A Bridget Jones Moment

I just got back from Austin, Texas, which is why this week's blog is a little late. It was a weekend where the days were filled with keynote speakers and meetings, and the nights were filled with flirty cops, fun bargoers, and the most amazing best friend a girl can have. It was exactly what the doctor ordered. While intoxicated, after the adrenaline high of riding a mechanical bull for the first time, I got a hold of my phone, which sadly does not have a breathalyzer. Drunken texting really can be perilous for my health, or at least my sanity. I ended up texting a few good men. The one I really wanted to hear from, my fighter, was the first to respond, but he was busy, of course. The person I heard the most from was my ex boyfriend. What can I say? I was drunk. I rode a bull. Exhilaration is a heady drug.
My ex, the one that sprained my hip, has been having a tough go of it lately. We've recently been back in touch, which started when he was one of the first security guards on the scene of a shooting at our mall. I was worried about him. No matter what has happened since we broke up, even including the birth of a child with someone else that he got together with soon after me, I will always care about him, even if I don't want to. His father has recently fallen unexpectedly ill, and is on his death bed. He is out of state now in order to see him one last time. Our flights actually left near the same time, so we were able to talk a bit at the airport, and I was able to see him off like you used to be able to see people off in the '80s prior to the TSA. Although we both remained dry eyed, it was definitely an emotional experience that was led up to by some intense events prior with the shooting and his father's illness. It's not surprising that he is the main person I was texting with when I was drunk.
Though it sounds cliche', I wasn't texting with him in order to get him back. After the baby thing, getting back together with him is not something I would ever consider. It didn't break my heart, it shattered it. You don't come back from that. There's an obvious attraction between the two of us, though, and that gets confusing, and sometimes even hurtful. An offer was put out the other night, and I don't even quite know which one of us put it out there, all I know is that we both accepted. I know the reason I accepted, outside of stupidity and hormones, is because deep down I am a horrible person, and it was gratifying to know that he, a man who never cheats, would cheat on his 20 something year old fiance (who chased him down right after we broke up and tricked him into knocking her up) with me because he wants and misses me. I felt vindicated, and that made so much doubt that I had disappear, and yet it is so forbidden at the same time. Even the thought of it was delicious, and almost scary.
A huge part of my heart is really itching for a tryst with him, and to be able to cuddle up to him again. I used to fit into him, physically. He's almost a foot taller than me. When we spooned, his feet would be under mine, my back fit perfectly against his stomach, my head snugly under his chin. I never felt so safe in my life. I miss it more than anything. The thing is that with my state of mind and heart with the situation, I am just as likely to beat the crap out of him as I am to snuggle into him.
I am looking for something real and long term, and though I don't know if that is what will happen with my fighter, I absolutely know that it is never going to be with my ex. I just wish my lady parts would listen to common sense.

Screw The Knight In Shining Armor

Ohmygawd I can be stupid. So stupid. How am I supposed to react to something when the full story is being withheld? I feel like I keep screwing up, and somehow this huge "maniacal" fighter keeps his head when I go overboard.
Over the last year of dealing with him, I've had to learn some fighting tactics of my own. He has built a fortress around him, emotionally. I've had to fight him tooth and nail in order to get in, and slowly, this second time around, he's actually been letting me. And then when his surgery was approaching, the walls went right back up. He wouldn't tell me what his surgery was on, only that it was life threatening. He kept telling me I couldn't handle it, until I realized that he couldn't handle talking about it, and his fears with it. He was protecting himself from me, and in his own strange way, he was protecting me, too. Though I understand it, it is what also makes me give up, time and time again. It's what breaks me into pieces.
When I told him goodbye the other day, it was via text, as he physically couldn't speak after his surgery. I had forgotten that I had an email left floating out there before I had heard from him, asking if he was okay. He responded to it the next day. This is what I hate about modern technology: if you are going to end things with someone, you have to make sure you do it via text, skpe, chat, email, smoke signal, whatever. It's too much. I hadn't blocked him on facebook, so he responded, and I let loose a barrage of anger due to feeling rebuffed at not being able to see him. The torrent of anger lasted a couple of days. Sadly, I'm not exaggerating. He finally had to tell me that there were complications with his surgery - they ruptured an organ, and that is why he couldn't see me. I know it sounds like a chicken shit excuse, but this man is more self conscious than any person I have ever met. So here I had been a horrible selfish child acting out, when he was laying in the hospital, unable to speak, now dealing with a new ailment to heal from. I have no idea why he is still dealing with me. I've apologized, but the child (adult?) in me still wants him to understand that he can't blame me for being upset when he has purposely left me in the dark because he has his heart locked up like a little princess in a tower with a moat and high walls. Though I feel like I haven't been the prince running in with sword drawn to rescue it, I've been the mother fucking dragon, breathing fire, trying to burn that sucker down in order to free it. We'll see how well that works.

Sweeney Todd And A Broken Heart.

A half drank bottle of crimson Cabernet sits next to me, rivers of blood and the music of Sondheim on the screen before me, and all I can think about is Mrs. Lovett. Yet another dream to survive unalone dashed, another heartfelt desire for children of her own to take care of kept out of arm's reach, and she ends up burning in flames, for wanting what is promised to the heart unduly. 
Another birthday passed for me. Thirty six years, an old maid.
"There's a hole in the world and it's a big black pit, and it's filled with people that are filled with shit..."
I told myself when I started this blog that I was going to be honest, because it is only with honesty that we learn. I almost wish I hadn't done that, because I'd rather not discuss this, but I never learn, probably because I don't fess up to things I don't want to admit.
I did it again. I gave my heart to someone that would never acknowledge that it is valuable enough for him to make sure never to lose it. I gave my heart to someone that put his job, his pride, and everything else above it. I've told myself again and again that I am only worth what I put up with. It turns out that when I really want someone, I put up with a lot, but make myself worth nothing.
My fighter had his surgery. I took time off to help, but he won't see me "until he is healed". That is code for not this time around, again. The last time I was supposed to see him work got in the way. He felt so horrible, he apologized again and again, and promised to make it up to me. The time before that it was too late in the evening, and the next night made more sense, except that work contracts got in the way the next night. This time, with taking time off to help, and being denied yet again, I guess it finally hit me: if he doesn't want me when he is in need, no matter what shape he is in, he doesn't really want me. I can't do this anymore. I give up. So now, while he is laid up in the hospital, trying to recover from life threatening surgery, I told him goodbye.
I now sit at home, swigging wine, watching Mrs. Lovett manage to get imitations of the love and child that she craves from the bottom of her soul, the things she would do the unthinkable for, only to lose it all in the end.
I crave pie.

The Art Of What The Heart Wants.

As an artist, I have had a few muses in my life that have stuck out more than others. I have also held a few artists in high esteem as inspirational influences. One of the most influential artists for me has always been Frida Kahlo. Her work has always spoken to me, as has her story. The lifelong love affair with her and Diego Rivera, though it may seem insane to some, is completely understandable to me. Yes, Diego was an insatiable womanizer, much older than she, that, though he loved her completely, never stopped his promiscuous lifestyle. He was also an influential artist, political activist, and a charismatic friend and lover. When you come across such a person, it's difficult not being intoxicated with their charisma, and consumed by their art and politics, especially when they give voice to your own.
About a year and a half ago, I started a random conversation with such a person on Facebook (what can I say? Facebook has been good to me). He is an older celebrated actor that I had studied in college and had always found to be talented and well spoken, not to mention gorgeous. This actor has always selected movies and works that had something to say and that would educate the audience rather than just mainstream star making vehicles. He has spent his career as an activist in the arts, bringing attention to the struggles of his culture, as well as being a positive and loving force of nature in his own accord. Anyway, awhile ago a major event had happened for him, and I decided to throw in a congratulations amongst all the other fans on his page. Because of this single act of kindness, recognizing a stranger, an unlikely friendship began. He responded to my comment in kind and a conversation started, where he kindly informed me that I looked like a girl he had dated years before. I didn't think much of it, but I copied and pasted the conversation into an email to myself, just to have a reminder that at one point in my life a man that I have always looked up to had told me that I was pretty.
Months later I saw a post of his about a young child he knew that passed away from a major illness. I wrote him a private email offering condolences, and another conversation began, and has continued to this day. He has become a close friend of mine, with our friendship having progressed to phone calls and Skype.
That being said, I can easily understand what Frida and Diego had. My friend is someone that cannot be tied down, even when committed to someone, he makes no bones about it and I respect him for that. His life is a rollercoaster ride, and being a part of it is amazing and devastating all at the same time. Dealing with someone that understands my politics, my artistic side, and who gets my humor and then some, is more than I have had with anyone, even my fighter. He is a muse, a mentor, and an ally all at the same time. It's intoxicating. He is also practically married, has an unforgiving lifestyle, and can become alienated easily. As friends, we work very well, especially as flirting friends. I have a complete respect for his home life, his career, and his politics. As I said, in dealing with a man like him, you either accept his lifestyle, or you don't.
Though I admire, adore, and am amazed by him, I have to acknowledge that at this point, my feelings for him are not completely real. Oftentimes, they are similar to the feelings someone has for a really good set of books. They can consume you, make you think, and change your world, but in the end, at some point you have to put the book down and live your actual life. These feelings, though encompassing, are not what my future will be built off of. My fighter, though we argue at times, and he doesn't understand my vegetarianism or my political mindset, and he's far from perfect, he has a smile that melts my heart and knows my moods and when I'm trying to work him over like a petulant child. He calls me on it, and yet still makes time to talk to me about whatever small problems I have.
I guess my point is, though I am blessed enough to have good friends that inspire and intoxicate me, sometimes what is real is more important. Don't get me wrong, ten years from now, I will still be good friends with my activist actor, and who knows where my fighter and I will be, but I don't feel that I will be missing the love of my life for not pursuing my Diego single-mindedly. I love the artist, the man, and the activist, but it's not the same as loving someone because they are a part of you. Sometimes there's just not enough room for everything.

A Parade Of Shmucks: Cyber Dating Odds.

At a recent holiday party, I got into a conversation with a fabulous twenty-something girl. She mentioned that she had been having major difficulties meeting worthwile men, while many of her friends seem to be finding their one and only's. She brought up singles sites, and asked my opinion of them. While I know of people that have had decent dates and relationships with men from many of these sites, my experiences were much different.

During desolate dating deserts, I tried my share of dating sites, and outside of making one good, close friend, I came out worse than empty handed: I became scared of the male gender almost as a whole. Though I had many not so great experiences with cyber match ups, three stood out to be much more horrid than all the rest combined.

The first contender that I met up with mentioned how much he liked to travel, that he was self employed, and that he enjoyed warm pubs with cozy fireplaces. In his picture he looked like a darker complected Heath Ledger, photographed outside the breezy ruins of a British castle. What I found when I finally arrived at the "secluded pub" he invited me to was a dive bar, no fireplace, or even tables for that matter, a scrawny little guy that looked nothing like the late great Mr. Ledger, a half eaten pizza that he had so kindly been pigging out on before I even got there, and a bartender that slammed a glass of water in front of me, and never spoke to me again. Through our conversation I found out that he was UNemployed, and that he was a freestyle frisbee fanatic (that means he does tricks with frisbees, like juggling and spinning), and that he had only traveled once, to Guam, for frisbee tricks. I came to realize that the reason the bartender was ignoring me was because he was friends with my date and knew he had no money, even though I had every intention of paying for myself. It was when my date showed me his hideous homemade black acrylic nail on his pointer finger that allowed him to do tricks with his frisbee, and then peeled the nasty booger looking thing off in front of me and started playing with it on the bar that I knew I was leaving as soon as humanly possible. When he got up to smoke, I took that opportunity to escape, nonexistant bartab unpaid.

The second contender was a liar, plain and simple. I began chatting with him one night after seeing his profile, and he looked like a normal, somewhat decent guy. His picture was that of a big cuddly lumberjack kind of guy, and said he was six foot three, an aquarius, 35 years old, and his name was Justin. During our chat, I mentioned his sign, and he told me he had changed his birthday on the site because being on a dating site freaked him out. Though somewhat understandable, I found that to be a red flag. I mentioned it to one of my closest friends, and she said to check his ID when we meet. The next evening, I went to the chain restaurant that he had suggested, and waited. While waiting, a short man that looked very much like a bald hobbit came up to me and said my name. Baffled, I looked down at him, and said "yes?" It turns out it was Justin. Kind of. When we sat down I asked if I could see his ID. He nodded, but told me that he had something to tell me. He wasn't actually 35, he was 33. And his name wasn't actually Justin, it was Kendall. And the pictures on his profile were actually from some weird website where you can type in your characteristics, and it will pull pictures of people that look like you (or in this case, look nothing like you). He had lied about every single thing on his profile, but yet he expected me to take him home with me, and became beligerently angry when I left him at the restaurant. Strike two.

The final date was with an older Norwegian gentleman, well monied, once divorced with two kids,  and very not my type. I realized though, that my type (younger, barely employed, gorgeous eye candy) had not been working out so well for me, so why not try this other barrel? We chatted for awhile, found each other funny, and decided to meet at an upscale restaurant in Bellevue. He was nice enough, and his interests in skiing and snowshoeing were intriquing. There wasn't any real chemistry, though I would've considered a second date with him, because at least he had been honest, treated me like a lady and seemed to have his shit together. After our date, I came home to an email from him asking me my thoughts on how it went. I told him that I thought he was nice, and that he seemed worth getting to know better, though I wasn't sure if we had chemistry at this point. He wrote me back stating that he enjoyed the date, and that I talk a lot (I will acknowledge that I have a lot to say, yes) but that my stories are funny. He then proceeded to tell me that he was looking for someone "curvy" not fat. He asked why I would lie about this, and ridiculed me for it. There are no words for how hurt I was. I had just been through one of the toughest years of my life to that point, including taking care of a terminally ill friend, dealing with health issues of my own, my friend had sent me flowers because of all the hardships I was going through and my cat ate them and died, the last man I had dated unceremoniously dumped me after meeting my family, and I had lost the one thing that I have always wanted: I had miscarried. I had put on some weight in dealing with all this, and yet had still found the courage to go out and meet someone new. Having my weight thrown at me like it was some joke I played on him broke me.
That night I went to the gym, and then to the grocery store to buy a few things, including a bottle of water. After the checker at the register scanned the bottle of VOSS, I snagged it, opened it up and gulped half of it down. He asked me if I could now speak Norwegian. I looked at him, almost in tears, still so hurt by what the Norwegian tycoon had said that I didn't want to even support the country. Then the adorable little checker started speaking in a hilarious Norwegian accent, spouting off a silly joke, and I couldn't help but smile. It turned out he was Norwegian, too. I guess my point to all this is that you don't have to find pictures of strangers with witty written things in little boxes on your computer in order to meet people. Most often that's not really them anyway. You just have to be willing to smile and say hello. I would have much rather dated the adorable checker boy that stood two inches shorter than me and works a nine to five than ever go out with the tycoon again, let alone any of the other guys that I came across on those stinkin' sites.

When celebrities attack...

Two weeks after my ex and I broke up, while still in the cake/wine diet phase, I decided to put in a movie with no love story to it. I settled on a football movie, so that I could watch big beautiful men tackle each other. The film had taken professional athletes and cast them as the characters, one of which I had developed a major crush on years ago, from the moment I saw him in the film.
While watching the film, in sweats that I hadn't changed out of in days, my hair held prisoner in a scarf in order to keep it out of my face and thus saving it from being lopped off and sacrificied in a fire in offering of the broken hearts of every "single girl," I decided to find out a little bit more about the athlete I had pined for, primarily if he was married. I just wanted to be able to fantasize with peace of mind. My web research came up inconclusive on the marriage question, though it did tell me he is based out of my area, is two years older than me, and that we had gotten degrees from the same school. Though I found this all interesting, I didn't think much about it outside of that maybe I'll pass him on the street someday. Then I decided to take the marriage query to Facebook, because you can find out anything on Facebook. What I found was a few fan pages, and one personal profile for him.
I decided to write him. What's the worst he could do? Not respond? Oh well, I'd survive. Within a couple of hours of writing him, I got a reply. Then we were emailing a few times a day. Within days we were chatting for hours. Within a week, he'd invited me out to the Metropolitan Grill, an incredibly posh restaurant in Seattle. I went there still trying to wrap my head around what was happening. I was two thirds convinced it wouldn't be him, and that it was either a joke, an assistant, or some dude from Hoboken New Jersey toying with me. Then the thing I was terrified about the most happened. The host took me to the table, there were three men with their backs to me, and one facing me. He was facing me. I almost fell over. He was grinning ear to ear when he saw me. He stood up, gave me a hug like we'd known each other for years, and sat me down next to him. We couldn't stop looking at each other the whole dinner. I ate bacon for him. I've been a vegetarian for 13 years, and I was so smitten when ordering that I forgot to ask for no bacon on my spinach salad. I ate it. It was one of the best dates of my life, not because he's a celebrity, but because of how we got along, how our knees touched the entire night, how he made me laugh and vice versa, and how he made sure to escort me to my car, and gently kissed me several times. I drove home in a daze, I couldn't even talk to my friends about it. We didn't even wait 24 hours before seeing each other again.
And then reality happened. I had started hitting the gym heavily when he and I started talking. My ex had liked "big girls" - which turned my stomach when I met him, realizing that I fit into that category, but it was easy to be lazy knowing that my boyfriend reveled in it. I've dropped nearly 50 pounds since, and when people ask me what got me started, I tell them the truth. I started dating a man I was really into. It was dating my athlete, who is still a professional fighter, that made me take a good look at myself. I've always known I'm fabulous. I've known I'm an attractive girl from the neck up, and I've known that if I got the rest of my body to stop ballooning in difficult times, and if I let it thrive to it's potential, then I'd be a showstopper. I decided I had to stop the excuses. If I was going to give the relationship I wanted a fair shot, I had a lot of work to do. I needed to do what I was capable of, mentally and physically. With the promise that I would see him in three months, after his next couple of fights abroad were done, and the TV shows and interviews were completed, I continued working hard, and we'd text, chat, call, skype, and email daily.
Then three months turned to five months. Texts turned to arguments. Five months turned to ten months. Skypes turned vindictive, phone calls nonexistant, and all texts were angry. It was so bad that I actually got to the point where I hit on his opponent right before one of his fights. Not to say the opponent isn't a good guy, completely shagworthy, as well as has a great sense of humor, but it wasn't right. I knew something was really wrong with me and my fighter when I asked his opponent to hit him once really hard for me. Once again, I was done. Another hopeful situation gone very very wrong.
And then something happened. A couple of months later, I contacted him, and we became friends. Actual and honest friends. I was still talking to the opponent, who he is friends with as well, and had started dating a former NFL player in the meantime. I guess when it rains it pours. I also guess that when you raise your standards, and realize that you have value, that there is no end to what you can acomplish and who you can attract. I had contacted my fighter because the NFL player had played on the same team as him when he was in the NFL. I wanted to find out more about the man who was trying to nail down a commitment from me, and he helped. Things didn't work out with the NFL player, and I am very grateful for that, very, very grateful. Though my fighter said nothing negative about him, he was a great friend when I was having major qualms.
Something else happened. He stopped pushing me away, and started letting me in. He started telling me honestly about his problems, and about his medical issues and injuries, and has basically ruined me forever. Somehow, this man that was at one point just an adorable big man (6 foot 5, 370 pounds primarily muscle- I like 'em big, what can I say?) on my television, has now become one of my closest friends, who I talk to daily. He listens with intent to silly little every day dramas. Ever the single girl, I have learned my lesson about putting too much stock in things that I wish would happen. I am keeping my sanity by continuing dating the men that I find the slightest bit attractive, though the dates, one referenced by my first entry, leave a lot to be desired. I have even continued to talk with the opponent which feels sick and wrong, though the conversations are flirty and fun. I will be seeing my big fighter in a few weeks, when he comes home for a necessary procedure. In the meanwhile, I continue to go to the gym, enjoy our conversations, and try and keep myself romantically available. I almost hope we'll have an argument. That would be so much easier.

What's Love Got To Do With It?

I have horrible taste in men. Truly. I do. And I can be a bad judge of character. It is one of my biggest downfalls, though I am learning. It seems like for awhile I went out of my way to surround myself with alcoholics and people lacking initiative. This encompassed not only the men I dated, but many of my close friends as well. At least I considered them to be my close friends at the time. I spent many years being the designated driver, not just because my friends were heavy drinkers, but also because they had no car. This was more exaggerated with the men I found attractive. I wouldn't say I was a magnet for lazy sleezeballs, but moreso that I seemed to chase them down and throw myself at them.
As I have gotten older, my friends and I started some basic dating rules. No married men (including "separated" men). No unemployed men. No homeless men. No major potheads. No overly flatulant men... I think you get it. But then I find myself fleeing from ones that seem like they are what women want: commitment focused men that would sacrifice themselves on the altar of love. These men scare the living daylights out of me. Instead of facing them, I run directly into the arms of the men that fall just next to horrible.
Just over a year ago, I decided that I was going to ditch all the next to horrible men that I have learned so many life lessons from, and leave some room for someone new to walk into my life. And one day, in my hair salon that I manage, he did. He walked right in, asked about hair products for his daughter, and smiled an adorable smile down at me from his six foot seven, 325 pound frame. He was a giant. He was also (and still is) a mall cop at my mall. Over the next few days, he continued to pass by my shop, until finally he saw me there without guests and came in and asked me out. And then, over the next few weeks we fell in love. That intense, passionate "I have to be with him or I'll explode" love. I found out early on that he had four kids (two of whom are twins), from two different mothers, both of whom he had been married to - at different times, of course. This didn't phase me. Because I'm stupid, really stupid, sometimes.
After a couple of months, he started demanding that I tell my parents about him. He thought I was hiding him like a dirty secret. I thought I was just being a sane woman, not telling my parents about someone unless we're near engaged. This was two months of hyperactive loving; we weren't quite at the meet the parents point in my eyes. We were so active, that at one point I started to feel pain, intense pain that I couldn't well define, in my groin.
After a short while, things started becoming more apparent in our situation. He loved me, without a doubt, but he was always broke. He owned a gun that he loaded every night. He smoked pot nightly, though he had narrowed that down at my insistence. He also loathed my family, my faith, and my culture, but he loved me. Well, whatever was left of me, that is. Though I loved him, I couldn't do it. These weren't red flags. These were deal breakers, a lot of them. We were done, and I was devastated.
Weeks after we broke up, we both rebounded in our own ways. I started dating  a professional athlete (which is a story unto itself), and he started dating a girl ten years younger than him that he had originally spurned as soon as he met me. Within a matter of weeks he had knocked her up, and within a couple of months, they were engaged. So his Ultimate Dipshit Scoreboard reads: five kids worth of child support + two ex wives + a child bride = one of the biggest zeros I've ever met. His baby girl was born two months ago. He still walks by my store, looking in, trying to see me. He's lucky I don't flick him off and chase him with the toilet cleaner brush to show him how much of a shit I think he is.
To add insult to injury (or injury to insult, as the case may be), over the last year I've still been having intense pain in my pelvic area. I ended up in the ER because of it. They ran all sorts of tests - pregnancy, std, cervical, etc. They decided it was a UTI, and sent me to my regular doctor. My regular doctor, acknowledging the ER may have been wrong, did more humiliating tests - ultrasounds, more std tests, etc. Finally, a couple of months ago, the pain was so bad I went back again, and requested an xray. My doctor finally agreed it may not be something female oriented, but muscular/skeletal. It was. I had sprained the muscle that attaches your inner thigh to your pelvis. In fact, I had managed to pull some of the muscle off the bone. A year ago. Having sex with my boyfriend. So now, I have to go to physical therapy, and pay my copay, in order to fix what was literally torn apart, with no help from the person responsible. He's got a line of women waiting for him to take care of his responsibilities from having sex with them. I, on the other hand, get to deal with what I am left with on my own. A scarred heart, and an insulting sex injury that has made me walk funny for a year. I guess I need to add no more men with litters of children to my dating rules.