Amongst Friends

Yes, it has been a good long while since I have blogged. It makes me happy to say that I have been busy with many wonderful things and needed to take a writing-break while playing catch up. I am so sorry, my dear readers. Please know that you are not the only ones. While experiencing this large personal transition, I have had to put many more of my normal activities on hold. One thing I struggle with is the lack of time with some of my nearest and dearest friends. I have reached out to a few to catch up on life and give my apologies for my absence. Most have been warm and happy to hear from me. Some appear to have given me the brush off. This is my letter to them...

Dearest friends (especially my shenanigan and beer drinking friends), I am sorry for my absence of late. Please do not think that I have forsaken or forgotten you. Quite the contrary. 

I imagine a dialogue amongst some of you that may go something like this: 

Friend 1: Hey! Have you seen C lately? What's she been up to? I haven't seen her around here stumbling drunk with half a pint of IPA in her hand. 
Friend 2: Nope. She got a new man so she ditched us. She will be back when the relationship falls face first into shit. 

Sure, I have been spending a good portion of my free time with The Beast. I have no problem admitting that much. But here's the thing. He isn't the only person I would love to spend my time with. He just so happens to be one of the only people willing to accompany me on activities prudent to my personal growth.

As this blog itself is evident, this has been a long period of self-reflection and self-improvement. I have had some highs and lows (actually, mostly lows) this year, for all of which I take full responsibility. And in the last couple of months I have realized something big. I spent most of my Twenties (and probably most of my life) wanting in vain to be loved and to have companions who want to spend time with me. I'm not talking about romantic companions, I'm talking about all of you. For years, I would go to concerts and festivals that I loved, but couldn't afford. I would drink like a fish for the social companionship, even though I felt like death the next day. I would eat dinner out with the rest of the group, while healthy and affordable food waiting for me at home. I made my well being a non-priority and did all these things instead, to make you love me. I didn't want to be left behind. 

Now, something has flipped in me. I am slowly maturing enough to not only know what I need to do to improve my life, but to also act on it. So yeah, I haven't been drinking with y'all lately. I have missed some of your birthday celebrations. I opted out of concerts and festivals this summer. And in exchange, I have finally started to see the person I am and how I best thrive.  

For that, I make no apologies. 

I am growing in a way that makes me proud. And those of you closest to me, who know of the demons I have inside, would be proud too. I cherish all of you, my lovely friends. I miss you all terribly. I miss our lengthy slurred conversations in the beer garden. How about we continue some of those chats on a trail? Or in my kitchen? Or after a yoga class? Either way, please know I haven't come to love any of you any less. I just love myself more. 

xo
C

The Rat's Ass

Well hello there...

Here's a brief re-cap as to what I've been up to the last few weeks since writing.

• Hiking
• Cabin-Vacationing
• Therapy
• Cooking
• Volleyball
• Friends
• Family 
• Work Insanity
• Yoga
• Love 

Yep, The Beast and I have officially moved way beyond platonic-hiking-buddy status. Shortly before my last post, I invited The Beast to get beers with me and friend visiting from out of town. After the happy hour, we all went back to my apartment where I cooked up an ambitious dinner for my guests. After my friend left, The Beast lingered just a little longer and he kissed me. We have continued to be each others' regular hiking partner. We just also go on non-hike dates as well.

Almost two weeks ago, I went on my annual summer trip to the family cabin. It was a relaxing and lovely time full of people and dogs I love. Kayaking, fishing, cooking, endless nights of drinking beer and playing poker... It couldn't get any better... until it did. What made this trip particularly awesome is toward the end of my vacation, The Beast got a ride up to the cabin with my aunt's boyfriend. The next morning, we backpacked through a mountain range to get back to town. Yes, I hiked home from my family's cabin with a 30 lb pack on my back and My Boy harnessed to my waist. The trip had been in the works long before The Beast and I became "an item" and it was something I had wanted to do for years, so I was rewarded with a great sense of accomplishment and contentment when we celebrated with a beer on the home-front.

Busy is a grave understatement when it comes to my work. If anything, I have been dramatically overwhelmed. But I welcome the reprieve from boredom or any time for depression-provoking over-thinking. Seeing as I have struggled to make a regular yoga practice this year, I am slowly building myself into a 1-hour-per-day commitment. I am now between 20 minutes to 1 hour, but I find I am steadily increasing the time I set aside for it and it feels good to finally be nourishing something that means so much to me. I have also started playing volleyball again. It was my athletic interest of choice my entire childhood and into my early twenties. Getting back on the sand and in front of the net seems to have ignited a long lost spark.

Lastly, I have finally made the big step of seeking professional therapy. I have my third appointment later today. Obviously, my treatment is in the very early stages and I am not sure I have established a connection with my therapist just yet. I have however, begun to notice a little improvement. Mostly in my acceptance of the stage my life is in. My whole psyche, shit, even the posts in this blog seem to be an attempt to "fix" where I am in life. But what if there is nothing that needs fixing? What if I am exactly where I am supposed to be? I have a very hard time "not giving a shit" as I have always viewed that mindset as lazy irresponsible. Yet, in the last month I have stopped "giving so much of a shit" and I have noticed my level of happiness has increased. With this added boost of optimism, I also find I am more productive. A productivity that leads to attaining the goals that recently seemed in vain.

Funny how that works.

WWBBD?

Living in the culture I do, it is (unfortunately) not uncommon to hear of injuries and sometimes even deaths occurring during outdoor adventures. It seems that at least a couple of times a year, the community is affected by a hiker who disappeared, a skier caught in an avalanche, or a climber who fell to their deaths. It is a sad fact of life, but it never occurred to me that the subject of one of those headlines could be one of my people. Until it was.

Shortly after I turned twenty-one, I became a regular at my local mico-brewery. I still am. Over the last eight to nine years, I have developed many wonderful and cherished friendships through this tight-knit establishment. Only a few as bonded as my friendship with Big Bro. Big Bro was quite a few years my senior and had already experienced much of this world. He was married to a beautiful wife and a new dad to a bright little girl. He was a professional inventor, author, photographer, climbing instructor, traveler, and all around bad-ass. He was so much wiser to the world and always so happy and in love with his life. I very much looked up to him as a big brother I never had. I gained insight and life lessons from him over many IPA's and even took his rock climbing courses for my college Phys Ed credits.

On one particular three-day climbing trip, we scaled a massive and long route. Being the only girl (and smallest in stature) amongst our group of seven, I was determined to not be the weakest. But the climb up was never really the scary part for me. Sure, my skills are always at a beginner level, but the grunt part of a climb was never fearful. It is always the rappel. I have always found it mentally challenging to let myself walk backwards off the side of a mountain. (Imagine that?) After the long climb up and anchoring in at the top, Big Bro knew I would struggle and encouraged the others to go ahead. He was right. I was paralyzed. I saw this rap from down below and I knew it was a large over-hang. No wall to allow my feet to steadily slow my drop. It would be a free fall. On top of the fear, I was exhausted. The climb up had left me bloody from the stabs of jagged quartz crystals into my knees, thighs, and shoulders. My knuckles were in a sad state of their own.

As I hyperventilated while sitting next to Big Bro in the strong wind, I prepared my harness for rappel and tried to prepare my mind. I "practiced" several times. I walked the few feet to the ledge, turned back to face my instructor and crouched down. But I couldn't let go. Each time I crawled back up, with tears in my eyes and took my seat next to Big Bro. He was patient with each attempt but when it got to the point I was only psyching myself out even more, he looked at me and said "Well, you can't stay stuck here forever. You can go back through the pain of the way you came. Or you can push through the fear and go forward." I looked down at my wounds, now a swirl of blood, dirt, and sweat. I walked back to ledge, crouched down and this time, I let go. I wasn't just thinking too much into Big Bro's micro-lecture. He knew exactly what he was saying to me. As my friend, he knew of my struggles and the way I let myself get in my own way of accomplishing my goals. I will never, ever forget those words.

On today's date, three years ago, I got the call. I was busy packing up for a week-long vacation to my family's cabin. When I answered my phone in a cheery "Hey girl!", my friend broke down in sobs. She knew from the sound of my voice, that she would have to be the one to deliver me the crushing news. Big Bro had been on a mountaineering trip up North. He was on lead when a large chunk of ice fell out from beneath and took his life with it. I dropped the phone and screamed a noise unrecognizable as being human. Hours later, I zombie-walked to our micro-brewery to exchange the embraces and camaraderie of being shattered. Our friend, teacher, mentor was gone. Most devastatingly, there was now a young family left without their loving husband and father.

Oddly enough, the last time I can remember being truly at peace in my life was during the first year after Big Bro's death. Though the pain was crippling at first, it was fresh. It was always on my mind. Just as he had been a big brother to look up to, I wanted to be a little sister he could be proud of. I didn't have any demons to distract me. I focused on my work and my health. I set and attained many little goals. I continued to climb, while picking up new hobbies. I was happy, healthy, and comfortable in my skin. If I ever was stuck in a difficult situation, I would ask "What would Big Bro do?" and I would feel guided into making the best decisions for myself.

If Big Bro were here today to have observed the last couple of years, he would look at me with his zen-like expression and tell me to pull my head out of my ass. I have let myself once again get stuck on an exposed ledge. I down climb a ways into the painful route behind me, then back up to where I can be temporarily comfortable. Until recently, I haven't been moving forward. He would likely be glad to see me making some progress and evolving. He would likely encourage me to keep the forward momentum. To not let fear or insecurity determine my actions. To enjoy each morning like it is my last. To love the ones I love like I might not see them again. To spread the joy and compassion to every creature around me.

That is precisely what Big Bro would do. 

Progress?

Perhaps.

During the beginning of my self induced hiatus, I had a four day weekend from work. I originally requested vacation time to attend a trip out of state to celebrate a friend's birthday. Unfortunately, that was the first of many sacrifices I made when deciding to distance myself from my current spending and consumption habits. I did conclude however, that four days away from my regular responsibilities might do me some good so I decided to not retract my time-off request. However, the first half of my stay-cation went catastrophically out of plan.

That Friday, I somehow managed to get myself stuck with babysitting a relative's two kids. All fucking day. For free. By the time Sister came to relieve me of my duties, all of my friends were already out and about. And at one point, I felt down-right, intentionally excluded from the opening party of a friends' restaurant. I moped around my apartment, alone and feeling quite sorry for myself, yet looking forward to the early morning hike I had planned with a friend. Unfortunately, that friend just didn't show. I had gear packed and ready, a picnic prepared, fresh gas in the car, and sat outside. Waiting. And waiting. Finally, an hour after our agreed upon meeting time, I resorted to taking My Boy on an angry walk around my neighborhood.

Two full days of sitting on my ass, alone to wallow in my self-destructive brain was not how I wanted to spend the first half of my time off work. I knew that would be a dangerous place to be. I sat around thinking how I wish my life were different. What pieces of shit my friends can be. How if I made more money at my job, I'd be out having a blast with them. How I work too hard for such little money. How due to how hard I work, how precious and minimal my time off is. I began to panic. My life was slipping out of my hands, wasted, just as my four day weekend was. Over the course of a few hours, my thoughts became more cryptic and dark. I had a Mental. Fucking. Breakdown. At some point, while laying in the fetal position on my living room floor, I managed to push one speed dial button on my cell. After the voice on the other end answered, it took a few moments to catch my breath between sobs before I said the words "Dad. I need help. Please."

I have called my Dad crying many times in my years. He still, is sometimes the only person that can brush off my scraped knee and help me get back up. But something about the desperation he heard in me was different this time. He knew it was serious. This wasn't just a "I've had a bad day and the world is unfair" type of phone call. He knew what I knew. My depression has come to an ugly head and I can no longer fix this on my own. He agreed to help me get the professional help I need. Luckily, Dad has also been calling and emailing me to check in on a more consistent basis. I am ever grateful for this. I can feel abandoned by everything else in the world. But so long as I have his support and have him to stand behind me, I know everything is going to be okay.

Day Three of my four day weekend, I woke with a bit of a brighter outlook. At dawn, I took My Boy on a very long and slow walk all over our town. That evening, I met up with my neighbors to host a home cooked meal. The meditative state of cooking, the companionship of friends, and the sharing of delicious food helped bring my spirit back to life. By Day Four, I pushed my physical abilities on a strenuous alpine hike. As My Boy ran free in the tundra, my heart found a freedom of its own. I found myself laughing and acting silly with companions as we soaked in the UV rays of high altitude.

That hike brought on another interesting positive twist. I have started to develop a great friendship with one of my hiking partners from that day. I have known The Beast for a few years as a casual acquaintance among mutual friends. While I have always enjoyed our sporadic conversations and friendly banter, we hadn't known each other all that well. In the last few weeks, we have become great hiking companions. I am comfortable in my head while I am in the presence of The Beast. As we spend longer and more challenging days in the woods together, our conversations are filled with substance. I have opened up to him about my "Turning Thirty and Wasted Twenties" anxiety. Turns out - he's been through the exact same thing. When The Beast reached this pivotal point in his life, he too retreated into a walkabout to find himself. He simply "gets" that there are just some things in our hearts that can only be healed from being in the mountains. In turn, I have found hope in knowing that though I may feel abandoned by some of my closest friends, I am building a bond with a new friend who not only knows what I am going through, but also supports me without judgement.

Of course, whenever two people of the opposite sex spend time together, the Gossip Wolves get hungry. And while I may be in a dark place and have zero business getting romantically attached to someone, I would be lying through my sad teeth to say there are no flirtations exchanged between us. He is kind, funny, smart, ambitious, healthy, smoking hot, and most of all - happy. Our hikes have slowly started to be followed by beers (in moderation) and dinners at my house. The time on the clock when he heads home gets a little later each time. If the nature of our friendship continues to evolve, I would welcome the advancement. Yet at present, I am most happy to have a consistent and reliable friend to share my tundra with.

In recent days, my smile has become little less forced and my eyes have regained some of their twinkle. It could be the increasingly regular time spent with The Beast. It could be the lack of drinking, binging, and frivolous spending. It could be the quiet in my heart that is found from removing the things that hurt. It could be a combination of it all. Today, at this moment, it is good.

On Being Grounded

My family very much values strength and a certain level of toughness. All of life's problems are made out to be simple with very simple solutions:

• You just had your heart broken? Meet someone else.
• You're depressed? Get over it.
• You're broke? Work harder. Make more money.
• The dog's sick? Shoot it.

Hell, even when I had a miscarriage years ago - While sitting on my bathroom floor, losing so much blood I thought I'd need a transfusion, I called my Dad first. He told me to NOT go to the hospital. That it would be a waste of money. Issues or problems in my family are simply considered a weakness. We are able to fix everything ourselves, so to acknowledge any different is pointless.

I don't really know how to ask for help. And I feel that all the times I have, help has been rejected. Which is precisely why I talk to myself, write on this blog, and neurotically lean on my friends to help me sort things out. There is one thing that I have been so ashamed of that I have kept it buried for over a decade. No one knows about it. Not Sister. Not Bodhi. Not Robo. Not Trinity. And definitely none of the demons. I have a binge eating disorder. It started, as pretty much all of my other issues did, after the accident. For the last thirteen years I have dealt with my paranoia, depression, loneliness, and anxiety by stuffing my face with whatever bad-for-me food I can find. I will literally clean out my refrigerator in one night. And if I don't have what I am craving to satisfy the binge, I will get in my car at 3am to go find it. Two nights ago, I ate two (whole) frozen pizzas, three large bars of expensive chocolate, and twelve slices of Kraft singles, finished with four ice cream drumsticks. In the time it took to watch two hours of Ted Talks.

But I don't purge after a binge. I punish. When I am finally so full, I cannot fit anything more down my throat, I go weigh myself on my bathroom scale. Then I lay in bed, telling myself how fat, ugly, and undeserving of love I am. I then proceed to "counter" the calories consumed during the binge by starving myself for a day or more. I will get to the point I am so weak, I cannot get out of bed until I either binge again out of hunger, or attempt to drown my emotions with beer. (Which of course, leads to getting black out drunk from drinking on an empty stomach). These "episodes" usually occur a couple of times a year. Depending on my mental state at the time, they can be a one-off misstep that happens one time and I get over it. Or, it can be a cycle that goes on for a month or two. This time, the cycle started somewhere around the time I lost My Girl. For a few months, I had been losing weight at a steady and healthy rate (as well as staving off any binges), through closely monitoring my diet and exercise. I was regularly finding myself in the hills, hiking with consistent partners, and my spirits were high. Then, life just happened and the spiral down to binging followed.

As I have said before, the beauty I am finding in this blog project is I am forced to face the ugly and horrible truths I keep buried and hidden from view. By posting these intimate details to the universe, I have to acknowledge that it is real. I also have to release it and let the burden start to slowly leave me. Life is not happy for me because I don't let it be. Face it, my life is a cluster fuck right now. I have so much negativity inside of me, there is little room left for happiness, joy, or love. I have less than five months left in my twenties and if I am going to begin my thirtieth year with a more stable foundation as I set out to do, I have to get to work. Professional help may be out of my reach, so the only person I can count on to fix me, is me.

I recognize that at this moment in my life, my biggest depressor (and instability trigger) is my lack of financial stability and what it is doing to my social life. My friends and loved ones work very hard to afford their luxuries and should rightfully enjoy them. But while they are attending concerts, music festivals, mini-vacations, movies, brewery crawls, yoga workshops, dinners out... I am alone. I work very hard too, and in a fair and perfect world, I would be joining them. But as we all know, the world is not perfect, and certainly not fair. Often times, friends will offer to spot me. But this generally makes me feel even worse about my situation. Pride is something I have little of, but shame is something I am have in excess. I find that I generally have two choices: Have a social life and go broke, or save money and be lonely. I almost always choose the former. I now realize I will never reach my goals continuing on this path.

I have to buckle down for a little while, perhaps even a few months, just to build some better habits within myself. I have to get my eating disorder under control. The emotional toll is becoming worrisome. The hurtful things I tell myself become more brutal the longer it goes on. I have also got to get my finances in order. Sure, I don't make the salary I should or deserve, but I have to figure out how to live comfortably and securely with what I have. I have re-enlisted in my diet and exercise plan and I have started to track my daily spending. So far, my research has proven I can look forward to missing out on most (if not all) of the "extra" activities with my loved ones. I just hope that when I come out the other side, they will not have forgotten who I am.

Cavities

 Sweetness has given me a toothache. And not by acting the kind of sweet that I want to go brag to my girlfriends about. Instead, he has acted needy, clingy, and insecure. By simply trying too hard, I am completely annoyed and turned off. I know that letting him down after a whoppin' three times of hanging out is going to be difficult for him so I have thus far taken the wuss road and simply avoided him. But I know he deserves something so I will eventually woman-up and call him this weekend.

The first time we made plans, it wasn't even an official date. In my mind, it was a playdate for our dogs and catching up with an old friend. The playdate turned into beers for the humans, dinner at one of the local restaurants, then back to my apartment. During dinner that night he mentioned that he wanted a relationship with me. I should have taken that as a red flag, as no one in their right mind would proposition something like that a measly five hours into getting to know a person. But upon sensing my shock, he apologized for his boldness and I just laughed it off, assuming the sun and beer had gotten to his head. I politely explained that while I was interested in getting to re-know him, I would not be anyone's girlfriend right away. I suggested that until we are both comfortable moving forward, we remain "interested friends". He assured me this was satisfactory for him.

This Tuesday, we had a real date scheduled. He met me at my place to take me to dinner. He showed up with a large bouquet of flowers which I thought was a little much for a First Actual Date, for Indian food nonetheless. Aside from him ordering his beverage and meal only fter receiving my approval, dinner was actually pretty fun. So I tried to brush aside the "trying too hard" bit.

But then came the hike. I had plans with group of friends to celebrate the holiday with a hike. Upon hearing of this, Sweetness asked if he could come and I obliged. The day was miserable. My time in the mountains with my friends and my dog was filled with anxiety and obligation to coddle this man shadowing my every move. He insisted on stopping at a certain scenic waterfall, which was certainly beautiful but didn't beckon a picnic in front of it. I knew, just knew, he was going to be all cheesy like and seize this as a super romantic place to try and make out with me so I hightailed it out of there. After that, he refused to stop to sip water from the bottle buried in his backpack because he didn't want to make me wait. Dude! We are fucking hiking at elevation. If you die or get altitude sickness from dehydration, you aren't doing me any favors. Grow a fucking pair and drink water when you're thirsty, dumbass!

Shit like that materialized through the whole day. During apre-hike beers and lunch, he would refuse to make a decision on his choices until I had made mine. In the car he said something so lovey-dovey and gross, it was nearly vomit inducing. And he said it while some of my friends were in the car, which made it embarrassing as well. That afternoon, after having some ice cream in front of my swamp cooler, I was so exhausted I literally fell asleep on my couch in an upright position. Apparently because I wasn't all over him, he got up and said he was leaving. He then came back into my apartment, stood above me as I slept and nearly started crying saying he doesn't think I care about him. It's been four whole fucking days! Too much. Way too much. Who does this? I reminded him that from the get go I expressed that I was not about to rush into a relationship and he needed to cool his jets. He left feeling a little better.

But the more and more I think about it, the more I realize just how utterly turned off I am. If I once had hope that we might work out as a couple, that hope has been smothered to death twice over. So now I have to put on my big girl panties and break the heart of a boy who really never left high school. In many ways though, I am proud of myself. Yeah, it is a shitty thing that someone else has to suffer for me to realize my self-growth. But in my younger years, I definitely would have settled for dating him because I liked the attention. Now, I refuse to put up with it. And for him, he is a nice guy. I have no doubt his heart is in the right place and he still, has a genuine kindness about him. He just needs to be looking for a woman who will appreciate his over the top antics, rather than gagging from them.

Old School

This weekend provided quite the unexpected turn of events.

A little over a week ago, while joining my friends for our usual Sunday afternoon beers, I ran into my old high school boyfriend. Yes, that high school boyfriend. The one who had rushed to the emergency room in his homecoming suit to see his girlfriend with blood clumped in her blonde hair. We went to a small charter school with a graduating of class of just over thirty students. For the most part, we all keep in touch via Facebook. Seeing as I live in my hometown, it is not unusual to run into former classmates. I can't quite say there was anything super dramatic about running into him at the beer garden. Only that "The Accident" has been weighing on my mind lately, and seeing someone from that time seemed conincidental.

None the less, the following day, I posted the courtesy "Nice to run into you. Hope all is well!" note on his Facebook wall. Within fifteen minutes, he had sent me a private message asking for my phone number as well as inquiring if I would like to get together. We made plans for this last Saturday to have a play-date for our dogs and grab a beer. I had a slight feeling that he was maybe hoping for more than just a friendly interaction, but I put those thoughts away for the most part. It had been eleven years, after all. Like me, he still lived in the area and he has had all this time to reconnect with me, so why now?

The morning of the non-date, Bodhi and I went to an outdoor yoga class. On the drive there, I was sort of thinking out loud and reminiscing about what type of guy I remembered my old boyfriend to be. I have nothing but fond memories of him. As a teenager, he was kind, selfless, generous, honest, and giving. To put it simply, he exuded Sweetness. But again, we were kids way back then. There was certainly no guarantee that he was interested in anything more than catching up with an old friend. And even so, there was no guarantee that life and heartache hadn't jaded him into Douchebag Supreme. Still, I was excited and the morning was filled with a mysterious wonder as to where his intentions might lie.

I met Sweetness at our predetermined time and location. The first thing I noticed was how cute he looked with his slightly crooked smile and now grown up beard. The second thing I noticed was how beautiful his dog was. Even My Boy was smitten with the duo. He loved having another dog to romp around with and he overcame his usual anxiety to immediately let Sweetness give him attention. After hours of the dogs cooling off in the river and running themselves exhausted, we decided it was time for some human fun and headed to the nearest dog-friendly patio for some adult libations. Our laughter and imbibing went on for the rest of the day, well into the night. We eventually retreated to my apartment where I not so slyly suggested that he shouldn't drive home. He told my I was beautiful. Told me he thinks of me every day. And even way jumped the gun by telling me he wanted to see me all the time and wants to pursue a relationship with me. He also swept my chimney (thank god!).

I had a wonderful time with him and we have made plans to have dinner tomorrow. I am excited, optimistic, happy, and freaked the fuck out all at once. The seriousness and emotionally openness of his words have taken me aback. He did seem a little hurt when at the mention of a "relationship", I retreated a little. But, come on! How can one know they want to be committed to another person after only eight hours spent with one another? Sure, I want to see him more. But I am simply unable to make that kind of decision at this stage. Then again, his only problem is that he doesn't have any problems. Sweetness is still the sweetest man I have ever met. He still is kind and honest. I have spent all of my adult life with emotionally unavailable men, so engaging with one like him should be a relief.

How is it that all I have ever thought I wanted in a partner is someone who is kind and genuine with me, yet when he presents himself, he's not enough of a douche to make me want to seal the deal. I even recently put into words my perfect man and here, Sweetness has manifested but I refuse to get on board. Could it be that I am not as ready to commit as I thought I was? Perhaps I attracted assholes because somewhere in my sub-conscious, I knew they wouldn't work out and I wouldn't have to commit? Am I a perpetuation of the old stereo-type of "Nice guys finish last?" How sick is that? Last night I gave Trinity a recap of my weekend and she flat out said "I refuse to listen to you bitch about having the perfect guy in your life. I refuse!"

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The Accident: Part 1

When I first told select friends and family about my blog project, many asked if I intended to write about The Accident. My initial response was "Of course not. This blog is about my Twenties and that whole thing happened when I was younger." Truth be told, I spent many, many years identified as The Girl The Accident Happened To. It is a badge I don't always feel honored wearing. The beauty of this project though, is that it is ever evolving. It forces me to face certain things that I choose to not always address with myself. I have written about the neglect I often felt as a child, and how that has shaped the Twenty-something I am today. So it only makes sense that I now face the experience that I am finding has much more to do with my current self than maybe any other.

During the summer of 1993, I was ten years old and the city was experiencing a wave of heat and gang-related crime. It would later be famously dubbed "The Summer of Violence." Gangs had long been a factor in the city but for the most part, stayed underground, or at least out of the attention of the media. That particular summer though, the street wars became more brazen and more violent, often occurring in broad daylight. News stories abounded with innocent bystanders losing their lives. Many small children, even infants, were killed or injured by the flying of stray bullets. The gangs also seemed to be targeting outside of their normal beefs. Even the Mayor's house had been subjected to a drive-by shooting.

Things were peaceful where Dad raised me and Sister, in our little hillside town at the base of a mountain range, thirty minutes from the city. Mom however, did live in the city when we were young. On our weekends to visit her, the nights were often riddled with the sound of gunfire and sirens. Rather than playing outside in the neighborhood after dinner, we would be locked down in the living room, forced to watch the stories of bloodshed on the evening news. At only six or seven years of age, Sister may have been too young to understand what was going on in the world around us. I on the other hand, was terrified. I would insist on sleeping in the hallway, away from the bedroom that faced the road. My heart would race at the sight of a car driving just a little too slowly down our street. Loud noises made me jump. Crime movies and TV shows kept me awake. I was actually scared of being shot. This fearful obsession of violence, specifically gun violence, plagued my mind for many years into my adolescence.

In the fall of 1999, I was sixteen years old, a Junior in high school, and an all-star volleyball player. I had an after school job at a pizza joint. Having my drivers license, I was able to drive myself out the canyon where we lived, to spend time with friends. I experimented with smoking weed, drinking beer, and had boyfriends. I was living the average and privileged life, not unlike many upper-middle class American teens. On the morning of Saturday, September 25th, I woke up in a foul mood. I was grumpy and jealous because my boyfriend was going to homecoming with his old girlfriend at her high school. I decided to distract myself and called my best friend Blue Eyes to see what she was up to for the day. Her family was spending the day moving. I asked Dad for the keys to his truck and headed down the canyon to spend time with them and lend a hand.

I loved (and still do love) Blue Eyes and her parents. Their family was somewhat of a surrogate for me growing up. They were hard working, honest people who valued family and integrity. They reminded me of my own. Their house was always warm and welcoming and I always felt at home with them. Blue Eyes' boyfriend (let us call him DumbFuck), was helping as well. Personally, I couldn't really stand him. I thought he was a poser and tried too hard to be cool. I found him abrasive and insulting. But he was my best friend's boyfriend, she loved him, and he was strong enough to assist with the moving of furniture so I played nice.

We had finally made our last trip hauling the remaining items into the new house so DumbFuck and I began to help Blue Eyes set up her bedroom as her parents took to unpacking the kitchen. Blue Eyes put on some music and rolled a big joint, exclaiming "I can't wait until we're done so we can smoke this and relax." As Stevie Ray Vaughan's "Pride and Joy" belted from the stereo, Blue Eyes began to hang posters of our favorite metal band while I hung curtains. DumbFuck, being the lazy ass he was, lounged near the head of the bed, up by the pillows, fidgeting with something. I was exhausted from the move so I took the curtain rod off the wall in front of me and sat down at the foot of the bed about four feet in front of him.

I was weaving the curtain rod into the material when it suddenly felt like we were in the middle of an earthquake. The room was shaking and my hearing was muffled. I saw Blue Eyes run out of the room in front of me. She appeared to be screaming but I couldn't hear any sound coming from her mouth. Suddenly, Blue Eyes' mother was sitting next to me at the foot of the bed, with her arms around me. I could feel the vibrations of her voice coming through her body, but it took several moments for me to actually make out her words. She kept whispering "Don't move. Just be still. It's okay." I couldn't understand why the hell she was comforting me and not her own daughter in the middle of an earthquake. It didn't make sense and I was confused. Just then, Blue Eyes' Father walked into the room behind us and said "They are on their way but need to know which gun it was."

Suddenly, a sense of extreme awareness electrified through my body. I felt the ooze of warm and thick liquid running down my neck, my back, and my arm. I had been shot, at point blank range, in the back of my head. Could it be that my obsessive childhood fear had somehow premonition-ed this?

All or nothing

So much for my rejuvenating weekend of solitude. Moments after developing my plan to give myself a time out, Sister called to tell me that we're taking Dad out to lunch today (Sunday). I suppose somewhere in my fucked up logic, I figured that if I couldn't have the whole weekend to myself, I might as well throw out the whole idea. Friday, it didn't take much for me to talk myself into having a happy hour beer with my friends. It also didn't take much for me to then partake in the dinner my neighbors / landlords were hosting that night, where I naturally stayed up too late and drank one too many Mango Mojitos (they were delicious). Where did that get me? Waking up for work with a slight hangover, then back to drinking more beer and eating bar food with Sister yesterday.

Why do I do that? All or nothing? Why couldn't I have just told myself that since lunch with Dad was in the cards, I'd have to make extra sure my solitary time was well spent? Instead, I let myself have an attitude that one little kink in my plans meant "screw it all." Now, it is Sunday and I only have 2 hours until I need to start preparing to meet up with them. My apartment is not clean, I have not done the things I needed to do, and more importantly, I do not feel well rested for the daunting work week ahead.

I do this all or nothing with much of my life. If work is going crazy and I am unable to 100% focus on a certain task, I just say "fuck it" and play solitaire in between phone calls rather than using what little spare time I have to be productive. If I am going to go out for a drink, I usually just say "fuck it" and end up drinking many more than just one. If I eat junk food at lunch, I just say "fuck it" and continue to eat like crap the rest of day, if not the rest of the week. If I am attracted to one person, I am completely incapable of being attracted to anyone else. I am such a serial monogamous person, that I can't casually date, talk to, or have an interest on more than one man at one time.

Which brings me back to hot new guy from last weekend. I haven't been as neurotic as I could be, but he still has yet to call or text to ask me out, or just to communicate at all. Therefore I have been over-analyzing and replaying all of our meeting in my head. When discussing the timing of our next meet up, he did mention that it likely would not have been this last week as he was really busy. So I hope that he is just waiting to call until he can actually propose a time to get together again. Normally, if a guy hasn't called me within eight days of getting my number, I would pretty much forget about him. But (big but here), when he left my apartment last Saturday, he called me on his walk to tell me that he thinks I'm awesome and can't wait to see me. He later also sent a text that it was the best walk of shame ever. Now, call me crazy, but if a guy wants to get the hell out a girl's apartment and never see her again, he isn't going to dawdle, drinking coffee and hanging out with her for five hours. (Exception to this would be if she was giving up the pu-nanny, which I wasn't) And he sure as shit isn't going to call her and text her that same day. He would bail at his earliest opportunity and he would just never communicate with her again.

It has now been eight days since that communication from him. There could be any number of reasons he hasn't reached out. He could truly be as busy as he said he would likely be. As mentioned, he could be waiting to call until he can set up a legitimate date. He could also be confused, wondering why I haven't been blowing him up all week. He could have lost my number (though that would be a pathetic excuse). So now what? Do I shoot him a text asking how his week was, and risk sounding impatient? Or do I just wait and risk never hearing from him again? I met him one night. If I don't hear from him, I'll eventually forget about him and get over it. But for awhile there will undoubtedly be some "What's wrong me? What happened?" thoughts going on and I will beat myself up, trying to figure out what I could have done differently to encourage a different outcome..

Again, it's all or nothing. I make a move, or I don't. And in the meantime, this interest that I've had for a man I've spent a total of twelve hours with and put me in blinders. And I haven't found anyone even attractive since. No wonder I am still single. I put all my eggs into the basket of one person, I met one time.

This all or nothing, give up, sort of attitude is reckless, damaging and immature.

Purify

 

I am fried to a crisp. My brain is on cruise control, yet stuck in turbo. Since having a blowout with Phoenix, a fucking tree landing on my car, and work being absolute mayhem, I have barely been able to sleep. Let alone do my laundry, dishes, or grocery shopping like a responsible and functioning member of society. And to think I had a hot new suitor follow me home from the bar last weekend: Gross.

My brain is far too engrossed in money, rental cars, work, needing to make more money, lack of getting laid, and for fuck's sake - men, to completely nurture my inner needs. So I am taking a hiatus this weekend. I am in the middle of a 10 day work stretch with my only day off being this coming Sunday. Rather than celebrating my Friday and Saturday nights with the usual IPA and Patron, I am staging a sit-in at my apartment. I will clean, like actually clean: sweep, mop, dust, vacuum, organize... I will also finish the Hunger Games trilogy so I can finally say I read them all. I will shop for nourishing food and feed myself wholesome meals and not tostada shells with BBQ sauce. I may even get a little exercise this weekend. Then again, that may be a little ambitious as the forecast is calling for triple digits in my locale this weekend.

So it might be, I have to ignore some people I love but I desperately have to hit the reset button on my being this weekend. Even if it is just enough to get me through the second half of my long work stretch. A little detox on my mind, body, and home so to speak. The only thing that could derail this plan would be a call from the hot new suitor (Still thinking of an alias for him...). I have yet to hear from him about making plans for our "proper, sober date". I am not quite sure how I feel about not hearing from him. On one hand, I feel that a man will get in touch with a woman he wants to see. On the other, I feel like I should give him the benefit of the doubt. It has only been 6 days since I saw him. And when we discussed potential timing of said date, he mentioned a handful of activities he already has going on this week. Patience, Grasshopper...

Anything but boredom

I did it. I chopped off my hair. An entire foot of it, actually. It was my first professional hair cut in almost a decade. And I got professional highlights for the first time in my entire life. To me, that is just crazy. I have never been a spa or gussied-up type of girl. I usually just trim half an inch or so off my flat, lifeless, boring mane every few months. The new hair makes me feel a little more "adult". Grown women get their hair done, right? It also has given me a good dose of confidence that I seem to have been lacking lately.

On Friday, just hours after writing my last post, an odd and somewhat traumatizing incident occurred. I was on the phone with a client when a mini-tornado swept through my office parking lot. I glanced over and saw a coworker struggling to close the glass door that was swinging open and threatening to blow away, right off its hinges. Then, in eerily perfect unison, I hear the gasp of several other coworkers and a cry of "C, your car!" I politely excused myself from the call I was on and hobbled over to see the wreckage. A fucking tree was on my car. On top of my goddamn car. Surprisingly, I didn't completely lose my shit. The hilarity of what my eyes were seeing was just too strange and too odd to get all worked up about.

By the time I arrived at my regular stomping ground for a beer, I was done. I was ready to tie one on. My friends and other regulars raved about my hair and expressed their sympathies for my now defunct ride. I caught up with an old friend who has moved back to our little town for the summer and we agreed to meet later in the evening to get a little shitty. And shitty we got. After, oh I don't know, three or four shots of Patron, I noticed a very tall and very handsome bearded man in our establishment. He was a new face and obviously not a local in our town. When my beer needed a refill, I slid up to the empty bar stool next to the hottie and placed my order with the bartender. While waiting, I felt brazen enough to introduce myself and compliment my new friend on his astounding karaoke skills. (I am nowhere near confident when it comes to approaching good looking guys. I blame my assurance on my new hair and the fact that I simply just didn't give a fuck after the tree vs. car shenanigans.)

Hot new guy seemed absolutely shocked that I had approached him and rewarded me by purchasing my beer when it arrived... as well as inviting me to keep chatting with him. Just as I thought, he was not a local in my town. He lives in the big city and had been at a picturesque wedding in my neck of the woods. After closing the reception, the party turned into a bar crawl and he had found his way into the bar my friends and I were at. Eventually, his friend popped over to say their limo back to the city was on its way to pick everyone up. We exchanged numbers and he expressed his disgust over having to leave the conversation with me. So I did something a little nuts and said "Stay here then." He kissed me. Then did a walk of shame from my apartment to meet his friends for brunch the next morning.

Now, in my last post I exclaimed how badly I needed to get laid. But as luck would have it on that fateful night, Aunt Flow showed up to make sure I didn't put out. Which is probably for all the better. We kissed and cuddled and made out like a pair of horny teenagers but we didn't get intimate and I told him I was glad for that. I said "I think I'd like to see you again, but if we had sex last night, that probably wouldn't happen." He laughed and tried to convince me otherwise. We chatted a lot and seemed to have great conversation that flowed and he didn't hightail it out of my apartment at the crack of dawn. In fact, we woke up early and laid in bed, talking and drinking coffee for a solid five hours before parting ways. He even called me on the walk to tell me he thinks I'm awesome and he cannot wait to take me out on a proper and "sober date".

My favorite part of meeting him was when I initially did the twenty question interrogation to find out why he was single. He said there is a running joke among his friends that he is always the guy a girl dates just before she meets someone she wants to marry. I was astounded and said I use the term Wife Fluffer for myself, as most of my demons end up married or close to it soon after their relationship with me ends. His response? "Well, I think we should date then. Because if things don't work out between the two of us, at least we'll meet the loves of our lives right after." Brilliant. After spending some time today, stalking him out on facebook and linkdn, I found that he is actually legit. His job, interests, education, and upbringing are exactly as he said they were. Oh, and he is also not on any sex offender registries.

So we'll see. Maybe he won't call and I can continue on with my whining ramblings. Or maybe he will and I'll have some good or bad dating posts in the near future.  

To whore, or not to whore?

While I very obviously have no shame about men and such, I tend to refrain from delving too much into the best parts of it: S.E.X. Perhaps I want you all to think I'm sweet and virginal. And perhaps I just want those moments to be sacred and not read by the masses. But truth be told, I am bored. And I need to get laid. Badly. I'm talking yelling, hollering, ass-slapping, going all night, nooky.

When I was younger... shit, who am I kidding? As recently as the end of times with The Wrecking Ball, I would sometimes find myself looking for validation with my cooter. Lately, not so much. In many ways, I feel like I enjoy sex more when it is monogamous and has meaning behind it. And as I get older, I find myself more sensitive to the idea of not being taken seriously because I drink beer with the boys. The last thing I need is to actually give the haters reason to think I'm just "one of those girls." Yet, It has been a good six months since anyone other than my OB/GYN has been anywhere near my bits. Currently, there are few things I would love more than to break this dry spell.
*Yes, I know. There was The Writer. Unfortunately, due to his insecurities and neurosis about his 135,678 unique and unheard of health problems (hypochondriac much?), and the uncanny ability for said issues to turn me off, we only did it a handful of times when we first started dating. And it was never very fulfilling. Yeah, that relationship was doomed.

But here's my dilemma. Even if I managed to allow myself a booty call just to clean the pipes, I don't exactly have ready access to any subjects. Sure, I have a handful of the aforementioned man-friends. But there is NO way I would subject myself to any extra curricular activities with any of them. They are actually my friends. Even the few that are single, I respect and frankly, think of them as family, thus have no desire to see their junk. And Phoenix? Hell, he'd be lucky to get friend-zoned at this point.

What about the option of getting shit faced and going home with a random? Unfortunately, I live and play in a small "everyone knows everyone's business" type of community. It most certainly has it's perks. Just not in the way of finding an easy, non-awkward, and discreet lay. If I were to execute the random bar hook up, I would have to venture to the Big City and bring my conquest home to Trinity and her gay roommate. They wouldn't mind one bit. Hell, they'd probably encourage it. But something about turning 30 leaves me unwilling to get on all fours on my BFF's couch.

So I guess that leaves me to do things the old fashioned (and more respectable) way. While draining my C batteries, I might have to actually find a guy who likes me and wants to date me. Between my love for my small and close-knit town, and my dedication to my career, my hopes of meeting someone "organically" seem to be dwindling. Sure, I have recently declared that I may not be ready to give the whole relationship thing a go right now. But that was before I got horny. Things suddenly seem a little more urgent. Perhaps a new haircut, new dress, and new match.com account?

Face Plant to Freedom

So...um...yeah. Phoenix is sort of fucked up. I will spare you the play-by-play but here's the gist:

Last Saturday, after way too much inhebriation at a friend's party, Phoenix offered to walk me home. During the walk, some drunken slurs were made from both sides. Ultimately, he became downright nasty and mean. His behavior and his words actually scared me. It was as if he turned into some sort of vicious stranger.  He wound up leaving me to find my way, disoriented in the middle of an unfamiliar neighborhood, at two in the fucking morning. Who does that? Seriously. What kind of stand up man in his Thirties leaves his female friend to fend for herself, lost, at two in the morning?

In a way, I am relieved by it at this point. Though our conversations and bond appeared to be growing, we never became intimate so I do have that to be thankful for. And if I ever find myself struggling to divert my attention away from a particular someone, them behaving like a bipolar douche is sure to do the trick. I could sit here and over-analyze his every word, along with the drastic change in his behavior. But I really just don't care much. Anyone who can treat a person as awfully as that, is no person I care to get to know any better. I will admit that for me, there has been some awkwardness. I have been avoiding my regular haunt, as it is now his regular haunt as well. But that really isn't the end of the world either. For now, I need some distance from Phoenix. And not drinking so much (while saving a little bit of cash) isn't exactly a bad thing.

So, I'm free. And better off. For now.

Male Driven Insomnia

After spending nearly all of yesterday drinking entirely too much beer with Phoenix, we stumbled our way to our respective homes. Just minutes after I walked in the door, my text alert goes off. He is apparently not done with me for the evening. We exchange some friendly and flirtatious text banter for the next half hour or so, until I presume, he passed out. Lucky him, as my brain reeled for hours.

What should I wear when I see him next?  
Shit. I have so much cleaning to do before dinner on Wednesday. 
Ooh, perhpas I will make myself some new earrings by then. 
Wonder if he really is "off" with the girl in his old town? 
Goddammit.  Seeing him every day is really hindering my work out regimen.
Holy fuck.  I spend a lot of money having beer with him every day.
If I get butterflies from him hugging me, am I going to stop breathing when he finally kisses me?
I wonder if he drinks enough tequila on Wednesday, he won't want to do the twenty-block-walk home?

This internal dialogue went on until somewhere around 2 a.m. when I finally turned out the light, wrapped my arms around My Boy, and tried in vain to get some sleep. Yes, I have broken puppy training non-no #1. I have been letting My Boy sleep in bed with me. Due to his past reputation of chewing everything in the house, he is crated during the day, and until recently, at night while I sleep. But I'm a giant fucking softy.  What can I say? I feel guilty that he is in a crate for nine hour stretches and then stuck in there another seven overnight. I am also slowly trying to give him a bit of freedom and forcing him to cope with being around the tempting, chewy goodness of my shoes and computer cords, while not actually chewing them.

The problem is, My Boy is big. On one hand, having a big hairy being on my bed, helps me to not care so much about the big hairy being that isn't. Sometimes, his panting breath will lullaby me to a deep sleep. Last night was not one of those nights. Last night was a night of him laying perpendicular to me. Of kicking me in the face with his hind legs. Of him crowding the bed to where I woke with only one extremity still on the mattress. This is how I spent the little three hours of sleep I was trying to get.

I think these boys are trying to kill me.

It's Never That Simple

...but I am convinced there is nothing too much beer can't fix.

In my last post,I declared to the world that I was dropping my pursuit of Phoenix. Yeah, right. Two days after that, a group of us, including Phoenix, drank too much. It was the very first First Friday of summer in my small town. It is kind of a big deal. My town will take any excuse to party, even if it is something as simple as the first Friday of summer. We started at our usual happy-hour beer location and naturally, Phoenix showed his pretty head. He came right up to me before anyone else and did not leave my side the rest of the night.

Our group later found ourselves as part of the town party, streets barricaded and all. Of course, Phoenix and I were magnetically attached and after one (or two) too many beers, I flat out told him how much I love hugging him. He responded as if it were a challenge to see how much he could hug me in one night. My head was buried in his chest for much of the evening. I am not sure how we got on the conversation, but at one point, he mentioned something of a lady friend back home that he had been "on again, off again" with. Well, truth serum can be strong so the following conversation happened:

C: Can I ask you a question?
P: Of course.
C: Is your "on again, off again" thing the reason you have yet to make a move on me? Or are you just uninterested?
P: *Chuckle* It is definitely NOT that I am uninterested. I am very interested. And yes, that has been one reason. I talked to her when I went back home last weekend. She said she wouldn't commit to me so I should just start a new life here. But I am also slow moving at these things. And I am the new guy in town and you are the girl who knows everyone.
C: Okay, well we should hang out more then. Without our usual beer entourage. You know, have some pressure-free non-dates.
P: *Chuckle again* Yeah, I would like that.

And so it was. He walked me home that night, holding my hand. Rather than the usual stopping at the driveway to say goodbye, he wanted to come in to see and play with My Boy for awhile. We made plans to go out on Saturday (last night). We did. It was awesome. We also made plans for him to not only attend this week's community collaborative dinner at my abode, but also to contribute in it. In a few hours, we will be yet again, meeting at our usual spot. Still no kissing. Just holding hands and a lot of those wonderful, heart warming, hugs. I will take that.

End of a Pursuit

So I have been hanging out with Phoenix a few times a week for almost a month now.  And I have decided to drop my pursuit.  I am still crazy about him. But he has yet to take the bait. Really, this crush on him has proven more confusing every day. Like the desert climate, his affection for me can turn hot and cold in a matter of twelve hours.

Last week, he went on a road trip to get more of his belongings out of storage.  I did not expect him to be back until Monday of the long weekend.  On Sunday however, as a group of us were celebrating Robo's boyfriend's birthday over a BBQ, he shocked the shit out of me by appearing out of thin air just to my left.  My stomach turned with butterflies, the pounding in my heart could not be controlled, and as a my cheeks turned every shade of red, his lips curled into a smile that simply said "It is so good to see you."  He walked towards me and embraced me in the strongest and most comfortable hug I have ever felt.  His big arms fully engulfed me and his barrel chest was so solid.  In that moment, I felt safe and content.  Everything surrounding us disappeared. I felt deaf, as if the entire BBQ went silent at the sight of our reunion.  And perhaps it did. Mere moments later, a friends' husband walked up to us and laughingly told me to "wipe the shit eating grin" off my face.  I honestly missed this man in the five days I hadn't seen him.

This man that I have yet to kiss or even go on a proper date with. I actually missed him. Although the long drive had rendered him exhausted and as he said, comatose, he stayed at the BBQ long enough for one libation and to catch up on what that last few days had brought me. Perhaps that is one reason I am so smitten with Phoenix. Every time I see him, he asks about my day. And genuinely asks because he wants to hear. At the BBQ, he wanted to know everything, however menial, he had missed. When I asked of his trip, he did not really even care to elaborate more than "My friends wanted me to hang out one more night but I really wanted to come home.  I didn't even stop to rest."

Since the BBQ, I have seen Phoenix once for beers at our usual spot.  Tonight is a community collaborative dinner at my place. He is on the invite list and upon hearing about it, seemed thrilled. However, I have resolved if he doesn't make it, I am dropping my pursuit. Not to blow him off. But simply because I have thrown him much bait that he has yet to bite. When consoling my tears and helping my wonder if The Wrecking Ball would give up his addiction to continue his life with me, my Dad once told me "Men are simple. If he wants you, he will come get you. And he will do what it takes to have you." I am a firm believer in that. Every time I have ever made mental excuses for the behavior of men, I end up the pursuer and it never works out in my favor.

Sure, I have many wonderful friends that tell me "I have a good feeling about him", "He's just shy", "You might have to make the move".  But I just cannot bring myself to do more than I have. My original intention was to simply become friends with Phoenix. In which I have succeeded. He is now a member of my core group of friends. Because of that, I am afraid of a rejection that could result in awkwardness. So if friends is all it is, I have decided I am okay with that right now. Life was easier before I developed feelings for him. Time to free my brain and my heart onto inner pursuits. Besides, "just friends" can still give wonderful hugs.

A Hard and Heavy Shell

As long as I can remember, I have loved turtles.  I find them to be soothing. For years, friends and family often pick up little turtle figurines for me to collect.

Years ago, at a souvenir shop in the desert, I was eying a piece of turtle jewelry.  Attached was a tag detailing a Native American tale of how the great turtle is thought to carry the weight of the world on its back.  The turtle is carrier of all things in the world.  I have no idea if that tag accurately described the legend, or if it was some fabricated bullshit to entice tourists.  But it stuck with me and it is something I have always remembered.

When we were kids, Mom was kind of a piece of shit.  Being the older sibling, I put myself in charge of Sister's safety and well being.  When Mom took off on a bender in Reno and left the two of us girls alone (at ages 7 and 4), I was responsible for getting us to school every day.  Thankfully, a concerned neighbor notified our elementary school and Dad was awarded custody of us.  I still feel I failed in protecting Sister.  She had some serious shit happen to her and I couldn't stop it.  As we got older and Sister went through hard times, I had no choice but to not fuck up.  The burden was on me to be "the good one" and make Dad's life a little easier.

When it came to saving our relationship, it was not up to The Wrecking Ball to curb his cocaine habit.  Instead, it was my burden to learn to accept and live with his cocaine habit.  His vice resulted in mood swings.  He loved me in the morning and loathed me at night. He once showed up to meet my relatives an hour late, wearing sunglasses indoors, at night.  Of course, I would tell myself over and over "If I try really hard to be a better girlfriend, he will love me so much that he will want to stop."  We all know addiction doesn't work that way. Yet, the fall and demise of us, was somehow my doing. My begging and pleading and ultimately standing up for myself, even if it meant fighting for us, was responsible for the end. 

These are only a couple of ways that I take on the responsibility for the failings of others.  I surely inherited this trait from my father. I see how this has affected him and I know that I cannot continue to take on the world this way.  The burden has been too great.  My back will not hold the weight for long.  As my body ages, I feel the impact of the stress.  The chronic headaches, the anxiety, the bouts of depression. For once, I want someone to be my rock.  I want someone to face the burdens with me, not let me carry them alone.  I want someone I can count on to be there.  To have my back when the shit hits the fan.  I long for camaraderie.  Fucking hell, it is my turn.  Well meaning loved ones often say to me "Patience Grasshopper.  It happens when you are not looking for it." 

While I wait, I will continue to admire the beauty of these strong and patient creatures.  I will reflect on the weight I have carried and recognize that it is a testament to my loyalty and devotion to the world I live in, and the people in it.  It is proof of my nature, what I am capable of, and the type of person I am.

I love you because...

It is no secret that I have spent much of my Twenties consumed by my relations with the wrong men.  At present, I am trying to focus on myself and letting love come into my life, "organically" (as I keep saying).  True, I allow myself to get a little too distracted with my boy-crazy tendencies.  But hey, I'm not dead. Anyway, I thought it would be fun to write a little love letter to the right guy, whoever he may be. The following are the reasons I will fall in love with him, and will keep loving him.

Huh... thinking about this list.  I think I want a lumberjack.  

You are strong, yet gentle. You fiercely protect what is important to you.  You stand up for yourself and refuse to put up with bullshit from the world around you.  You are not afraid to work hard and get dirty.  You are tough. Yet, you show compassion and kindness to our dogs, our friends' children, and all other beings more weak and meek than you.

You do Man Stuff.  You can change the oil in a car, change a tire, start the BBQ, line a fishing rod, unclog a toilet, kill spiders, take out the mouse traps.  I can do all these things too.  But there is something so primal and sexy about watching you do them.  Just promise you will let me keep cleaning the fish.  I love that shit.

Your beard keeps your face warm during all the chilly nights we spend in the wilderness.  It tickles the corner of my lips when you kiss me.  Your lack of a shaving routine promises you will never take longer than me, getting pretty in front of the mirror.

Your idea of a romantic dinner is one we create together, then enjoy outside in the company of our dogs.
 
You love dogs.  And always will.  And understand my love for them.

You tell me "Nice one" when I out-burp you.

You are healthy but love beer and cheese as much as I do.

You make me feel beautiful.  You love my love-handles for what they are.  Something to hold onto.

You love family.  Even if you don't have your own around, you willingly, because you want to, become part of mine.

You can dance the weekend away at a Bluegrass festival with me.  But you're completely okay with the DJ playing hair-bands at our wedding.

You love my cooking and don't just fake it to make me feel good.


You have your hobbies and let me have mine.  Though, we share our common interests as well.

You let me be emotional.  You respect that I am a woman, and it is my nature.  But you show me your logic.

You firmly believe beaches and cities are for vacation.  Mountains are for living.

You are responsible and keep your word.

You are my best friend.  We trust each other with all of our dirty little secrets.  We have no secrets from one another.

Tent sex. Enough said.

Mass Consumption

I have found myself in a slippery slope as of late.  Between the constant distraction of trying to make Phoenix like me, the heartache of losing my dog, and the promise of impending summer, I have been majorly unproductive.  Instead of participating in one of my greatest joys and cooking for myself everyday, I have been eating out. (That might be because I haven't even bothered to go grocery shopping since putting My Girl down.)  Further, I tend to do this eating out after I've had one too many at the micro-brew stop.  Every damn day.  In the last few weeks I've gone to work hungover more times than I would like to admit.

Thus, I feel like a giant cow.  And not one of those cute, happy cows that make California Cheese.  A lazy, gross, cow.  Covered in flies and expelling methane gas. The cycle is familiar; I've been here before.  This shit leads to depression.  This version of myself is one I do not wish to reunite with.  This version of me is trapped, broke, tired, grumpy, paranoid, and not a fun person to be around.  This version needs to take a hike.  Literally.

 So today, I will make it through the last five hours of my hungover hell.  Starbucks and Del Taco will help me survive.  I will go home to snuggle My Boy.  Cook myself some real food.  Wake up tomorrow anew.  And if I go visit Phoenix for our happy hour, I'll do my damnedest to keep myself in check.  I need my friends to help keep me in line too.  To not let me go down that path.  I have  not yet strayed so far that I can't find my way back.

My entire adult life has been the familiar "1 Step Forward, 2 Back" routine.  Time to grow the fuck up and move on.

I Have an Addiction.

To being needed.  To nurturing, saving, rescuing.

I have a new dog.  Adopting My Boy wasn't the intention, though I am not surprised how it turned out.  My aunt (who is practically my own age) is recently divorced with two kids and lives an incredibly busy life.  Last winter, they adopted a companion for their old and very mellow Collie.  The puppy they got was absolutely adorable, a big ball of fluff.  He is a big breed too; likely German Shepherd / Malamute mix.

Well, as time went on and My Boy outgrew his cutesy and cuddly puppy stage, he started terrorizing their home.  He is now huge and requires a lot more training and exercise than they were providing him.  He repaid them by eating nearly every single personal belonging, then shitting it out on the dining room floor.  Naturally, when I had to put My Girl down, my aunt said "Hey, you wanna borrow him?  I think it'll be better for you to come home to a dog every day and as a bonus, he will get some much needed discipline."  Of course, big and hairy is how I like 'em so I agreed.

I am proud to say that in our short amount of time together, My Boy is doing great with me.  He gets adequate exercise and he actually seems to truly enjoy our training sessions together.  He repays me with lots of snuggles and affection, while even being the perfect amount of protective over me.  Recently my aunt, her kids, and I have decided his new and forever home is with me. 

He is certainly not My Girl.  In fact, he is the polar opposite of her.  He counters her boldness and bravery, with shyness and curiosity.  I like to think of that as a beautiful thing.  As I drove My Girl to the vet on that terrible day, I thought to myself "My life is about to change.  Drastically."  And it has.  My Boy shows that.  He is a different dog and I feel like a different me.  I am grateful to be back to Dog Mommyhood.  It is where I am most comfortable.

Struck by Lightning on a Clear Day

It is amazing what a difference a week can make.  Two Saturdays ago, I found myself at home after dinner with the parents, relaxing and blabbing on about how responsible I am. Fast forward seven whole days, and I'm taking shots of tequila with Trinity at my house, prior to taking more shots of tequila at the bar to commemorate Cinco de Mayo like the good Gringa I am.

Our itinerary of debauchery was well planned.  Through the course of about thirty emails last week, Trinity and I decided she would come to my town for the night.  She would meet me at our usual day-drinking micro brew spot before we ventured on to a sponsored block party our friend's band was playing.  Eventually, we would spend the rest of the night belting out Beastie Boys karaoke in memory of M.C.A.  Sounded like a great plan, one reminiscent of my earlier Twenties.  I only asked that I not wake up pregnant. We executed our plan fucking beautifully! Days later, we are still talking about how great it was to be so irresponsible for an evening.

Copious tequila shots were not my only irresponsible indulgence from the weekend though.  I have developed a crush.  A real, honest, omigodimsixteenagain, crush.  I have known Phoenix for a few weeks, as he is Robo's new neighbor.  He moved to my town less than two months ago, and is thus, the new (and yet to be tainted) guy in town.  Really?  A handsome man in my small mountain town that neither me or any of my friends have slept with?  Get the fuck out - I've hit a gold mine!  In all honesty, I wasn't thinking of him as a romantic partner when we met.  I know my group of friends can be a little clique-y, as if we are the cool kids on the playground.  So when I would see him venturing out on the town solo, I always made an effort to be friendly. 

However, the platonic nature of my feelings towards Phoenix came to a screeching halt this weekend.  As our quick greetings slowly started migrating to walking each other home, post happy-hour dinners, and spending hours on end with one another, people started to notice.  At first, I would respond to inquiries about our status with "It's not like that.  He's new here and I'm just trying to be friendly."  After many prods from my guy friend, Cowboy, I finally just said "Okay.  I admit it.  I have a HUGE crush on Phoenix."  I eventually let myself realize that as much as I try to fight it, I genuinely want to hang out with him.  Like, every fucking day.

At the present time, my little (or not so little) crush on Phoenix is just that.  There has been no holding hands, kissing, caressing, and certainly no fucking.  But our conversations have certainly drifted from just random "getting to know you" bullshit to more deep and meaningful things.  We talk about our families, our, pasts, our goals, our hopes for our futures, and most recently, what sort of things we like and dislike in relationships.  I feel that I may be sensing some mixed signals from Phoenix. We spend a LOT of fun time together, but his lack of physical forwardness confuses me into thinking that perhaps this attraction being mutual is a fleeting thought.  Cowboy on the other hand, says I have simply forgotten what it's like to be pursued by a gentleman: "Just because he hasn't tried to poke ya, doesn't mean he's not interested in ya.  Now gimme me a dip."

So now, here I am.  Obsessively checking my phone, tripping over myself when I hear it ring, asking Trinity to help me compose texts, and in general just over-analyzing every damn word or action I see from Phoenix.  How immature and irresponsible can I be?  But it sure is a lot of fun. Goddammit.  As I have said before, the last thing my life needs is a man to come around and fuck it all up.  My brain has more important shit to do.

Got My Robo Mojo Back

Last night, I had a wonderful time with my girl, Robo.  Like Bodhi and Trinity, Robo is one of  my wonderful friends that I simply cannot live without.  Robo too, is beautiful and bright.  But I would have to say her best quality is how genuine she is.  While kind and warm, she has this amazing "fuck it" attitude about her.  As a good Midwestern girl who is ever confident and secure in her own skin, Robo never tries to be someone she's not.  Her feet are planted firmly on the floor.  She is also the most honest person I know, and never sugar coats the truth.  Robo tells it like it is.  If someone is offended by hearing the truth or if someone has a problem with who she is, Robo says "Fuck 'em."  To Robo, life is just too damned short to worry about silly and superficial things.

Because of this, I feel most like myself when I am in Robo's presence.  She has the ability to make me relax and feel at home in my own mind whenever I am around her.  Many young couples, (understandably) value their privacy in the early stages of cohabitation.  Robo and her boyfriend, on the other hand, have a home that is warm and inviting.  There have been countless times the two of them have offered me their guest room, simply so I don't have to be alone.  I know that sometimes when I get down, I can be downright exhausting.  I can work myself into such a giant frenzy that I'm not even thinking clearly.  My words ramble the random jibberish going on in my brain.  Robo and her boyfriend never seem to tire of me.  And when they do, they certainly don't show it.  I love them for that.

When Robo returned after a two week visit with her family, I may have been just as excited to see her as her boyfriend was.  I needed some time with her.  To catch up and talk about what life has dealt each of the last two weeks.  But mostly just because I needed to feel more like me.  Few things can help me get there, than seeing this great friend of mine.  I feel so incredibly blessed to have her in my life.  I am so glad she's home.

Confession...

I am and old snob

I think I may be the only one of all my friends, not currently having a blast at my dear Trinity's keg party tonight.  Because I wanted to have dinner and play cards with my parents.  And I feel like an awful friend for it.  With the difficult times I have faced lately, Trinity has made a great effort to be present for me and to be a good friend.  I feel horribly guilty for not supporting her by being present at her party.

Now don't get me wrong.  If this party were for a birthday, graduation, house-warming, or otherwise monumental life milestone, I would be there.  But this is a theme party for the sake of having one.  And for me, that would turn into drinking for the sake of having hilarious stories to tell. Which is fine; it actually sounds like a lot of fun, and their theme is a beyond-great idea.  I just seem to be gaining different priorities these days.

I will be first to admit that I frequent my favorite beer establishment more than I should.  And I sometimes have more pints than I should, more often than I should.  One thing I have realized in this reinvention of myself is that evolving as a person, isn't about becoming Amish and never drinking or letting lose again.  It's more about finding a balance among health, responsibility, luxury and happiness.  Within that balance, I can't always do everything I want to do.  I can't go balls to the wall from 6pm on Friday to 11pm on Sunday anymore.  I have to be selective with when I allow myself to imbibe or have some "fun".  And when forced to make a choice with when I'm going to allow myself a little irresponsibility, damn straight, what I want to do, is going to be what I choose.

I guess this goes back to wanting to be a little selfish while insisting on doing activities that reflect me and my identity.  I am starting to discover that after years of neglecting my truest needs, it is time to to hone in on what is important to me and what makes me happy.  Tonight, what makes me happy is playing cards with the parents, coming home to read The Hunger Games, while knowing I will wake up tomorrow, without a hangover and capable of spending the day as a functional adult. It seems the older I get, the higher my family is on the priority totem pole.  I have felt fragile and vulnerable with life's recent events.  I desperately needed some time to hear the wisdom from my parents minds.  And feel the unconditional love of their hearts.

So it may be, that I have to be a shitty friend once in a while to keep myself on the road to where I want to be.  Does this personal evolution mean I am any better a person than my friends who are having a ball right now?  No.  Absolutely not.  But it does mean that I am a person than I used to be.

A Painful Pride

Last Friday was a very difficult day for me.  I had to say goodbye to one of the only constant companions of my Twenties.  Or, as I figured it, I was having to Kevorkian my dog.  The way I felt that day was absolutely tragic.  I felt fragile and lost.  After the days I'd had in preparation, I didn't think I had any tears left by the time we arrived to the vet.  But I lost it.  I mean broke down and sobbed like I've never cried before.  Her enormous heart stopped before they'd even finished injecting the medication.  The moment they confirmed she was gone, the only emotion I could feel was lonely.

Back when I was a young and optimistic twenty year old adpopting my first pup, I guess I just always assumed that by the time she died, I would be married, or have a live in boyfriend, or own a house with a big yard and perhaps already have another dog.  I never thought, even in recent years as her health declined, that I'd be left all alone.  I don't have a spouse, or roommates, or kids.  For nearly a solid decade, that dog is who I came home to every day.  She was the one who greeted me at the door, wanting to hear about my day.  The one who laid with me as my tears fell onto her fur while consoling my heartaches.  The reason I had to get out of bed everyday, if only just to feed her and let her out.  When she died, my aunt and Sister were by my side and cried a few tears so I could cry a few less.  The incredible outpouring from family, friends I hadn't seen in years, and even a handful of demons, was something to be grateful for.  All weekend, friends and family made sure I didn't have to be alone.  I didn't even stay at home for two nights.  Still, without my baby, I felt incredibly alone.

But that outpouring has helped me to see a silver lining and something beautiful about it all. I had well wishes from countries she had never been to.  Friends from all over the US, who also spent nearly their entire Twenties with that dog, called and texted all the time.  That sweet and sometimes grumpy dog made an impact on this globe during her time here.  And I should be proud of that.  If I had never come along, she would have been euthanized years ago, never having the chance to experience a full and free life. Together, we traveled, attended keg parties, slept on random couches (and in my car), went rock climbing, snow-hiking, camping, swimming in rivers, danced at music festivals... The list goes on.  That dog lived an absolutely beautiful life and is known and loved the world over.  Thanks to me.  I take pride and comfort in knowing the two of us had a mutually loving bond, and side by side, we saved one another.  Her last few days were spent with me taking time off work to spoil her absolutely rotten and do all the things her old age had put on hold.  Just one last time.

May you always be so smug, My Girl.

Friday marked another monumental day in my life.  I should have been attending a baseball game and having beers and lunch bought for me.  It was my ten-year anniversary at my work.  Now come on, how many people reach ten freakin' years of employment at the same place before age Thirty?  Not too bad, in my eyes.  I love my career and what I do.  I may not be bringing home wads of cash just yet, and it hasn't been easy.  In fact, it's been downright painful sometimes.  But I am proud of myself and proud of what hand I have played in helping my company to become what it is.

Through all my self doubt and moments of feeling as I have wasted my Twenties, I can proudly say there are at least two things I managed to not completely fuck up.