Mars in Transit (Joce!)

My little sister got married last week. It was, as they say, a grand affair, with sparkle lights strung through the trees, a dance floor on the lawn, Champagne for days. It took an army of dedicated friends and family to pull it off – everybody was enthusiastic to make the day, the week, the ceremony, the after-party, an absolute ball. And it was. I enjoyed every minute of it.

Throughout the weekend, while I was dancing and eating and laughing and schlepping things here and there, and when I was in quiet contemplation, curled up in bed with my pups, I was thinking, of course, about myself and my own relationships. This time, this thinking, really caught me off guard because it wasn’t what I had expected to think and feel. I was surprised, standing up at the ceremony, holding the bouquet while my sister and her husband took their vows, that I didn’t feel a twinge of jealousy. That I didn’t feel sad for myself that it wasn’t a celebration of my relationship, my success at love. Isn’t this the exact time and place where I would feel those things, I thought to myself?

What I actually felt was relief that it wasn’t about me. That scenario – the big wedding, the three-ring circus of friends and family and dogs and proclaiming my undying love for someone, forever, in front of many, many people in a fancy, fancy, dress – it’s not for me. And the bouncing babies and the swinging toddlers on the dance floor, not even the tiniest twinge of heart wish – it’s not for me. And the talk of renovating houses and day-to-day at the job and one-week vacations and the water heater going out and sending the kids to college – not for me.

I don’t want to diminish or downplay or be discouraging about any of these things, because I do think they are great and wonderful and perfect, for most people (except maybe the water heater going out). Just not for me. Part of me really, really wishes that I would long for, and be content with a marriage and a house and a baby and everything else that we’re all supposed to want and be content with having. But, if I’m really honest with myself, not one ounce of me can get comfortable with a blockbuster wedding, a baby on my hip, a house in the hills: it makes me feel anxious and claustrophobic and trapped.

Slow Dance (Maeve, Rocco)

When the man became a man,
his dog became despondent, having been a man himself 
for quite some time. "A fine
thing to do at our stage of life,"
he said. Best friends with the man
for many years, he understood
the strange things likely to happen 
when a man became a man.
The TV would go for one thing
and who knew what else after.
He wasn't about to wait around
and watch the transformation.
He packed up his bones 
in their matching bone cases,
dusted off his real-estate license,
and headed down the road.
~ Garret Keizer

My closest friend my last year of high school was Maeve. Having been raised in a very conservative household (curfew at 10 until I graduated, 5-minute phone limit, straight A’s were not only encouraged but expected), Maeve was a revelation – a solid-C student, she smoked, she drank, she dyed her blonde hair dark red with henna. She drove a ’77 Volkswagen mini bus and had sex in the back of it with her neo-hippie boyfriend. Her parents were divorced! She was glamorous and exciting and edgy. All the things I was not but wanted to be.

By the end of my senior year, having studied closely under her tutorial, I had remade myself. I moved out of my parents’ house before graduation. I was 17 and had a 30-year-old jerk boyfriend. I cut the long ropey braid that hung down my back into a short pixie and bleached it white. I smoked, I drank. I gave up the full-ride writing scholarship to a “good school,” quit my job at Pizza Hut and Maeve and I hit the road for San Diego where her older sister let us crash on a blow-up mattress on her living room floor. I got a regrettable tattoo in La Jolla. I got a tan. I dipped my toe into adulthood, and without plans, without goals, I felt listless and deeply out-of-sorts.

Flim, flam, Instagram (Rocco)

It's been 6 months since you "detached easily" from our relationship. I think it's time to stop following me around.

Letters to the Editor, Memorial Day edition (Rocco, Akio)

12:30 pm

Fuck you and your blog. 

You're damaged and need to hurt other people to make yourself feel better. You know that the blog is an unhealthy public expression and cry for attention. This fact is obvious to everyone who reads it. 

2:11 pm

A I must say your blog, fucking hilarious. Thank you for that.

J Thanks! Have you read the WHOLE thing?! Sometimes it's sad, too.

A I jumped around a few links, randomly like flipping through a book. The number 7 was sad, but a few of the journal entries, esp the coffee guy calling for phone sex was humorous. very well written. Also the Rocco response was tragic but the honesty and way you captured your thoughts was beautiful.

J Thanks. Brutal soul sucking honesty is kind of my modus operandi. I like to tear my heart out before I tuck it back in.

A That is the best way isn't it. I mean life is dull unless we are putting ourselves in an  cyclical nature of hurt and regret. (this was said with no irony intended)

J I hate when people say they have no regrets. If you don't have regrets you're not taking enough chances, enough emotional risk. Regrets are enriching. I have many regrets.

A i'm going to take the quiz by the way.

J Yes! Take the quiz.

A I'm printing out all six pages now. Promise that you will post it and write some sharp and stinging criticism on it. along with some social commentary.

Fifty/50/Whiskey (Rocco)

I just left a bag of stuff on your car. Rocco

Response Option #1

Hi Rocco –

Thanks for bringing my stuff by. I'm glad you got your things, too. I hope you are doing well.

I'm not going to pretend to know what you're going through or where you're head and heart have been for the last few months. I can only know how I feel and my response to our interactions. I have tried to be honest and understanding throughout our relationship and continue to try each step of the way. I am sorry if I have not honored your feelings or wishes in the way that you would prefer.

I had been really afraid of what another break-up with you would look like and was sincerely hoping that it would not carry the anger and animosity that was the tone of the last go round. Unfortunately, it seems we have come to the exact impasse we reached before. It feels to me that you are going out of your way to hurt me as much as possible during this already painful process. I don't know why you feel like you need to do that and I really wish you wouldn't. Obviously, I did not want to break up and I still felt a great deal of love and caring towards you up until the end. I felt blindsided and abandoned by you in the final few weeks. However, I have come to realize that breaking up was the right thing for both of us and I am under no illusions that we could have continued interactions or communications as they were.

I don't know if you've read the last or last several blog posts, if they made you mad, or hurt you in some way. If so, I'm sorry. The way I feel is not black and white and I am still processing what happened. I think I'm entitled to that. My feelings for you have spanned "love of my life," to "despising" you. It's the worst to be out and out rejected by someone and you rejecting me was particularly hard since I respect you and your opinion so much. It was especially hurtful because I felt you didn't honor the time we had together and didn't seem sorry at all that it was over. That felt like a betrayal. It would have been nice to hear that you that you were sad, too. That you cared, even just a little. You never apologized for anything except the Facebook posts. I don't believe it is unreasonable for me to be torn, sad and questioning.

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.

One Dead Donkey (Rocco)

About a week before, you notice tiny ants congregating around your bathroom sink. No bigger than a sesame seed they make elaborate trails up and down the white porcelain, their tiny invisible legs carrying them with confidence, on a hunt for what you can’t imagine. You’ve dealt with ants before, but always in the kitchen, a slightly larger variety that make a straight road from the garden patch, up the stairs and through the teeny tiny hole in the seam of the back door. Those are crumb ants, on the lookout for dog food bits strewn across the floor by your ancient schnauzer. But what do sink ants want? They seem less assured of their destination, meandering aimlessly around and around the faucet and the tap. You buy ant traps, then ant gel, but it seems only to encourage them. Each morning when you turn on the light in the bathroom, there are more and more ants. Soon they are walking the tightrope of the toilet seat, traversing in pairs along the vast expanse of the shower curtain, and scaling the bathroom mirror like Alain Robert. Once poisoned, for whatever reason, they choose to die in the bathtub, and when you turn on the shower, the tiny, weightless carcasses catch a droplet each and make their final ant journey in a graceful swirl down the drain.

The thing about ants is, alone, solitary, they are equivalent to almost nothing. Like a little moving piece of dust. But, there is no such thing as just one ant, one ant means there are a million ants, and a million ants is a problem.

Babes in Arms (Rocco)

5 am. First thought.  He doesn’t love you anymore. You were up late. You drank too much. You didn’t have any food. You threw up. Three times. Was it the wine? Or the sadness? He doesn’t love you anymore. Valentine’s Day.  The worst. Because, he doesn’t love you anymore. You get ready for work. Hung over. Your heart is dull. Your head is dull. You make oatmeal and choke down two bites. Throw the rest away. You try coffee. Same thing. He doesn’t love you anymore. A whole year and then, just like that, he doesn’t love you anymore. You go to work. Why is everybody so cheerful? It’s Friday. It’s Valentine’s Day. And they don’t know, he doesn’t love you anymore. You can’t bear to say anything.  It makes you so embarrassed. You’re a failure. Epic failure. The biggest loser. The weakest link. You leave your phone at home. So you can’t obsessively check and see he’s not calling. He’s not calling. He doesn’t love you anymore.

But you still love him. Is that the worst part? You try to stay calm. To say nothing. They ask, “What are your plans for tonight?” No plans. No plans. Everything is okay, you pretend. But, it’s not. Nothing is okay. He doesn’t love you anymore.

Artificial Turf or The Pursuit of Happy-ish (Joce)

I usually feel an incredible relief at the start of the new year. Arbitrarily, and somewhat dishonestly, it feels like a new beginning, an unsullied sheet in a notebook with a crisp binding, ready to take dictation with a swift pen – defining in clean concise terms a brighter future with kooky, creative doodles for a better day. This year, despite the numerical date shift forward, the rodent is still scuttering behind my eyeballs, the boa constrictor feels tight around my organs, my kidneys, my heart, and the shrieking monkey of guilt and obligation has rendered me permanently deaf in one ear. When I look back over my shoulder at the last few years, I find only marginal progress and lateral moves, I find sighs and irritation, a sprinkling of iodized salt. Hope is a dusty well; I am feeling old and unhappy.

If you asked me, up until quite recently, I think I’d describe myself as someone who is always trying to do the right thing, a person that sacrifices my needs for others, I give, give and give and I take what I see as the burden of family and work and life and I grin and bear it. I am a good friend. I am a good daughter and sister. I am a good girlfriend and a good co-worker. But, it’s not as easy as all that, because if I look closely I am also a bitter, crabby, exhausted old dog. I am impatient. I am frustrated. I am regretful. I am angry. My life is a ridiculous waste of time, I contribute little, and what I contribute I do slowly and poorly. I burden others, my family, my friends, my co-workers, with my bad attitude and inflexibility.

Over a year ago, during a conversation with my sister in which I was complaining about my frustrations probably for the millionth time, she said to me, “Joce, I just don’t think you’re ever going to be happy, your standards are too high and you’re too hard on yourself and others.” At the time, it seemed like an unfair jab. Now, I realize it’s true. I am never going to be happy. It’s not in my temperament. But I wonder, why is happiness the goal anyway, and is it actually possible? For anyone?

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.

A Room With a View (Rocco)

Fairy Tale Scenario #8/Real Life Scenario #3

The map of twilight (Rocco)

I should have built more bridges to you.
I should have forded more streams.
Crossed the street to get to the other side, to get where you were.
I should have watched Lost and Scandal and The Americans.
And stayed awake during Django Unchained.
I should have gone to that concert and bought you a beer or two.
I should have sung along louder to our songs and your songs, too.
I should have been gentler and kinder.
Back from work, I should have met you at the door and looked you in the eye and welcomed you home.
I should have been more patient, led you up the stairs by the hand when you fell asleep on the couch instead of glowering at you from the balcony.
I should have baked you more cookies, the oatmeal ones.
I should have burned you all those CD’s, made you a mixed tape, with love songs.
I should have snuggled up to your broad back and kissed your neck in the early morning.
I should have complained less and praised more.
I should have woken you with a kiss when you were napping on the couch.
I should have let you nap.
I should have relaxed with you, put my head on your chest, give in, let go.
I should have taken a nap with you.
I should have been softer, less bristly, less bossy, less annoyed, less worried.
I should have said thank you.
I made mountains out of molehills.
Why didn’t I laugh? I should have made you laugh more and laughed with you.
I should have taken more dog walks with you, and held your hand, gone on a bike ride by the river.
I should have lingered.
I should have poured you another cup of coffee.
Another beer.
I should have grabbed your hand and held it to my chest, all those times when my heart was pounding for you.
I should have said I love you first.
I should have said yes more, and no, less.
When you said move in, I should have planted my flag and folded your laundry and cooked you dinner and packed your lunch.
When you said, I will take care of you, I should have told you I wanted nothing more than you and me, forever, and that I would take care of you, too.
I should have gone anywhere you were going, whenever you were going there.
I should have held tighter to your love.
And, all those times you told me I was glowing, I should have said, yes, I’m glowing because my heart is full up, like it’s never been.
I should never have lost you.
I shouldn’t have pushed you away, I should have swept you up, up, out of the slog and held you there so that your face touched the sun and warmed your eyeballs and your nose and your beautiful, beautiful lips.

Instead, I walked away. And I didn't even give you a hug. 

Fifty/50 (Rocco)

Real Life Scenario #1

Fairy Tale Scenario #1

Your second date is Valentine’s Day. He gets you calla lilies and you cook dinner together. The chemistry between you is off the hook. You talk about dating history – always bleak and a little embarrassing – and mention that you have a blog, specifically about your ridiculous love life. “Wouldn’t it be funny, if this worked out between us, and you could have a happy ending to your blog?” He always says exactly the right thing.

Fairy Tale Scenario #2

You finish dinner at a restaurant overlooking the river. He’s hurrying you, wants to get out to see the sunset over the high cliffs. The wind is blowing, hard, and you’re both laughing over some shared silliness. You try and get a picture with the canyon and the sunset and the water below, but he grabs you by both arms and holds you tight. He looks you dead in the eye and for the first time says, “I love you, Joce. I really, really love you.” After, you get the perfect picture, all canyon purples and blues and sunset oranges, with the light from your heart radiating out through your eyeballs and your teeth.

Fairy Tale Scenario #3

You celebrate the anniversary of your first date every Thursday, usually beers at the “scene of the crime.” The waitress knows you now, always asks you how long it’s been. You love the story of your first date and tell it often. It always makes you both laugh. How earnest, how excited you both were, how the evening completely careened off track to your mutual horror. And how you fixed it, found common ground again, fell in love despite it all. You think of your relationship as a classic screwball comedy – the brainy beefcake and the busty bombshell – fast-paced repartee, courtship hijinks, slapstick and pratfalls, with a “happily ever after” thrown in for good measure. Another Thursday comes around – Cheers!

Fairy Tale Scenario #4

Sunday drive. He loves to go fast. In the passenger seat, your body sways and rolls with the turns, the acceleration, the music. He conducts the stereo – prompting the swells and beats with two hands, returning a finger every now and again to the wheel, his car is so fancy, it could probably drive itself. He takes your hand and squeezes it, “Hey, Babes.”

“Hey, Babes,” you say back, tugging on salty bit of his salt and pepper hair.

Like it's 1999 (Rocco)

Truth be told, something else happens that night. You’re standing there with your wishy washy lackluster love interest JACK, and in walks THIS GUY. You’ve never met him, never seen him, and yet, you’re standing there, next to Jack, on New Years Eve, and THIS GUY comes right up to you and introduces himself, chats, engages, unapologetically flirts, gets you a beer and another. He has an intense, direct gaze, the kind of look that makes you feel like the side of your face is burning off when he looks at you because his inquiring mind WANTS TO KNOW. Accordingly, you’re disarmed. He’s the exact opposite of airy fairy unreliable, noncommittal Jack. You can see it, first thing. He’s solid, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He stands on the fucking ground. He’s confident, smart, and no bullshit. He’s nice. He’s interested. He’s a MAN. THIS GUY, Rocco, tells you you’re pretty like, 15 minutes in.  He laughs at your jokes, asks if you need anything, and when you do, like a glass of champagne, he gets it for you. Within minutes he’s standing a few inches too close and brushing your shoulder with his – it’s a party, it’s crowded, but still. You feel the electric cord running up your spine, and think to yourself, “This is the guy I SHOULD be dating. This is my next boyfriend,” then you immediately feel guilty because you’re there with the sweet adolescent Jack.

It’s New Years Eve, food, drinks, drinks, the buzz of a party and all of a sudden, the clock is counting down and 2012 is nearly over. You kiss Jack at the stroke of midnight and then brazenly plant a big wet kiss on Rocco’s cheek. The first kiss of 2013.

It takes awhile to get it all sorted. You friend him on Facebook on January 2, and within minutes he’s accepted your request. A week passes. There is a party at Jacks house on the 6^th, some football thing, and you go in hopes that Rocco will be there. He is. He sits next to you. It is January winter cold outside but next to him, it’s warm. It’s all you can do to not reach out and put your hand on his leg. You want to tug on his beard or rub your hands through his hair. Or lay your head in his lap while you sit on the couch and watch football together. All of those things would be completely crazy, inappropriate. So? So, you do none of them. He leaves the party early.  

The push and pull with Jack continues but you know the expiration date has passed and the sweetness between you has soured. You have a final blowout at the bar. Of course, the bar. There is snow on the ground and it’s 15 degrees outside and sitting next to Jack makes you feel even colder. His thin blue hands grip his glass, his voice is thick with whisky, his ice blue eyes are searching, but not for you. You realize that everybody loves him. Everybody except for you. Pity is not love. It feels closer to loathing. You walk the four miles home in your red suede high-heeled boots. Is it still January? It’s easy for a relationship to die in January. But it’s January 2013. Something must begin, too.