*This is a 100% true story. You can't make this shit up.
I pulled into the self-service car wash with a one-track mind: get the car obsessively clean, and then get to the mall. I told myself I would spend my entire paycheck on clothes and shoes as soon as I finished this one chore.
I got out of the white Eagle Talon (all 98 pounds of me) and looked around. Nobody else in sight. Good. I walked to the change machine, stuck in a five dollar bill, and counted as each quarter hit the metal cup at the bottom. A nondescript sedan pulled in just as I made it back to the vacuum island. I paid no attention to the driver; I just wanted to finish and move on.
Not 15 seconds into my vacuum time, I felt a presence behind me. When I say presence, I don't mean some weird supernatural ghostly cold air presence. Nope, just the feeling I get when another warm body is in my personal space. A creeper. I looked over my shoulder and was surprised to see a very plain looking man in his 40s standing nearly 20 feet away. I guess I overestimated his closeness. He waved at me, then returned his hand to his pocket and stood watching. Great. A man who comes to the car wash to watch 21-year-old art students as they bend over the seats to vacuum their messy cars. He just stood there, watching, waiting. I could see that his once-white polo shirt was a size too small, and his jeans were pleated. (Barf.)
The vacuum finally turned off, and I hung it back up, ready to abandon my car cleaning and speed off towards the mall a little early. "Being watched by weird man at car wash" is grounds for abandoning car-cleaning project and rewarding self early. Yes, definitely. However, when I turned around from hanging up the hose, he was standing right there. Right next to the trunk of my car.
"Nice car, this is. Give you any problems?"
Ohhh, he just wants to buy a Talon, he's just a clueless loser wanting to know about my car. Aww, I thought.
"No. Never. It's nice. But if you buy the 5-speed it's hard to get used to shifting because the seats are so low so the console seems higher."
"Oh." He pauses. "Hey, what size shoe do you wear, like a 6.5?"
What?? How did we get to this? And how the fuck did he know that? That is creepy.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Yeah. Why?"
"Oh, I thought so. I sell shoes. I can tell size just by looking."
Oh. He is just a little weird. Maybe trying to hit on me and not sure how.
I say nothing.
"Say...I have a pair of Keds in my trunk. They aren't used, they were a display pair. They are your size. Would you try them on for me?"
Why? WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY???!!!???
"Er, um, why?"
"Well, would you consider yourself an open-minded person?"
"Yes, of course. What does that have to do with Keds? I don't like them. I wore them all through grade school. They are skinny and pointy and ugly." I point to my Airwalk skater shoes.
"If I were to, say, go over to that store across the street and buy a Twinkie, would you put the Ked on and squish the Twinkie with it?"
OMGWTF this guy is some weird foot shoe crappy chemical dessert fetishist and I bet those Keds came off a corpse. Ew ew EWWW.
"Well...that's a little weird. For one thing, I hate Twinkies and I won't touch one. And I don't know if I want to put on an ugly little shoe that has been tried on by countless misguided women who still think white canvas Keds look good."
"I'll give you fifty dollars."
What? This dude has fifty bucks that he will give me to squash a nasty snack cake with an ugly shoe? What the hell has the world come to?
"I don't think so. I have to go...to, um, work." That was weak. Come on, tell the guy to fuck off already.
He looks at me.
"I thought you said you were open-minded," he whines.
"Yeah, I meant that in a human way, not a Keds way. Thanks, but, er...no thanks. Late for work. Have to go."
I jumped in my car and sped off. As I was turning out of the lot, he ran to the edge of the ditch separating it from the street.
"WELL WOULD YOU DO IT FOR A HUNDRED???!!?!?!?"
Really. True story. Really happened. Me: scared little 21-year-old in a "penis car." Him: weird disgruntled shoe salesman or impostor of one with a weird combination fetish for food and Keds.
Creepier than when my apartment was burglarized.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
"ORIGINAL PRANKSTER"-BTCB 2
On an April day he left a note on my car, and it took me a whole day to figure out who it was from.
But I am getting a little bit ahead of myself.
I was working at a music store, trying to go to school, and missing Colorado. I was always cold from the inside as if my bones were frozen, and I had one goal: to starve. I was dating "Clark," who I'll talk about more some other day. The seductive cold gripped me and wouldn't let go, and I began to get very, very ill. I was weak; I couldn't stand to leave my tiny apartment. At work, I wore a winter coat and two of everything: sweaters, pants, hats. The manager saw that I was in pain and didn't say a word about my weird uniform.
It was February, and Valentine's day was looming. I was getting tired of Clark and his habits, his cheesiness, but felt that I was too nice to break his heart directly. I avoided him like any rational girl would do. Which was difficult, considering he worked with me. I thanked him as sincerely as I could for the giant ugly teddy bear and begged off for the night, claiming fatigue. I wasn't stretching the truth very much--I felt like death. The next day, I hung around in the manager's office helping a co-worker process a shipment. We talked about Colorado, and food, and music. I went home, and my body gave in. For the next week, I stayed in bed, calling the store every day and sleeping on the living room floor, only getting up to force myself into the gym. I vaguely remember an emergency room, an IV, blood. After two weeks, I knew I was never going back to work there. It was a relief. No more Clark. No more freezing. No more thinking.
Sometime in March, I started to go back to school. I got a job at a gym. I had a life again. I was still sick, but not hospital-sick.
Some day in April, I went to Wild Oats. I wanted a cake but I bought a tea. I decided to go to the Barnes and Noble down the street. As I pulled out of the Wild Oats lot, I noticed a scrap of paper under my windshield wiper. Thinking it was nothing, I kept driving. After parking at the bookstore, I pulled the paper off and looked at it. It was a note, expressing concern. There was a name and phone number on the bottom. "OP," I thought. "Who is OP?"
Two days later, I called the number and realized just exactly who OP was. OP was the cute co-worker who talked to me all day in the manager's office on my last day at the music store. He remembered everything I had said, and grew concerned after my sudden departure. Since he lived in the next state (my city is on a state line) I wondered what he was doing in a random affluent suburb over an hour away from his home. He really didn't offer an explanation. To this day I wonder how exactly he recognized my car. But it doesn't matter.
OP and I had the kind of first date that you want to last forever. He actually opened up, which is rare for a guy, in my experience. I had too much coffee, and when I stared longingly at the ice cream he held my hand and said "Look at me instead." He understood. He walked me to the door and kissed me goodnight, and as he drove off, I watched until his taillights disappeared into the traffic on Manchester.
The next night, I was carrying some shopping bags up the stairs, daydreaming as usual. "Wouldn't it be nice if there were flowers and a note on my doormat?" I had absolutely no reason to think that there would be; I have a tendency to fantasize randomly. As I got up to my floor, I saw a weird shadow. "NO WAY," I thought. "NO. FUCKING. WAY."
I got to my door, dropped the shopping bags, and looked down. There, on the mat, was a bouquet of Gerbera daisies, and beneath them, an envelope. In the envelope was a card that was just this side of sappy. I called OP right away, and when he came over, I knew we would be together.
At some point, I asked him to move in. He did. We spent nights watching "Pulp Fiction" or driving around or just talking. He told me he loved me. I really did love him. He played "Never Tear us Apart" by INXS for me. He would bring me sugar free popsicles at the gym. He would make my diet hot chocolate exactly the way I liked it. He held my hand in public, he laughed at my jokes, he organized my closet. We made plans to move away together. We shared cars, cigarettes, a bed.
I had no idea that my jealousy would completely tear us apart.
He had an ex. Doesn't everyone? I could tell that he thought that someday, they would be back together. I had never met her, but I hated her. We fought about her more times than I can remember.
And then I did something stupid. I went on a date with another guy. "Writing to Reach You" was a member at the gym. He gets his own story, but he must be mentioned here.
I wrote about him in my diary. OP found it, read it, and left. I didn't understand why he was so sad; I still believed that I was just a replacement for his ex until she came back.
I think that of everyone, he is the one I hurt the most. And the one I regret the most. Jealousy is toxic. It tries to disguise itself as something else, but it is always the black death of something good that you actually have. Don't confuse it with envy, the emotion that surfaces when you covet something that someone else has. Jealousy can only be felt for something that is already yours, and therefore makes a mess of everything by removing the one thing that caused it in the first place.
The end was sad. I think I tried to patch things up, but he wasn't receptive. I will never really know how he felt, or where he is now, or why I acted the way I did. I can only try to remember all the things that made me happy, and hope he does the same.
But I am getting a little bit ahead of myself.
I was working at a music store, trying to go to school, and missing Colorado. I was always cold from the inside as if my bones were frozen, and I had one goal: to starve. I was dating "Clark," who I'll talk about more some other day. The seductive cold gripped me and wouldn't let go, and I began to get very, very ill. I was weak; I couldn't stand to leave my tiny apartment. At work, I wore a winter coat and two of everything: sweaters, pants, hats. The manager saw that I was in pain and didn't say a word about my weird uniform.
It was February, and Valentine's day was looming. I was getting tired of Clark and his habits, his cheesiness, but felt that I was too nice to break his heart directly. I avoided him like any rational girl would do. Which was difficult, considering he worked with me. I thanked him as sincerely as I could for the giant ugly teddy bear and begged off for the night, claiming fatigue. I wasn't stretching the truth very much--I felt like death. The next day, I hung around in the manager's office helping a co-worker process a shipment. We talked about Colorado, and food, and music. I went home, and my body gave in. For the next week, I stayed in bed, calling the store every day and sleeping on the living room floor, only getting up to force myself into the gym. I vaguely remember an emergency room, an IV, blood. After two weeks, I knew I was never going back to work there. It was a relief. No more Clark. No more freezing. No more thinking.
Sometime in March, I started to go back to school. I got a job at a gym. I had a life again. I was still sick, but not hospital-sick.
Some day in April, I went to Wild Oats. I wanted a cake but I bought a tea. I decided to go to the Barnes and Noble down the street. As I pulled out of the Wild Oats lot, I noticed a scrap of paper under my windshield wiper. Thinking it was nothing, I kept driving. After parking at the bookstore, I pulled the paper off and looked at it. It was a note, expressing concern. There was a name and phone number on the bottom. "OP," I thought. "Who is OP?"
Two days later, I called the number and realized just exactly who OP was. OP was the cute co-worker who talked to me all day in the manager's office on my last day at the music store. He remembered everything I had said, and grew concerned after my sudden departure. Since he lived in the next state (my city is on a state line) I wondered what he was doing in a random affluent suburb over an hour away from his home. He really didn't offer an explanation. To this day I wonder how exactly he recognized my car. But it doesn't matter.
OP and I had the kind of first date that you want to last forever. He actually opened up, which is rare for a guy, in my experience. I had too much coffee, and when I stared longingly at the ice cream he held my hand and said "Look at me instead." He understood. He walked me to the door and kissed me goodnight, and as he drove off, I watched until his taillights disappeared into the traffic on Manchester.
The next night, I was carrying some shopping bags up the stairs, daydreaming as usual. "Wouldn't it be nice if there were flowers and a note on my doormat?" I had absolutely no reason to think that there would be; I have a tendency to fantasize randomly. As I got up to my floor, I saw a weird shadow. "NO WAY," I thought. "NO. FUCKING. WAY."
I got to my door, dropped the shopping bags, and looked down. There, on the mat, was a bouquet of Gerbera daisies, and beneath them, an envelope. In the envelope was a card that was just this side of sappy. I called OP right away, and when he came over, I knew we would be together.
At some point, I asked him to move in. He did. We spent nights watching "Pulp Fiction" or driving around or just talking. He told me he loved me. I really did love him. He played "Never Tear us Apart" by INXS for me. He would bring me sugar free popsicles at the gym. He would make my diet hot chocolate exactly the way I liked it. He held my hand in public, he laughed at my jokes, he organized my closet. We made plans to move away together. We shared cars, cigarettes, a bed.
I had no idea that my jealousy would completely tear us apart.
He had an ex. Doesn't everyone? I could tell that he thought that someday, they would be back together. I had never met her, but I hated her. We fought about her more times than I can remember.
And then I did something stupid. I went on a date with another guy. "Writing to Reach You" was a member at the gym. He gets his own story, but he must be mentioned here.
I wrote about him in my diary. OP found it, read it, and left. I didn't understand why he was so sad; I still believed that I was just a replacement for his ex until she came back.
I think that of everyone, he is the one I hurt the most. And the one I regret the most. Jealousy is toxic. It tries to disguise itself as something else, but it is always the black death of something good that you actually have. Don't confuse it with envy, the emotion that surfaces when you covet something that someone else has. Jealousy can only be felt for something that is already yours, and therefore makes a mess of everything by removing the one thing that caused it in the first place.
The end was sad. I think I tried to patch things up, but he wasn't receptive. I will never really know how he felt, or where he is now, or why I acted the way I did. I can only try to remember all the things that made me happy, and hope he does the same.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
"EVERYTHING IN 2'S"--BTCB 1
With him, everything came in 2's.
I met him in a year that contained two 2's, we fell in love two times, he broke my heart two times, and there are only two reasons why I will not contact him again.
There should be more.
I was fascinated by his words, by his stoicism when it came to all but one thing, by the secrets he kept inside until he let them out, one by one, at the strangest moments. We had an attraction that defied explanation. I look back and think that he was acquainted with the fog I was living in, and wanted to clear it, but didn't know how.
Or why.
He moved in almost right away, and we spent days and nights together, traipsing around the city, watching independent films, shopping, drinking, and being completely in love. Every hero in every book I read became HIM; I missed him while I was at work; he inspired me to write things and do things and make things. He suggested that we would attend his 10 year high school reunion with the same last name. He became the tragic character of every daydream; in my mind he found himself through me, lost his life and lived on in my memory, or disappeared into nowhere leaving me only a letter. I had no idea that a bizarre mix of my melancholy fantasies would eventually prove true.
I have only a few specific memories of this time. The rest are a blur of anguish and uncertainty and anger. It was a polar relationship--passionate at either pole, one a living hell.
After about five months, he began to come home drunk, on weeknights, crying that he was a horrible person and would never do it again. Do what? I could only imagine, really, but I never really asked questions, just tried my best to understand.
And there were fights. Between the nights out and the nights in, there were fights. I can't even remember what they were about, but they were passionate and loud and devastating.
And then, one night that July, he told me he didn't love me anymore. He was moving away. Not just out. Away.
I fell asleep listening to Norah Jones while he passed out on the sofa. The next morning, he and all his possessions were gone. He left behind a pan and an iron, and two t-shirts. No note. Just a few belongings he must have deemed disposable enough to leave at the home of the girl he no longer loved.
I didn't leave the apartment for days. I cried uncontrollably. I got physically ill and listlessly allowed my mother to take me to the emergency room. The workmen were supposed to come in to the apartment to give me hardwood floors. I remember hiding in the bathroom all day while they worked on the floor, not coming out until they were gone. I don't think I would have ever done anything else for the rest of that year if it wasn't for one new friend who brought me out of that hell.
Life went on. I worked, I played, I discovered things about myself. I got a good job. I moved. I started to become happy just being me, and felt like a different person. Not really a lost little girl anymore. I was thriving on my own, and for once I realized that my life was not for rent. It was mine. I went through drama with jobs, with school, with my health. But I didn't give a second thought to EI2.
Until one night about 2 years later, when I was sitting in a bubble bath with my little laptop. (NOT recommended.) An IM popped up that said "hello." Since I never used IM, I was tentatively curious. After a moment or so, I realized that it was him.
He said he just wanted to tell me he was sorry, and wondered if he could "take me out for a cup of coffee."
After lots of coffee, and lots of talking, he drove me home. I said goodbye and got out of the car. I had both my feet on the street outside, but right before I was about to close the door, something made me look back, and he was leaning over the passenger seat, looking up at me. And before I could think of anything else, we were kissing.
This time, I moved in to his house. We spent Christmas together, and he told me countless times that he had been scared and selfish and unsure and that everything I suspected was untrue.
Honestly, we had an uneventful life together. I spent days sitting at his desk, looking out his window while writing on his computer. We spent nights doing everything and nothing. I felt like he was distant, I felt left out, but I said nothing, because I desperately wanted to hold on.
Again, after only a few months, I was frightened and antsy. I confronted him, and he told me he wanted space.
I told him he could have it all, and packed up my car, and went back to my (thankfully still on lease) apartment.
It was hell. Once again, I got sick, I wanted to hide from the world, and my work suffered. (Unfortunately, I had a brand new job.) Somehow, though, I came out of it slowly. I began dating again. I started to think to myself that it all happened because he was lost, confused, overwhelmed. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't even necessarily his fault. It just was.
One of the reasons I will never speak to him again as a potential mate is that I am happily married. The other is one I will never share. I can't help but think that there should be 1000 reasons in my head that I should view him as completely off-limits, but every single one of them is forgotten or forgiven or not that important.
I wish I knew why he still pops into my head when I pass a certain bar, or hear a certain song, or see a certain piece of clothing in the back of my closet. Everything about him, our relationship, and my reaction when I randomly see him from afar, defies logic. Maybe someday I will figure out the answer to some of the questions that still live in a corner of my mind, and I can evict him forever.
I met him in a year that contained two 2's, we fell in love two times, he broke my heart two times, and there are only two reasons why I will not contact him again.
There should be more.
I was fascinated by his words, by his stoicism when it came to all but one thing, by the secrets he kept inside until he let them out, one by one, at the strangest moments. We had an attraction that defied explanation. I look back and think that he was acquainted with the fog I was living in, and wanted to clear it, but didn't know how.
Or why.
He moved in almost right away, and we spent days and nights together, traipsing around the city, watching independent films, shopping, drinking, and being completely in love. Every hero in every book I read became HIM; I missed him while I was at work; he inspired me to write things and do things and make things. He suggested that we would attend his 10 year high school reunion with the same last name. He became the tragic character of every daydream; in my mind he found himself through me, lost his life and lived on in my memory, or disappeared into nowhere leaving me only a letter. I had no idea that a bizarre mix of my melancholy fantasies would eventually prove true.
I have only a few specific memories of this time. The rest are a blur of anguish and uncertainty and anger. It was a polar relationship--passionate at either pole, one a living hell.
After about five months, he began to come home drunk, on weeknights, crying that he was a horrible person and would never do it again. Do what? I could only imagine, really, but I never really asked questions, just tried my best to understand.
And there were fights. Between the nights out and the nights in, there were fights. I can't even remember what they were about, but they were passionate and loud and devastating.
And then, one night that July, he told me he didn't love me anymore. He was moving away. Not just out. Away.
I fell asleep listening to Norah Jones while he passed out on the sofa. The next morning, he and all his possessions were gone. He left behind a pan and an iron, and two t-shirts. No note. Just a few belongings he must have deemed disposable enough to leave at the home of the girl he no longer loved.
I didn't leave the apartment for days. I cried uncontrollably. I got physically ill and listlessly allowed my mother to take me to the emergency room. The workmen were supposed to come in to the apartment to give me hardwood floors. I remember hiding in the bathroom all day while they worked on the floor, not coming out until they were gone. I don't think I would have ever done anything else for the rest of that year if it wasn't for one new friend who brought me out of that hell.
Life went on. I worked, I played, I discovered things about myself. I got a good job. I moved. I started to become happy just being me, and felt like a different person. Not really a lost little girl anymore. I was thriving on my own, and for once I realized that my life was not for rent. It was mine. I went through drama with jobs, with school, with my health. But I didn't give a second thought to EI2.
Until one night about 2 years later, when I was sitting in a bubble bath with my little laptop. (NOT recommended.) An IM popped up that said "hello." Since I never used IM, I was tentatively curious. After a moment or so, I realized that it was him.
He said he just wanted to tell me he was sorry, and wondered if he could "take me out for a cup of coffee."
After lots of coffee, and lots of talking, he drove me home. I said goodbye and got out of the car. I had both my feet on the street outside, but right before I was about to close the door, something made me look back, and he was leaning over the passenger seat, looking up at me. And before I could think of anything else, we were kissing.
This time, I moved in to his house. We spent Christmas together, and he told me countless times that he had been scared and selfish and unsure and that everything I suspected was untrue.
Honestly, we had an uneventful life together. I spent days sitting at his desk, looking out his window while writing on his computer. We spent nights doing everything and nothing. I felt like he was distant, I felt left out, but I said nothing, because I desperately wanted to hold on.
Again, after only a few months, I was frightened and antsy. I confronted him, and he told me he wanted space.
I told him he could have it all, and packed up my car, and went back to my (thankfully still on lease) apartment.
It was hell. Once again, I got sick, I wanted to hide from the world, and my work suffered. (Unfortunately, I had a brand new job.) Somehow, though, I came out of it slowly. I began dating again. I started to think to myself that it all happened because he was lost, confused, overwhelmed. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't even necessarily his fault. It just was.
One of the reasons I will never speak to him again as a potential mate is that I am happily married. The other is one I will never share. I can't help but think that there should be 1000 reasons in my head that I should view him as completely off-limits, but every single one of them is forgotten or forgiven or not that important.
I wish I knew why he still pops into my head when I pass a certain bar, or hear a certain song, or see a certain piece of clothing in the back of my closet. Everything about him, our relationship, and my reaction when I randomly see him from afar, defies logic. Maybe someday I will figure out the answer to some of the questions that still live in a corner of my mind, and I can evict him forever.
TO THE BOYS THAT CAME BEFORE
I'm working on a little series.
Even though I am happily married, I sometimes wonder about or think about some of the boys I dated in the past--the ones who broke my heart, the ones who had their hearts broken, the ones who were just a lot of fun, the ones who changed my life.
Of course I am going to change their names (I'm not an idiot) and instead use names of songs that might have meant something to them or something to me at the time. Hopefully these will be fun, funny, thought-provoking, and sometimes sad.
Even though I am happily married, I sometimes wonder about or think about some of the boys I dated in the past--the ones who broke my heart, the ones who had their hearts broken, the ones who were just a lot of fun, the ones who changed my life.
Of course I am going to change their names (I'm not an idiot) and instead use names of songs that might have meant something to them or something to me at the time. Hopefully these will be fun, funny, thought-provoking, and sometimes sad.
Monday, November 24, 2008
LET'S TALK ABOUT T.P.
I have not purchased toilet paper in over seven years.
Before you go thinking I am some freak of nature, let me reassure you: I still go through several rolls a week, just like any young woman. Some weeks, I go through a lot more, because I get too lazy to buy paper towels and instead, substitute toilet paper, leaving a pulpy mess of broken-down loo roll soaked with spilled smoothie on the kitchen counter. I would estimate that I use no fewer than four rolls a week.
Did you know that the cheapest, roughest, most disgusting brand of toilet paper I have ever seen or felt is $1.19 for a 4-pack?
That's at least $61.88 (plus tax!)per year, just for toilet paper. Don't get me wrong. I'm not cheap. I won't hesitate to spend $650 for a pair of shoes or $30 for a tiny piece of sashimi, but $62 a year is a lot of money for something that you flush down the toilet. You are literally flushing money right down the drain. For $62, you could buy yourself a fancy-ish dinner, a J. Crew t-shirt, a manicure and pedicure, 1/10 of a pair of Jimmy Choos, or 62 songs on iTunes.
Like I said, I'm not cheap, but I do know the difference between things that are worth my money and things that aren't.
Which brings me to my solution:
I "borrow" toilet paper from public restrooms. The recent trend of Cadillac-sized handbags helps immensely. I have borrowed toilet paper from every job I have ever had, from my university, from the tanning salon, the yoga studio, even from Whole Foods (those huge rolls are hard to get out, but they last forever!)
And see, it really is "borrowing" and not just taking. In my mind, I say "I'm borrowing this." Then later, I realize that the place I borrowed it from definitely won't want it back. So it is borrowing, I just never feel like being mean enough to return it.
I can't possibly be the only woman who does this. How else can you explain the complete absence of toilet paper in the public restroom stalls?
Before you go thinking I am some freak of nature, let me reassure you: I still go through several rolls a week, just like any young woman. Some weeks, I go through a lot more, because I get too lazy to buy paper towels and instead, substitute toilet paper, leaving a pulpy mess of broken-down loo roll soaked with spilled smoothie on the kitchen counter. I would estimate that I use no fewer than four rolls a week.
Did you know that the cheapest, roughest, most disgusting brand of toilet paper I have ever seen or felt is $1.19 for a 4-pack?
That's at least $61.88 (plus tax!)per year, just for toilet paper. Don't get me wrong. I'm not cheap. I won't hesitate to spend $650 for a pair of shoes or $30 for a tiny piece of sashimi, but $62 a year is a lot of money for something that you flush down the toilet. You are literally flushing money right down the drain. For $62, you could buy yourself a fancy-ish dinner, a J. Crew t-shirt, a manicure and pedicure, 1/10 of a pair of Jimmy Choos, or 62 songs on iTunes.
Like I said, I'm not cheap, but I do know the difference between things that are worth my money and things that aren't.
Which brings me to my solution:
I "borrow" toilet paper from public restrooms. The recent trend of Cadillac-sized handbags helps immensely. I have borrowed toilet paper from every job I have ever had, from my university, from the tanning salon, the yoga studio, even from Whole Foods (those huge rolls are hard to get out, but they last forever!)
And see, it really is "borrowing" and not just taking. In my mind, I say "I'm borrowing this." Then later, I realize that the place I borrowed it from definitely won't want it back. So it is borrowing, I just never feel like being mean enough to return it.
I can't possibly be the only woman who does this. How else can you explain the complete absence of toilet paper in the public restroom stalls?
the revival of piecesofnote
You read that correctly, friends.
Piecesofnote is back, (hopefully) for good.
I am in the process of writing something that will someday (soon?) become a novel, so I am testing out some different (read: not about my dogs or my shopping sprees) things here.
Please let me know what you think! I hope to someday see my alias on the cover of a (preferably pink) book cover, so feedback is important.
Piecesofnote is back, (hopefully) for good.
I am in the process of writing something that will someday (soon?) become a novel, so I am testing out some different (read: not about my dogs or my shopping sprees) things here.
Please let me know what you think! I hope to someday see my alias on the cover of a (preferably pink) book cover, so feedback is important.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
"somewhere only we know..."
when does loneliness hit us harder-when we are in need, or when we are surrounded by joy?
*it may seem impossible to be surrounded by joy when lonely...this is not true. i have come to the conclusion that one can find joy in many things and even within oneself...and as another aside, the "loneliness" i speak of can take place on several levels. one can be lonely for family but surrounded by friends, or lonely for a lover when surrounded by family and friends...or any combination of such.
but i digress*
i guess i really can't answer this for anyone but myself.
and i really can't form i 100% certain, 100% concrete answer.
when i feel like i need something, i.e. when i have had a shitty day, when i think there is a ghost in my apartment (no, really), when i lock myself out of the car in the pouring rain in the middle of BFE...yeah. feeling alone, and lonely, is the worst feeling in existence. such occurrences seem to just mock you..."hahaha, loser. look at you. your day/week/month/life SUCKS and to top it all off, nobody cares, you are ALL ALONE." but see, everyone feels like this sometimes. i know this. why don't the lonely people get off the pride and just...wait. i know the answer to this. i won't go there.
but.
i think it's worse to feel lonely when surrounded by joy.
i want to run, to shout, to sing, and i have nobody to share this with! nobody! i hate it! and the loneliness is not a feeling of "nobody exists" but one of "nobody exists who will care about this like i do, who will get this, who will get me."
i get this feeling at least once a (good) day.
tonight i went walking, in the rain, to buy organic raspberries for breakfast tomorrow. the music on my ipod was good, the rain was light...i got home, took a hot bath, wrapped up in a blanket and sat down to write. and i can't describe how i feel inside, but...i really do enjoy all this time to myself. i do. but sometimes i wish i could share it.
and i feel an emptiness...
but i came to some conclusions on this walk. some things i have been thinking about lately...
more wisdom from elizabeth gilbert's eat, pray, love...a friend says something to her along the lines of "he cracked your heart open so that the light could come in..." talking about a broken heart.
(side note: i find the name of gilbert's heart-breaker amusing. heh.)
hm. well. my fucking soul was blown open, and i might add that i guess it was done so all the badness could seep out at the same time the light comes in...kind of like a transfusion.
in yoga today, the teacher was saying, as usual, "your mantra is 'lock your knee.'" but since i am a veteran student i always have my own mantra. lately it has been "fatpigfatpigfatpig" but it is doing me no good, so today i tried "badness out, beauty in" and it worked much better.
i realize also that people tend to run away, give up, leave, get pissed off, or whatever, for reasons that i guess later they find out are things that, you know, other people do also. i NEVER said i was quiet. i will shout this to your face. i will throw all the bad stuff out right away so people know what is really there. then i start to let the good things show. it's just how i work. kind of like, the opposite of how most people work. it might take a year, two years, for truly good things to start peeking their heads out...but hey...what did that ketchup commercial teach us?
i'm inspired. i want to go to indonesia, and meet medicine men. i want to go back to pahoa, and hug a banyan tree again. i want to live in chicago, and i want to spend a lot of time in the mountains. i want to find, and ask, and discover, and laugh, and cry, and be constantly active, and write. i guess lately i've been so caught up in what is going on right now that i keep forgetting that it's all a way to get to these places i want to be. i just have to figure out how to enjoy this right now while i have it.
because.
that was the point all along. the plans...well, those were for after the "right now." but me, i was the one who remembered that.
but hey.
i guess now, the darkness is seeping out, and the light is pushing its way in...s-l-o-w-l-y.
as i always, always, always said:
"nothing that's worth it is ever easy."
*it may seem impossible to be surrounded by joy when lonely...this is not true. i have come to the conclusion that one can find joy in many things and even within oneself...and as another aside, the "loneliness" i speak of can take place on several levels. one can be lonely for family but surrounded by friends, or lonely for a lover when surrounded by family and friends...or any combination of such.
but i digress*
i guess i really can't answer this for anyone but myself.
and i really can't form i 100% certain, 100% concrete answer.
when i feel like i need something, i.e. when i have had a shitty day, when i think there is a ghost in my apartment (no, really), when i lock myself out of the car in the pouring rain in the middle of BFE...yeah. feeling alone, and lonely, is the worst feeling in existence. such occurrences seem to just mock you..."hahaha, loser. look at you. your day/week/month/life SUCKS and to top it all off, nobody cares, you are ALL ALONE." but see, everyone feels like this sometimes. i know this. why don't the lonely people get off the pride and just...wait. i know the answer to this. i won't go there.
but.
i think it's worse to feel lonely when surrounded by joy.
i want to run, to shout, to sing, and i have nobody to share this with! nobody! i hate it! and the loneliness is not a feeling of "nobody exists" but one of "nobody exists who will care about this like i do, who will get this, who will get me."
i get this feeling at least once a (good) day.
tonight i went walking, in the rain, to buy organic raspberries for breakfast tomorrow. the music on my ipod was good, the rain was light...i got home, took a hot bath, wrapped up in a blanket and sat down to write. and i can't describe how i feel inside, but...i really do enjoy all this time to myself. i do. but sometimes i wish i could share it.
and i feel an emptiness...
but i came to some conclusions on this walk. some things i have been thinking about lately...
more wisdom from elizabeth gilbert's eat, pray, love...a friend says something to her along the lines of "he cracked your heart open so that the light could come in..." talking about a broken heart.
(side note: i find the name of gilbert's heart-breaker amusing. heh.)
hm. well. my fucking soul was blown open, and i might add that i guess it was done so all the badness could seep out at the same time the light comes in...kind of like a transfusion.
in yoga today, the teacher was saying, as usual, "your mantra is 'lock your knee.'" but since i am a veteran student i always have my own mantra. lately it has been "fatpigfatpigfatpig" but it is doing me no good, so today i tried "badness out, beauty in" and it worked much better.
i realize also that people tend to run away, give up, leave, get pissed off, or whatever, for reasons that i guess later they find out are things that, you know, other people do also. i NEVER said i was quiet. i will shout this to your face. i will throw all the bad stuff out right away so people know what is really there. then i start to let the good things show. it's just how i work. kind of like, the opposite of how most people work. it might take a year, two years, for truly good things to start peeking their heads out...but hey...what did that ketchup commercial teach us?
i'm inspired. i want to go to indonesia, and meet medicine men. i want to go back to pahoa, and hug a banyan tree again. i want to live in chicago, and i want to spend a lot of time in the mountains. i want to find, and ask, and discover, and laugh, and cry, and be constantly active, and write. i guess lately i've been so caught up in what is going on right now that i keep forgetting that it's all a way to get to these places i want to be. i just have to figure out how to enjoy this right now while i have it.
because.
that was the point all along. the plans...well, those were for after the "right now." but me, i was the one who remembered that.
but hey.
i guess now, the darkness is seeping out, and the light is pushing its way in...s-l-o-w-l-y.
as i always, always, always said:
"nothing that's worth it is ever easy."
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