess is as good as mine.

I’ve been going to a counselor lately to work on some life strategies. Clearly, I need some new tools for my toolbox. And he’s been asking me a lot of questions about the past, past relationships, past lives in past places. And, I don’t have a lot of details to give. He asked me the other day about Bryce, “what attracted you to him at the beginning?” (I’d asked him to help me figure out what attracts me to bullies, manipulators, tough and mean guys, so I don’t do it again, HALP!) Honestly, I couldn’t remember anything, anything except the basic timeline. I had to go back and read some emails, my blog, my diary, to fill in the details, to clarify.

 After that, I realized that Bryce was well-spoken, interesting, driven, not to mention, actively pursuing me. Mostly, he talked a good game. And I’m such a good listener that I didn’t bother to notice that he didn’t follow the talking up with action. He told me exactly what I wanted to hear, using the best possible words and he presented an elaborate façade that distracted me from who he actually was. He hid the hoarding part, the ‘roid rage, the pet abuse, the shifty financial situation. Until it was too late and I was so over my head that I was afraid to back out. I’m the kind of person who tends to put my money where my mouth is. If I say I’m going to do something, I make a concerted effort to do it. In other words, I’m a man of my word.

And, I tend to take a man at his word. Which is why, perhaps, I ended up with Bryce. And Ken. And Malik. And Conover. And, of course, Rocco. Each of these men presented a self, at least in the beginning, that was far different from whom they actually ended up being. They all said the right thing, talked a good game, but had a much harder time walking the walk. Each of them sold their refrigerator to an Inuit (me), but then couldn’t figure out (or never had the intention of) delivering a unessential major appliance to a remote destination.

The Deep Sea Diving Suit (Clint, Nik, Rocco)

I bought a house at 19. My dad insisted it was a good investment and helped me with the $3,000 down payment. In the mid-90’s you could build a brand new three-bedroom house with a two-car garage on a half an acre for $68,000 with a 5% interest rate.  My house payment was $550; I split it with my boyfriend at the time. We spent the next two years spending every disposable dime accumulating stuff: a washer and dryer, trashcans, hoses, a guest bed, a tree for the yard. We furnished creatively with yard sale finds, hand-me-downs from grandparents and splurged on two bright blue barrel chairs and a zebra striped rug from Ikea. We saved months for a new TV. Evenings and weekends were spent taming that half-acre into a lawn, which then required weekly mowing and endless sprinkler moving, I hoed the old, dry ground for flower beds, and planted and weeded, and tended the rose bushes. We assembled a bench for the front porch and installed an old brown fridge in the garage for overflow beer.  

But, less than a year into the new house, our relationship was pretty much over. I had grown to hate my lazy, alcoholic slob of a boyfriend; he thought I was a nag and a shrew, which was probably true, too. We didn’t break up though, mostly because of the stuff. I was working full-time, and a full-time college student. Clint worked nights. I knew we would both have to find a new place and then find the time to split up the stuff which would inevitably lead to bickering which would take more time. Neither of us had the time or the will, frankly, to deal with all that. So, our stuff was the anchor that kept us tied. After four years, though, I finally had had enough.

Instead of splitting up the stuff, I just let him have everything. The barrel chairs, the TV, the mid-century modern couch that had belonged to my grandfather. When we sold the house, the beer fridge was his problem, and the garage full of yard tools, the computer desk that had to be disassembled, and the zebra rug. I packed up my clothes, took only the things that I had owned prior to our co-house, like family pictures, and my dog.

I did this mostly because I wanted a clean break. I didn’t want “our” crap around when there was no longer an “us,” I didn’t want to be reminded of him, of our space, our things, or the stink of our bad relationship tainting up my future space.

Also, I was moving in with another guy and he had his own house with his own stuff, and there wasn’t much room for additional stuff.

High & Dry (Bryce)

The Beginning of the End of the World (Bryce)

But that is not the end. The end comes months later; en route to a new life, a new home, a new job in a hot, desert state that you have never seen before. He says everything is going to change, everything is going to be different, new slate wiped clean. He promises. He wants that for him, for you, for “us.” Before the move you give him a list: these things must happen before we go. Before you agree to take this leap, drive this road with your life puzzle packed neatly in a Penske truck.  He agrees.

You take care of your obligations, your responsibilities. And most of his. You sublet your apartment. You give notice at your job and apply to others in the new city. You sell your couch and give away other pieces and parts. You spend hours online searching for a house close to his new work, in this new town. You set up the utilities, make the calls about the moving truck. You collect boxes and pack them neatly with all your things. He goes to work, he calls occasionally, mostly he just texts you. He checks nothing off the list.

And then it’s too late. It’s three days until your supposed to be on your way. He has packed nothing. Taken care of nothing. He’s still going to his job 12 hours a day, neglecting his inevitable future, your inevitable future. You take boxes and cleaning supplies over to his house. You scrub his bathroom, you wash his laundry. You throw away bags and bags of trash and sweep up mountains of dirt and cat hair. You pack his boxes. You walk his dog.

La-Z-Boy (Bryce)

He’s not exactly your type, but who is? He’s intriguing, for sure: former world champion power lifter (he’s got cinder blocks for thighs), speaks Japanese, has an impressive, professional job for someone his age. He takes time off work to volunteer in Haiti, donates money to every random cause, reads the New York Times. You rarely get to see him, since he’s a workaholic and a gym rat, but he designs elaborate destination dates, so you forgive his unavailability, his late night calls and his sporadic emails. He stays over on New Years but gets up at 4 a.m. to go to work. You make a resolution to be more understanding.

It’s hard to argue with his philanthropy and generosity, though sometimes you wish he was a little more run of the mill. You buy him a new briefcase for Christmas and in return, he donates money in your name to buy farm animals for a “third world family in need.” You were kinda hoping for some new earrings, or slippers.

He’s so busy, you notice he overlooks some basic stuff. Like his glasses. They’re old and falling apart and the lenses are scratched. Three days in a row he wears the same sweatshirt, and you think he slept in it, too. It’s starting to smell. You overhear him having an argument with his landlord; he forgot to pay his rent…several months in a row. It’s not because he doesn’t have the money. You know he has a dog since a couple of times he mentions that he should go home and let the dog out, before he falls asleep on your couch, still wearing his glasses and sweatshirt.

You try and help. You pack him a lunch and take it by his office. You remind him of his mother’s birthday and offer to wrap her gift. You make several trips to the post office and send his bills and you stock your fridge with Diet Pepsi so he can grab a couple on his way to work in the morning. One day, you mention that you’d be happy to go by and walk his dog for him. You have to to walk your dog anyway. Reluctantly, he gives you the key. You’ve never been to his house before. “Everything is a mess right now, “ he says, “I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had time to clean up.” “Don’t worry about it,” you say, “a little clutter never hurt anyone.”

It’s a dark bungalow at the end of the street. Deep set windows are closed to the daylight, hung with old yellowed dusty metal blinds. You push open the door and are met with a foul, acidic odor. Cat. The dog, an ill-proportioned mix of German shepherd and bassett hound launches at you while your eyes are still adjusting to the darkness of the front room. You lurch into the room, kneeing the dog in the chest, and stumble over a chenille area rug that’s wadded up in the middle of the floor. You can barely make out the couch, covered in bed sheets, one wooden armrest revealed, splintered and chewed. Silent, blinking cats (maybe 3?) eye you from an old La-Z-Boy that’s thick with cat hair and dirt. There are great balls of pet hair and dust bunnies dancing across the floor like ghosts; the frenzy of the dog jumping around is moving the stagnant air and blowing the stench of dust and disarray deep into your nostrils. There are piles of stuff everywhere, knee deep, waist deep, shoulder deep. Piles and piles of clothes, bedding, towels. Piles of books, records, CD’s, DVD’s. As you move through the room, you see into the “kitchen.” Piles of dishes, pots and pans, pizza boxes, Chinese take out containers. There are piles of boxes and plastic bags. A 30 lb. bag of cat food is lying in the middle of the room with the bottom torn out and the contents strewn across the floor. You go through the kitchen to where he’s told you the leash is kept and as you pass through the threshold of the laundry room you are met with an even more horrible smell.

In front of the washing machine, there is a giant overflowing litter box, cat shit everywhere, and 6 inches deep in front of the back door is a pile of dog poop. The dog continues to throw itself in desperation at your leg. You realize he hasn’t cleaned up after or taken care of these poor animals in weeks, maybe ever. Your heart sinks.

He’s a hoarder, a neglectful (if not abusive) pet owner and he’s living in complete and total squalor. Definitely not your type.

The two-year boomerang effect (Bryce)

7:24 a.m.
B Just wanted to say I’m sorry.
J What?! I really don’t care.
B I know. I just wanted to apologize that is all.
J After 2 plus years? Are you going through a 12 step or something?
B Nice, no, just trying to apologize. I think there is always a purpose for sincerity regardless of time.
J Well, I’ve never believed you to be sincere. I think you’re pathological. You are just a funny story I tell on occasion. I don’t need or want an apology.
B I like that. Apology rescinded.