closing november

Every holiday season, since I met the one who calls me Wednesday, I have found myself measuring the holiday season differently than I did before. I measure my holiday's on her. Probably because before I met her, I never thought about the holidays. Ever. They came and went. I unwrapped presents, took red-eye flights around the country, and ate turkey until my sides burst. She on the other hand, had iconic beliefs of what the holiday season should be. Perfectly trimmed trees, happy families, Its a Wonderful Life playing on the television. Its the season of her birthday, thanksgiving and christmas. And to her, it mattered.

Our first November brought us stolen kisses that were not meant for either of us. Birthday's celebrated in hidden darkness with bottles of Jest Red and nights cuddled under down comforters in dormitories.

Our second November led me to her house at the base of Vermont to celebrate her birth with her downtrodden, wine soaked mother who was nursing an aching heart. Only a few weeks later to whisk her from one fancy restaurant to another in the big apple. Afterward we stole home, hands entangled, more fleeting kisses. Directly following, I attempted to provide succor to her lobster-allergy-induced sickness. Christmas morning we shared mix tapes, and exchanged gifts over a brunch befit for kings--pomegranate seeds, goat cheese infused scrambles, champagne.

I still have that mix. The perfumes she saw as being 'iconically me' still sit in a box on my window.

Our third was spent exchanging awkward emails across oceans. Myself in my own private version of developmental country heaven. Expat thanksgivings and christmases with deep fried turkey, torrential downpours and 70 degree heat. Just a few days after my arrival back to the states in mid-January, we spent a few days in her Astoria studio as she nursed my wounds from six months overseas. We drank rose champagne, ate chocolate raspberry pancakes, skipped around on subways. I fell in love with New York that trip and with her, all over again.

The forth, we saw each other. Once. At a restaurant in midtown. Her new boyfriend and far happier mother in tow. She and I awkwardly hugged in greeting. I, had made the move to New York, and was overwhelmed. Her boyfriend at the time spent the dinner occupying my ability to be appropriate, and it resulted in his prompt departure while her mother and I consumed whiskey at a dive bar on the upper west side. Pianos and stolen glances. Seamed stockings and crushed hopes.

The fifth, I watched her perform on stage. Something I hadn't seen her do in years. And I was transported back to the first three, because on stage its easy to love her. And whatever malice I felt towards her was completely forgotten.

The sixth (this year), I forgot her birthday. I will not see her, and we are likely to not speak beyond a few texts. One for my attempt to assuage her disappointment for forgetting her birthday, and one for her to accept my apology. And let us not forget the yearly "Happy thanksgiving" text I have always received.

Perhaps its best this way, to be separated by miles of Americana, living in our respective circles of existence.

But every time I dance a tanda...I think of her.
Every time I write a word on a page...I think of her.
Every time I decide that tonight is a garters and cuban heeled stockings night...I think of her.

I wish she weren't just a few pages in a scrapbook--A collection of scalloped edged images pasted into their respective pages categorized by foods ate, experiences shared, dreams lost, kisses missed, birthday texts and presents shelved.

If you read this, which you likely will (and likely won't respond to), know that there are days...like today...where I still dream of tuscan homes, claw-footed bathtubs, linen curtains, and you.

On my type of women

A few weeks back, I decided to make a sojourn into the netherworld that is Charlies. Our local country western/hip hop gay bar. I went with friends. The type of friends that a girl couldn't live without...The ones that ask you the hard questions. For example: "Why that girl? Why not that one over there?" "But the one you like is so...old." or "butch" or "strange" or "what have you".

Ok. So maybe I have a type. And maybe that type is shocking to people. And maybe that is ok.

Now this friend hasn't hung out with me in a number of years. She was my date to prom in high school and we have since gone our separate ways. Since we have reconvened in each others' lives she was shocked to see me shamelessly flirting with the professional boxer, with the long hair, the cowboy hat, the crowsfeet, whom is obviously a bit older than me. (9 years to be exact). Now in hindsight, she's not really my type. But she did seem to fit the following bill....

What can I say. I know what I want. And what I like.

I like my women rough around the edges. Seeing them covered in bruises from rugby matches, boxing practice, or a hard fall on a mountain bike stirs something in me. It shows me they have guts, they play hard and that they live on the edge. Knowing that a woman has been in a bar fight (not one that she started mind you), makes me feel like she can protect me. And that I will be safe with her...no matter what. Military women (well, one in particular at this point in time) are the bane of my ability to keep my 'shit together' without melting into one giant puddle.

Knowing about cars, car parts, engines, tools, motorcycles, bicycles, etc is key. Even just a thing or two. Without some knowledge of this, you are less than interesting to me.

Loves to be outdoors. But also knows when to call it quits, throw on a pot of tea/crack open a bottle or wine, and cuddle by the fire.

I want someone to take care of, but that someone should also be independent enough to live without me when I need to do my own exploring.

I like callouses on hands. Sore muscle aches to soothe. Wounds that need bandaging.

Rough hands and creases around the eyes are musts. There is nothing sexier than knowing that these things show proof a life well lived, and these details tell stories.

I may be a softer sort, built for the likes of Academia, but at the same time...I'm not so gentle either. I too play rugby, and enjoy working in the dirt. I just imagine myself doing that work alongside being a mother, with a wife that does harder labor than me and needs me to tend to her bruises, etc.

And I like them awkward, but proud. Quietly self-confident. Casting shy and shifty glances, kicking the ground as they walk. A sort of shuffle.

Peter Pan complexes are key. They should never want to grow old and should just be hell bent on staying young physically and mentally. Meaning they can run through the chicago airport in the neon hallway with me, stone cold sober, and find it to be the highlight of their day. Or maybe go to the park and jump in a piles of leaves, a chance to relive a blissful fall morning of our youth.

And that my friends, is my type.

mirror images

I've always had this problem...When looking in the mirror I've always felt a stranger looking back.

But recently, as in the past two weeks or so, the one looking back at me from the mirror feels familiar, I like her, she feels like home.

Hot damn people. This must mean I'm doing something right.

accomplishments from the week that make me feel better

1. Didn't get drunk once.
2. Managed to almost quit smoking. I'm down to 1 a day basically.
3. Got a job offer.
4. Made a huge batch of pesto
5. Made two batches of sauerkraut. One red and one green. Now they just have to ferment.
6. Worked out four days in a row.
7. Started Rugby
8. Had a killer interview with an even better job than the job offer.
9. Made progress on the thesis
10. Went to bed before midnight many many nights in a row.

the beast howls in my veins

Just a mere three weeks after my last post and here I am.

Battered. War torn. Exhausted.

Whoever has likened love to that of war games wasn't lying. I'm not exactly clean in this game either (to say the least).

Updates:

TNG and I are kaput. For real. For a good while I think. She left for nine days yesterday and I felt so empty. I made a bad decision (or five) and it resulted in the true ending. Why? Well, it became clear to me that every day I spend with her I still feel alone. She's never actually there. She's physically present, and exists of course, but is never actually engaged in the relationship. Ever. And that is hard when she is present, but when she leaves town what happens is that I feel empty. And even more alone. But more "sen dep tank" alone once she leaves. When she isn't present while she is here it leaves me with a sense of dread. A deep longing for more. And I am kept here by small glances, a lucky kiss or two, or a night of cuddling. (All infrequent things, but they still occur). But when she leaves, its worse. Unbearable. And there is nothing to keep me going.

This time she said "You're a child." "I don't respect you." "You bore me." "Grow up." "You party too much." "You are a waste of my time."

Good, kind words.

What kills me is that its not me who can't communicate. Its not me who avoids any conversation of an emotional nature. Its her. In my opinion that shows a true lack of depth to maturity.

The X sometimes still haunts me. 7 months later and I still, sometimes, find it all to be unbearable. Its better than it has been, but its certainly not always easy to manage. No matter how much I rationalize everything, I still miss her.

And one of these days....I'll be ok again.

On the X and her apology

I quote:

"I abandoned you and didn't know everything about everything".

Well how about them apples?

It was a long, drawn out conversation that oscillated from "I'm sorry" to "Oh shit did I really do those things to to?" And it feels like I may have finally received closure.

As for TNG, things are still confusing. I'm still crushed. And I am still breathing.

But more on that later.

wherein hell freezes over...

The X apologized.

Holy. Crap.