I Hear That Life Moves On

I remember here

I remember you and me

I remember wild and wild and free.

I remember 'stay'

I remember 'please don't ever leave'

I remember you made me believe
That tomorrow and today

The sun would hold our hands

But the night came in to stay

While you made other plans.

I remember time

I remember days slid into years

Building lifetimes, thinking you'd be here.

But tomorrow and today

Well they misunderstood.

And you went along your way,

I think you're gone for good.

You are the sun gone down,

You are the sky.

You are the moon rushed round,

You are goodbye.

I remember 'go',

And I remember 'well maybe you could wait'.

I remember arms reached out too late.

Because tomorrow and today

Are only here so long.

When there's nothing left to say,

I hear that life moves on.

You are the sun gone down,

You are the sky.

You are the moon rushed round,

You are goodbye.

-------------------

In 2004 I dated a guy that made me the worst person I can ever remember being. After months of agony and a rollercoaster romance, he asked me to move to the city where he lived so that we could work together for the summer. Once I got there and had settled into his parents' house, signed my job contract for the next 4 months, and convinced my family that I was not, in fact, insane, he broke up with me immediately, citing a miraculous religious conversion that rendered me "the incarnation of sin" and him asexual. To this day I refer to my time with him as a litmus test for whether I'm doing right by myself and being kind to others. The guy himself I simply refer to as Psycho Ex or The Bad One. Future posts will be reserved to explain the drama that was the summer of '04, but there is an important part of that hellish period that is relevant for today's post.

The greatest thing my mother ever did for my self-esteem (besides give birth to me, which gave me at least a fighting chance) was to put me on a plane to Europe during said 2004 Hell. I remember sitting in Atlanta at my aunt's house, putting up a weak argument against my mother's insightful comments over the phone about how seeing Pyscho Ex at work every day was slowly eroding my self-worth, causing me unhealthy anxiety, and breeding suicidal thoughts in the darkness of my headspace. I had, my mother pointed out, turned into a complete zombie. Psycho Ex had so completely battered my sense of self-respect and my otherwise freely speaking, opinionated personality that I had given up the fight not only in our relationship but also in my life in general. Concerned offers from friends and coworkers to get me out of the house were met with a half-hearted "I'm busy" and a shrug that made it clear I was completely uninterested in a repeat attempt to save me.

One day an e-ticket arrived in my Inbox, accompanied by a phone call. My mother was putting me on mandatory vacation whether I liked it or not. I was just going to have to let my employer know I was taking a week off to go stay with my family in Europe. Still in a haze of pain, I boarded that plane a few days later and prepared myself for the night-long trip. When I woke up red-eyed and groggy upon landing, something unexpected happened. It was as if my mind - my body even - was coming out of the numb haze that had suppressed my sense of self for 2 years. The odd familiarity of my native language surrounded me as snatches of conversation reached me. Then, after I had retrieved my bags from the carousel and exited customs, I stood in the arrivals hall and wept.

One week away from Psycho Ex gave me the perspective I needed to kick off the healing process. When I returned stateside I reintegrated myself into my family life, finally took my colleagues up on their offers of social distraction, and returned to work without a cloud following me. That summer, I realized that all I needed to distance myself from The Bad One emotionally was to get far away from him geographically. My mother's push had allowed me to seize that opportunity and learn a valuable lesson.

If only I could pull the same trick with Raf...

Green Lighting It

Do you have a song that turns you on? I don’t necessarily mean sexually, although it may. I mean a song that lifts your mood, gets you out of your funk at work, gets your body out of its hunched-over desk chair state, and makes you move. A song that makes you dance, bob your head, drum your steering wheel so energetically that your traffic jam neighbors can’t help but smile? A song that makes other people jealous of your good mood? We don’t nearly appreciate these things enough, even though they are small things that can make dramatic changes in our mental states.

Every couple of years there’s a song that does the above to me. This year it’s “Green Light” by John Legend. (Check it out here)

You may or may not agree. That’s ok – it’s rare for two people (let alone many) to agree on musical preference. When I was getting my Bachelors degree I took a Jazz History class, and the professor used to ask people to bring in samples of their favorite music and play them for the whole group. Students rarely did it - everyone was too self-conscious to expose such a private part of themselves in front of a potentially critical group of their peers. It’s funny, isn’t it? When we go on first dates we’re often worried that the music we play in our cars won’t make us seem [insert adjective] enough. Emo enough. Cool enough. Brooding enough. Artsy enough. Sane enough. Independent enough. Strong enough. Socially aware enough. Sensual enough. You name it - someone’s worried about it. Even people in life-long relationships don’t get the same feeling out of the same song. My parents have been married forever and it’s still a dinnertime struggle between Alan Jackson and E.L.O.

So whether you’re into Nine Inch Nails and Japanese Pop like Lex or a Celtic/Emo connoisseur like Cian, blast that song that turns you on today and delight in the aural pleasure of being suspended in the music, being just exactly who you are.

Facebook = Death

Guess what happens when you're a stupid idiot and spend way too much time cruising Facebook? You come across pictures you'd rather not see. Like this one:


Look closely....yep, that's a baby in a woman's lap. Beautifully photographed, might I add. And that can only mean one thing: I'm looking at Raf and Ingrid's first child without even realizing it. When my retinas finally get through to my neurons I get a little fuckratulations inside. A new pseudonym is born: The Kid (borrowed from ExMi). So there you have it. Today in a photograph. I thought I'd share my little emotional storm for your benefit.

New Year's Resolution #5 - FAIL

But hey....at least I'm in Europe. As lucky circumstance would have it, so are Lex, Marco, Cian, and Hayden. However, only Lex, Marco, and Hayden are in the same country as I am. (Cian is in Ireland, naturally.) Marco is at work. Lex is interviewing for a job all day. So today's million Euro question is: Do I call Hayden for some self-centered ego-stroking or don't I?

New Year's Resolutions

Happy 2009!

What is it about counting down from December 31st to January 1st that so thrills us? Why is it that every year people are united by the hope of a new beginning? As a child time seems so much more stretched out than as an adult, doesn't it? Your 24-hour birthday lasts an eternity, counting down to Christmas is a real game of patience, and you never think to yourself "where did the time go?"

But as adults, we're constantly stressing, wishing for more hours in the day, inevitably let down by the way birthday and holiday thrills diminish with each passing year. Even as a woman in her early twenties, this feeling nags at me. Nonetheless, we all make New Year's Resolutions, as if every time that magic second hand jumps to 00:00:01 all of our past year's sins are forgiven and the slate truly is clean. We become enamored by the possibility - the hope - that we can leave behind the debris that clutter our past and drink a toast to the unwritten future.

Every year my gigantic family writes down these resolutions and recounts them at 11:30 pm on December 31st. I'm proud to report that I kept all of mine this year!

My 2008 Resolutions were:

1. Stop educating my younger brother (in the bossy, not institutional sense)
2. Cook more frequently
3. Have more confidence in myself
4. Find a summer internship

My 2009 Resolutions are:

1. Seek validation and respect within myself and not in others' opinions of me or actions toward me.
2. Be fiscally cautious but emotionally generous when merging lives with Marco this year.
3. Try not to feel responsibility for everything, especially others' emotions and life paths.
   
4. Invest more energy in maintaining my body and my health in a stable and sane way.
5. Forgive

Below is a photo Raf sent me last year after he and Ingrid had become engaged and he hadn't spoken to me in a very long time. There was no message. Just the flower, repentant and peaceful. Maybe this year I, too, will bow my head to forgiveness and resign myself to the loneliness of knowing that Raf will never be my friend again. Then again, maybe I won't.


Here's a toast to all of my wonderful blog readers of 2008. I humbly look forward to your continued readership in 2009.

Cheers!

Revenge is Sweet?

This past semester of grad school has been rough for many reasons, not the least of which was my being part of a highly dysfunctional team with an unhinged leader. Those of you who have been following my Twitter updates (Alice - my most devoted friend - what would I do without you?), you've been aware of the headaches this woman has caused me as they occurred in real time. I won't get into the nitty gritty of this unbalanced lunatic's psychosis, but let me just say that if an entrepreneur ever asks you to write a business plan as part of a team that also includes her boyfriend (a spineless, if attractive, minion who also happens to have confessed his love for you), DO NOT say yes like I did. *Mental headslap*

Sifting through the debris of her abusive wake, I felt an all-too familiar sensation tickle my ego: the desire for vengeance. This was a woman who had publicly humiliated me, tried to have me removed from the team and thus fail the class, called the quality of my work into question, and started an administrative war over a school project. For most of the semester, Lex successfully convinced me that being flexible would be an excellent exercise in management which would prepare me well for the wolverine world of strategy consulting (my chosen career). 9 years as a ballerina and 2 as a gymnast were not enough to prepare me for the back-breaking exercise required to accommodate this woman's volatility and irrationality, but the fear of retribution kept me from pitching my case of unprofessionalism to the administration.

About two weeks ago, my team finally completed this hellish project and pitched our business plan to a panel of 14 judges, 13 of which agreed to fund our venture. This, of course, was a great success, but not one which Psycho Bitch was prepared to attribute in any fashion to the mountain of hard work and 15 hour days I had put into the project. Le sigh.

As I've mentioned in previous posts, I have a nasty talent for inflicting verbal and mental pain on people. This is something with which I tended to lash out when I was younger but have since learned to keep in check in an effort to be a kinder, more compassionate person. Most of the time that strategy works, but ooooooohhhh this woman got under my skin and was flirting with my bad girl ways. Vengeance was knocking and my ego had to be straightjacketed so as not to answer in kind.

There were several options, of course: academic destruction, professional destruction, or personal destruction. All three had their potential benefits. Academic destruction was the trickiest because it required the most proof of wrongdoing, whereas professional and personal destruction could largely be based on rumors and circumstantial evidence. Most people in the program had a long-standing distaste for Psycho Bitch based on their own interactions with her, so Doors 1-3 all had the potential for large scale damage.

As I contemplated these evil thoughts brought on by the impatience and childish pride of a former self, my father called. In despair I confessed my struggle and asked him for advice. He laughed at the recognition of our shared personality traits and relied on one of my mother's adages for advice: "You can always tell someone to go to hell tomorrow". "But I don't want to tell her off" I exclaimed, "I want to hurt her. I want her to see you can't fuck with me without there being consequences!!!" My father sighed and said: "San, when you were just 17 years old you taught me a valuable lesson in life." I nodded. I knew the story well...

My freshman year in college I had failed one of my work-intensive classes because my mother had cancer. When I asked my academic adviser for help, he had recommended I drop out of school, noting that the "Ivy League required something more than such excuses to make the cut." I was stunned. When my father suggested that year that I take up my F in Calculus with the Academic Review Board, I told him that a student trying to battle against an entire institution would be a waste of time. Instead, I said, I wanted to focus on how I could move forward and still accomplish my goal of graduating with a respectable GPA and getting into grad school. He disagreed with my decision but let me have the last word in my own academic career. I ended up graduating Magna Cum Laude and got into grad school with a scholarship. He would tell me later that that was one of the most important lessons I'd ever taught him: know when to cut your losses and move forward without looking back.

I sighed again. I knew what his next sentence would be: "Cut your losses. Move on." I thanked him for his advice, chatted for a bit longer and then hung up with a guilty conscience. Why was I being so petty? There were so many bigger issues in my life (some of them reasons for this blog, par example) - why was I worried about some no-name, 30-something bully with a chip on her shoulder, an infernal temper, and an inferiority complex? Her existence in my life as of the end of this project was terminated. She had no impact on my job prospects, my relationship, my family life, or my future in general. There was no reason to give her even one more nanosecond of my attention, even if it was in plotting her demise.

Later that day I got to thinking: giving up my pipe dream of pride-inspired revenge had proved relatively easy when pushed by sound logic. But what about the desire for vindication I feel on a regular basis when I think about Raf? He, too, had removed himself from my life and expressed the desire to stay out of it completely. For all intents and purposes he was the same as Psycho Bitch - irrelevant to my future. Then it dawned on me: the key was in the past. Raf is essential to the person I've become, and no matter how hard I try to purge his influence on me, I am - as of yet - unable to. How can I feel compassion for someone who has none in return? It continues to baffle me every time I write about, think about, feel, remember, mourn, blame, dream about, try to forgive, or - worst of all - pretend to hate him.

As I'm writing this post, my phone buzzes. Although I haven't yet forgiven my Blackberry for its surprise assault on my emotions a few weeks ago and thus still cringe at every notification sound it makes, I walk over to my dresser and pick it up. It's a text message from Lex: "Finally going to bed. Miss you and love you. You're a really great person. Don't forget."

With friends like that, the back burner seems like the right place for vindication....for tonight.

Merry Christmas Raf. I miss you.

Rehab

Today was a pinball kind of day. Rihanna just came out with a new song that puts me about 2 years behind schedule in terms of coping with the loss of Raf and has aptly titled it "Rehab." Every time I hear it, I feel my heart harden and my jaw clench. I wait for the emotional blow to hit me about 3/4 of the way through the song and let out a sigh of epic proportions when it's over. Lex knows not to ask questions. YouTube won't let me embed the song, but you can check out the video here (ignore the ludicrous video.) The last couple of seconds (4:32+) aptly capture the expression I most often use when I feel Raf's memory surround me.

Why does grief come over us in waves? Is it the result of the brain's compartmentalization, or is it a sign of unprocessed emotions? Am I putting myself through unnecessary guilt when I let my mind drift over the well-known landscape of regret and nostalgia, or am I experiencing mental indigestion because I'm incapable of correctly processing pain? I wonder what Jake's wife would have to say about this.

Speaking of Jake, I got an email from him a couple of days ago in reference to the Master Plan I recently wrote about:

Hi San,

Since reading your latest blog post, I feel like a klutz. The letter I've been writing is to you, not Raf. In your last post you said I was writing him the epic, but what I will say to Raf will be pretty short. In an ideal world he'll be inspired to say something like the email you inspired me to write to Maria* - and I meant what I wrote her - which was a short explanation and has definitely made that relationship a big positive. I have you to thank for that. Ach...forgive me, I'm an idiot. The MP as you put it (which sounds manipulative) is in the works, but the letter's to you...

I am now up to date with your blog. Great writing, you could do well as a writer. I only realised once I got to November that the most recent posts are at the top...I started at the end of each month and read to the beginning.

Jake

Hmmm. I am most curious about this letter. He tends to be very insightful. It also got me thinking: what is going to say to Raf? Moreover, maybe it was time to start thinking about what exactly it is that I want from Raf in an ideal situation.

As I was contemplating these things, my phone buzzed. Blackberrys are amazing things, aren't they? They keep track of your email, your contacts, photos, music, and best of all: painful calendar reminders you'd rather forget. Thank you, Blackberry, for reminding me that December 2nd is Raf's anniversary. Thank you so very much. Perhaps you can also remind me that his child (which he neglected to tell me about) was born in September? Oh no wait, I'll remember that one on my own: it's about a week after my OWN birthday. Thank you, brain. You and Blackberry have been most excellent ninja memory assassins today. It's a good thing they haven't invented a Blackberry chip you can implant in your brain yet, because you can't throw a chip embedded in your cranium against the wall when your eyes well up with anger.

In other news, Hayden's father has put his gorgeous canal house on the market. I imagine this must be a pretty painful experience - downsizing because you're lonely even though that means leaving behind the last thing your wife did before she died: decorate and furnish that house. I was back in Europe for my second round (the one that got me the job) but didn't get in touch with him. When I got back to the States, I texted him saying: "Hey, I was in town but didn't have time to stop by. Next time, maybe. Hope you're well." No response, unsurprisingly.

That was in September. Flash forward a few months. Marco and I are about to start looking for apartments in January. Needless to say, irony felt it necessary to make sure all of the ones available and with decent parking are located exactly in the same neighborhood as Hayden's new place. Ah, yes. Well played, Lady Irony. Well played.

A question occurred to me recently while reading Raf's letters (yes, I ended up bringing them back with me from my parents' house. Bad girl, I know.)

Did he take advantage of me?

It's possible - the four-year age gap was significant when we met. But aside from our intense and prolonged bout of kissing during his visit there was no intimate physical contact to speak of, so that rules out motivation by sex. But what about emotional (ab)use?

I recently theorized that Raf took advantage of me emotionally at a time when I was vulnerable to losing my own emotional identity by being his crutch. This is based mostly on the blush of embarrassment I feel when reading our fervent correspondence from that time period, but I recall it as being nothing short of genuine on both our parts at the time of its unfolding. Certainly a teenage boy with nothing but sex on the brain would not take the trouble to cultivate an 8-year, emotionally intimate relationship with someone half a world away? There would be a virtual guarantee of no physical satisfaction, not to mention millions of other options in his home country.

As I do almost every week, I re-read Ingrid's angry email to me demanding my exit from Raf's existence, trying to glean some sort of truth in her venom. Even her hateful assessment of the situation certainly makes it seem like our bond was real.

The question Jake inspired remains: what do I want from Raf? An explanation? An apology? A friendship? The answer is so hard to pinpoint. Maybe there comes a time in grief where you're too far gone to want to go back. At what point do the wounds of bitterness and anger soften into the faint, throbbing pain of nostalgia? When have you buried and wept over enough pieces of your shattered heart to resent a perpetrator's effort to come back and help you dig them up? And if that desire goes away, why don't the emotional thorns?

Maybe that's the feeling of wisdom taking root in my soul...


*Explanation to follow at a later date (when I figure out what the hell he's referring to - my memory does not match my apparent wisdom. Oops!)

It's a Girl....?

New message posted on Jake's profile by Raf this week:

How goes it over in the land of milk and honey? After a few stupidly busy weeks things have calmed down a little here so i get to spend a little time getting in touch with people... how are you and the Mrs doing? Four more weeks of work then we move (infinitely better than our current place!) and have a bit of a vacation...

Nothing special, just keeping everyone up to date. (If anyone is still reading - eek!)

To Jake's credit, he is apparently executing a Master Plan (MP) by reestablishing contact with Raf . As I understand it, this MP involves the illustrious letter Jake promised to write on my behalf/about me/referencing me. Once a highly elusive and improbable concept, I received two messages this week assuring me that this epic is, in fact, nearing completion. I wonder what it will say?

Re-establishing contact with Raf serves two purposes:

1) Jake is a horrible communicator and doesn't always realize that just because he thinks about people in his head they can actually feel the contact.
2) It would be weird for Jake to write an epic letter dissecting the innermost sanctum of my relationship with Raf that started with "hey, man...I know I haven't talked to you in 7 years but here's my opinion on an issue you thought I didn't know about."

To be honest, I'm quite worried about this grandiose MP. What kind of psychoanalysis is Jake going to unleash on Raf? Does the once-implicit code of privacy still apply to my now non-existent friendship with Raf? In other words, once he gets over the total shock of a mutual friend broaching a sensitive issue, will he feel betrayed? Will he despise me even more? Will I get another angry email from Ingrid? Hmmm... so many ways in which this could go totally awry. Not that I doubt Jake's discretion, mind you. He's quite the sensitive issue broacher/inner sanctum explorer/psychoanalyst. It's just that when your close friend of a decade inexplicably abandons you, you sort of stop trusting your knack for predicting their behavior.

I dreamt about Raf on two occasions: 6 weeks ago and 3 weeks ago.

6 weeks ago

I am walking toward the familiar porch on which Raf and I used to spend hours sitting and talking during the summer. My body feels like a Nike ad - I can hear every breath leave my chest and weave in slow motion through the rain. The water drops roll down my cheekbones and nose, splattering noisily onto the red clay below. I'm running now, enjoying the cool sensation on my skin and liking the way my wet shirt sticks to my body. But there is nobody around, and I start to worry that I'm in the wrong place. Everything has led me here. Every single lie Raf has told, the pain he has put me through, the friendship he has carelessly thrown away, has led me to this. Today I get to take a Mulligan on all the bullshit. I see him suddenly in the distance and catch my breath. He's as beautiful as I remember.

He's spotted me now and begins his self-conscious stroll toward me, hands at his side, head down every so often betraying his shy nature. We are no more than 2 feet away when he draws a breath to speak.

I will never hear his words.

A palpable anxiety grips my body and my ears start to ring with my brain's message: get out. It's too painful. I cannot handle another heartbreaking set of false starts and an uncertain friendship loathed and sabotaged by Ingrid. The child they have now is innocent, and it does not deserve a lying father or a fighting set of parents. I cannot and will not be the catalyst for another near-divorce.

His hand grazes my shoulder as I turn and walk away. I'm so tired of rising above.



3 weeks ago:

For some reason we (read: myself and a sea of vaguely familiar but featureless faces) are all gathered at a reunion. Jake and his wife sent me an invitation I accepted with eager pleasure. It would be exciting to see all of my old friends and mentors at this hodgepodge gathering. As we're finishing up our standard meal of fried chicken, weak lemonade, and frosted yellow cake, Jake takes me by the elbow and steers me toward the main office down the hill. Dozens of former colleagues and bunkmates are reminiscing over drumsticks, laughing sheepishly and exageratting their gestures to mask the certain awkwardness that accompanies such reunions.

My back snaps into rigidity as I see a man 100 yards away looking up at the baby girl he is holding with outstretched arms. Raf. "Is Ingrid here?" I ask Jake nervously. I don't want to cause a scene. He responds, ever the philosopher, by nudging me toward Raf. "Very helpful, thanks." I mutter. What am I supposed to do? He hasn't talked to me in over a year! What is appropriate to say in this situation?

I wake up sweating, relieved that I don't have to worry about saying the right thing. They haven't invented a word yet for the combination of "fuck you" and "congratulations."

My Head in a Picture

Turkey Day

Happy Thanksgiving!

Scarlet Letters

Dear Readers,

I am facing a crisis: I flew to visit my parents for the weekend and am now doubting my decision to leave Raf's letters here.

Was I wrong? Should I take them with me to read?

Hooray!

The Economist has it right.

I don't know how to feel - it's been so long since I was able to be genuinely proud of my country. Will this change things? I hope so.

Check this out - What if the World Could Vote?

My First Time

Ahh...got you dirty bastards with my title, didn't I?

Sorry to disappoint. This is the first time I've been tagged in a Meme, so I will be completing mine today!

I was tagged by Alice over at Alice in Averageland. She just started a second blog about healthy eating and losing weight in addition to her awesome primary shenanigans. Go show the girl some love.

Alright, here goes:
Six Random Facts About Myself

1. Link to the person that tagged you
2. Post the rules on your blog
3. Share six things/habits/quirks about yourself
4. Tag random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs

1. I fantasize all the time about being a guy

...and sometimes wonder if I'd be better at it than being a woman. Sure, my gender comes with perks (and boobs - very excellent), but I'm so horrible at forming friendships with women that I've basically given up on them and surrounded myself with male friends. My mother keeps telling me when they get married I'll have nobody, but I'm too intimidated by women and/or too worn out by the constant cattiness and inevitable guilt tripping that I'm just pathetically inept at even trying.

2. I'm afraid of the dark.

Not in a rational, "fear of the unknown" way, but in a "Lex must turn on every light in the apartment before I'll walk through the front door" kind of way. I always close my closets at night, I never leave my shower curtain drawn, and even when I'm sleeping next to Marco I lock the door. Guess I just don't like people sneaking up behind me.

3. My two biggest fears in life are:

- That my shower water will turn into hydrochloric acid while I'm standing under it. This comes from a Mickey Mouse comic that I read when I was nine where someone replaced Mickey's water with red paint, leading Minnie to believe he was covered in blood. I guess somewhere between that and reading about acid attacks aimed at "immodest" women in Pakistan, I got it in my head that this is a terrifying possibility.

- That my husband will murder me. This has to do with trust. I'm a very distrusting person and have had the rug pulled out from under me way too many times, so I always assume the same will happen in every relationship. Thus, my big fear is trusting someone implicitly, building and affirming that trust over 10 or so years, and then being murdered in my own bed by my husband.

4. I attract psychos, needy guys, or emotionally abusive guys.

I have never deviated from this pattern until I met Marco. Now I don't know what to do with myself. I've had to re-train my brain to convince myself that I deserve things like:
- A say in my sex life if I'm bored
- Flirting innocently
- Being proud of my accomplishments
- Making more money than my partner without wrecking my relationship
- Not giving up my close male friends
- Being who I am, weird quirks and wikipedia-esque brain and all
- Not cooking every night of the week or cleaning up after someone else

5. I do the New York Times Crossword religiously.

I am so competitive that I take pleasure in beating 12 year-old kids in the online game. Or 95 year-old Jewish grandmothers in Brooklyn. Whoever dares challenge me, really. This obsession means that I also read Rex Parker's NYT blog with a passion. I think I may have a crossword crush on him.

6. I have an unfortunate talent

...for getting under people's skin and finding the exact phrase or word that hurts them almost irreparably. I've used it once and then never again because I think it's a disgusting trait about myself, but somehow my brain stores information about people that I can use against them in the future. Most people have the feeling of not having been able to come up with the perfect comeback when being bullied - I always struggle not to spit out the perfect comeback. I've learned it's much better to de-escalate than to revel in Pyrrhic victories. Still, I often wonder if this skill makes me a bad person.


I'm going to tag:
Sparsely Kate
Cheap Thrills
So@24 (because he hates these)
Des
Lyla Lou (I know Alice already tagged you, but we miss you!!!)

Guest Blogging

I'm guest blogging over at Alice in Averageland today. Check it out.

Ohio

I can't believe I'm going to say this, but...

I wish I lived in Ohio!

Romantic or Creepy?

Lex says romantic.

I say creepy.

http://www.subwaycrush.com/

Discuss.


P.S. My blog idol, SO@24, left a comment on my blog today. I feel loved. (And slightly damp.)

POW! BAM!

This week's intellectual crush goes to Colin Powell for his spectacular speech on MSNBC.


(Tom Brokaw, your restraint was remarkable and puts you in close second place. You're just not my type.)

See the video here.

Chicago

A very appropriate song for today's trip to the Windy City:



Yes Raf, you got me good this time. But it won't last forever. Eventually I will be free of you.

For now, I'll be on the 7 o'clock to Chicago.

Fuck you.

Signs

Spotted today as I was driving home from the gym:

A Bordeaux car with a South African flag bumper sticker and a license plate which read:

FOR-GVE

Coincidence?

(I wish I were making this shit up.)

And Then There Were Three

I received an email from Jake this week that said:

Yo San,

Haven't forgotten you...actually I'm thinking about writing a letter, which we all know will take me several months and almost be worth waiting for. Hope things are good and you haven't had too much snow!

Jake


That letter will almost certainly never be completed, but it's a nice thought. Unfortunately, Jake belongs to the variety of men who are terrible at correspondence, completing to-do lists, or....er...wait, maybe that's all men? Anyway, best not to get my hopes up.

My weekend out in California went well, except for the fact that Lex got himself mixed up in some freaky (and by the look on his face on the plane ride back, entirely regrettable) threesome in San Francisco while I was in Sacramento. Go figure. The man is a sexual deviant. I've promised to let him guest blog about it if there's enough demand.

By the way - HOLY SHIT HOW BEAUTIFUL IS SAN FRANCISCO? I feel a bit silly admitting that I had never been until this past weekend, but it was absolutely breathtaking. I can see why it makes lifers out of so many Americans.


As I've noted before, Jake's historical allure had worn off a bit since our phone call back in July. Where I had once felt a compelling urge to go seek him out in order to find some peace in my head, I now felt disappointment in knowing that even he looked at me askance when relaying my Raf story. Then again, I hadn't told him the whole deal. I hadn't told him about the kiss.


Flashback

The year 2000. I'm standing at the train station, tugging at my red, long-sleeved shirt. I shouldn't have worn it today - it always makes me sweat. I would have been late had my mom not finally put the kibosh on my agonizing between cornflower blue and bordeaux. "You're beautiful - stop with the micromanaging!" she had said. She was right. Still, I'm regretting my choice of outfit. Will he think I'm pretty? Thin enough? Perfect enough? Did I look like I was trying too hard, standing there in the cool autumn breeze in my long black peacoat, a scarf carelessly flung around my neck only because my mother had said "It's too cold to be wearing THAT!"?

Damn it. The train is late. I hated tardiness. It drove me crazy and went against all of my Type-A instincts. Didn't they know what today was? Didn't they understand that of all the trains in America, only this one would determine the rest of my emotional life? Raf is on that train.

Suddenly it's here - the thundering hoofbeat of a thousand mechanical horses. It hisses and squeals to a stop, passing me with a whoosh of diesel and metal sparks. I have to run to catch up to the last car. There are too many people - I can't see! What if he's not there? What if he decided he didn't want to come? What if.....

He's a hundred feet away. A hundred lousy feet. His eyes meet mine and he gives a half-wave. Suddenly I'm self conscious. How do I look? Should I walk over or stand on the platform waiting? Holy shit - a hundred feet. From an ocean to a hundred feet - is this even real? Seems like I've been waiting so long to see him that it can't be. All those letters he wrote me, and now... a hundred feet.

I start to walk toward him awkwardly. Stay cool. Stay cool. Stay....FUCK THIS! I start running, hair flying in the wind. He's running now, too, his giant backpack almost pulling him off-balance with every stride. We crash into each other, laughing, hug awkwardly, and don't let go. I can't believe he's here. A wave of relief comes over me as I pull away and look into his familiar face. Still the same. Comfortable. Warm. Right.

We pass our first day both like old friends and like new lovers: comfortable but weirdly shy around each other. As the sky goes dark we head to our respective rooms on the second floor of my parents' house. I dawdle around the hall, hoping to find a private moment to say goodnight, but soon I run out of excuses to still be awake (you can only brush your teeth so many times, after all.) I lie in bed, tossing and turning. I can't get my mind off Raf. I want to know what it was like, seeing me again. Is he happy to be here? Is it everything he imagined it would be?

Finally, I hop out of bed and creep into the hall. I have to be near him. When I get to his door, I pause. This is stupid. And childish. He's probably asleep. I sneak back across the hall - each floorboard squeaking too loudly for my self-conscious taste. As I turn the knob to shut my door I hear another squeak. It can't....no.....can it? My heart beating audibly now, I stand breathlessly in the darkness as I hear tentative footsteps draw closer.

The knob turns and it feels like an eternity. Raf hesitates before he pushes open the bedroom door. I'm frozen in the middle of my room. What do I do? He walks toward me, feeling his way in the moonless night. "I...I wanted to talk to you.....I......" I stammer. "I know. I don't know what to say...." he replies. I can hear him breathing now, smell his skin in the inky air. He stands millimeters away without touching me. "I....I've missed.....you...." I manage to say, now almost breathless with anticipation. His breath grazes my face. I shudder. "I...."

My sentence goes unsaid. His mouth touches mine and my thoughts go blank. It is perfect. It is how I imagined it would be. It is.....it just IS.

-------------------------

I'm lucky. When Jake picks me up from San Francisco, his wife is on a client call (she's a psychologist). Don't get me wrong - she's lovely - but it's a lot easier discussing this with him in private seeing as I barely know her. On the car ride to Sacramento I debate holding back parts of the story but eventually decide against it. Full disclosure is the way to go, I figure.

As I'm winding down my epic and Jake starts asking me questions mostly in the vein of "how do you feel about that?", I can't help but feel a bit betrayed. Here I was, baring my soul to someone I hadn't seen in a decade, and yet he was giving me some sort of psychoanalytical bullshit! This sucked. As the weekend wore on, however, Jake started to realize that this was really eating away at me and changed his approach. I felt grateful and nostalgic: these were the kinds of conversations we used to have all the time, and I was glad we had re-discovered them.

We drove out to Lake Tahoe on Saturday to watch the salmon spawning.


After taking in our share of the mating action (very Discovery Channel, by the way) we headed down to the Oktoberfest going on in the town next to the lake. As we watched children hula-hoop and browsed some of the arts and crafts stalls, Jake's wife suddenly said: "ooh, I want to look at the pictures over there!" Landscapes. Dozens upon dozens of them. As I stood looking at one riverbed shot in particular, my memories got the better of me and my eyes welled up. I swallowed hard. Why did Raf's memory have to follow me everywhere? Why did it have to be a part of everything I did? Why is it that to this day, every brilliant blue sky reminds me of him?

"What kind of landscapes does Raf do?" Jake asked, suddenly flanking me. "All kinds", I hoarsely replied, quickly blinking away the evidence of my nostalgic weakness. "Mostly Namibia and South Africa." I added. Jake nodded, clearly regretting the question as he eyed my reaction. "I'm....going to look at something else." I quickly added, then bolted toward the wrought-iron mug display.

Flying home, Lex asked me if I was happy that I had talked to Jake. I nodded, resting my head on his shoulder. In spite of my initial trepidations, I felt relieved to have had someone who knew Raf to talk to. My visit, all in all, had been a success.

After I got Jake's email, I went on Facebook to reply to his message. As I started typing my response, I froze. Raf had left a message on his wall:

Hello hello! Sounds like you are having a fine time! I'd love to live in California... Ingrid and i were there last year for a couple of weeks, she shares the sentiment! Hopefully one day we'll also be able to visit camp. We became parents three weeks ago, so currently future planning doesn't go much further than the next nappy change... Good to hear from you!

Of course.

538

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