For instance, this post originally done in Sept 7th, 2005 tells of a very downtrodden me, fighting and struggling and hurting like hell. It contains all the hopes I had for my future and all the shortcomings I had that made me feel like I'd never be happy.
I can say that I have made some of those goals come true. I have recovered as I struggled to do. I haven't suffered a Insufficient funds penalty from my bank in over a year. Perhaps two years. And I had totally forgotten that I used to get my phone shut off for non-payment!
I wonder what birthday present I'm getting myself this year when I turn the big 45?
Showing posts with label Original. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Original. Show all posts
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Onward ...
(Originally 4/30/07)
... I scheduled my therapist sessions to begin next week. Funny, but since I made the appointment, I've been feeling a little better. And I haven't even started yet. I picked a female therapist for the specific purpose of preventing an attachment problem from developing. That is, I don't want to crush on the therapist if it's a man who falls into a specific category. Because that's going to be one of the problems I'm going to discuss. I need to get another opinion on me and mancrushes. I keep making deductions based on other people's writings, and I keep thinking I have come up with an answer for myself, but then a weekend might pass and I find myself back at default.
For me right now, the worst case scenario is that I'm gay and I won't admit it. That's unacceptable. I'm not brave enough to be gay. The society still has not accepted homosexuality as a standard alternative, and if there's one thing I need to survive, is to be accepted. Also aesthetically, it does not satisfy my mind. Nothing looks better to me than a man and a woman. Not even a woman with another woman. Also also, there's that whole disease thing which Wendy Williams calls The Monster. How many gay men have been destroyed by AIDS? I don't even like to touch public restroom doorhandles on my way out of them--so how could I navigate through a society where a prospective partner could be a viral timebomb? And then again also also, there's Sade in the Kiss of Life video I posted. I stare at her when the thing plays. Her hips and belly sway and I just want to wrap my arms around them and press the side of my face against her navel. I want to kiss her skin from her belly up the middle to her throat and her chin and land on her full, dark lips.
And lastly, there is of course, the molestation. If I didn't know I had been violated before I was ten by a male, I could entertain the possibility that there's a genetic code hidden in me somewhere that allows for same-sex attraction. But no. I was molested. Sex was introduced to me far too early, by another male. I'm not going to ignore that fact. So, therapist, here I come. Let's work out some stuff. I look forward to it, in fact.
... I scheduled my therapist sessions to begin next week. Funny, but since I made the appointment, I've been feeling a little better. And I haven't even started yet. I picked a female therapist for the specific purpose of preventing an attachment problem from developing. That is, I don't want to crush on the therapist if it's a man who falls into a specific category. Because that's going to be one of the problems I'm going to discuss. I need to get another opinion on me and mancrushes. I keep making deductions based on other people's writings, and I keep thinking I have come up with an answer for myself, but then a weekend might pass and I find myself back at default.
For me right now, the worst case scenario is that I'm gay and I won't admit it. That's unacceptable. I'm not brave enough to be gay. The society still has not accepted homosexuality as a standard alternative, and if there's one thing I need to survive, is to be accepted. Also aesthetically, it does not satisfy my mind. Nothing looks better to me than a man and a woman. Not even a woman with another woman. Also also, there's that whole disease thing which Wendy Williams calls The Monster. How many gay men have been destroyed by AIDS? I don't even like to touch public restroom doorhandles on my way out of them--so how could I navigate through a society where a prospective partner could be a viral timebomb? And then again also also, there's Sade in the Kiss of Life video I posted. I stare at her when the thing plays. Her hips and belly sway and I just want to wrap my arms around them and press the side of my face against her navel. I want to kiss her skin from her belly up the middle to her throat and her chin and land on her full, dark lips.
And lastly, there is of course, the molestation. If I didn't know I had been violated before I was ten by a male, I could entertain the possibility that there's a genetic code hidden in me somewhere that allows for same-sex attraction. But no. I was molested. Sex was introduced to me far too early, by another male. I'm not going to ignore that fact. So, therapist, here I come. Let's work out some stuff. I look forward to it, in fact.
Let's Get Adult
(Originally 4/27/07)
A ways back I was led to a blog about a guy going through a divorce. His pain was raw and his language frank. He has since completed the divorce and moved out on his own. He shares two sons with his now-ex and is branching out into the dating world. Believe me, it has only been a matter of months since I started going over there, and he has already juggled two women. Naked.
For me, his blog was/is both an exercise in voyeurism and humanity. I was drawn to his pain and reached out a few times to give him what I thought would be good advice about mourning the loss of his marriage. Then I began to feed on the content for my own needs. He sometimes posted pretty explicit details about his sexual attempts and habits. He sometimes posted drunk. He mostly posted his pain and his dreams for his future. I enjoy it all. I went from the teacher to the student.
So in his last post, he waxed about his fantasies. Quite tame, they are, and well written. Then he invited we readers to comment our own fantasies. And I was just in the right mood to do so. And so I will reprint it here, with a recaptured video for your viewing pleasure.
We've just come in from a late night formal event. Me still in my tux and she radiant in her evening gown. I've turned on Sade -- "Kiss of Life", set the CD player to repeat. We're still caught up in the mood and we slow-dance. Just wrapped up in each other. She takes my hand and leads me to the balcony. I'm behind her, my hands flat against her belly. Manhattan is sprawled out before us, traffic swimming in rivers of light. She's swaying her hips to the music, brushing the front of me with her pert bottom until she can feel what she's looking for.
And then, like a good little husband, I hike up her dress and give it to her under the city sky.
And re:Sade in the above video; She is why I want to stay hetereo. So. So beautiful.
A ways back I was led to a blog about a guy going through a divorce. His pain was raw and his language frank. He has since completed the divorce and moved out on his own. He shares two sons with his now-ex and is branching out into the dating world. Believe me, it has only been a matter of months since I started going over there, and he has already juggled two women. Naked.
For me, his blog was/is both an exercise in voyeurism and humanity. I was drawn to his pain and reached out a few times to give him what I thought would be good advice about mourning the loss of his marriage. Then I began to feed on the content for my own needs. He sometimes posted pretty explicit details about his sexual attempts and habits. He sometimes posted drunk. He mostly posted his pain and his dreams for his future. I enjoy it all. I went from the teacher to the student.
So in his last post, he waxed about his fantasies. Quite tame, they are, and well written. Then he invited we readers to comment our own fantasies. And I was just in the right mood to do so. And so I will reprint it here, with a recaptured video for your viewing pleasure.
We've just come in from a late night formal event. Me still in my tux and she radiant in her evening gown. I've turned on Sade -- "Kiss of Life", set the CD player to repeat. We're still caught up in the mood and we slow-dance. Just wrapped up in each other. She takes my hand and leads me to the balcony. I'm behind her, my hands flat against her belly. Manhattan is sprawled out before us, traffic swimming in rivers of light. She's swaying her hips to the music, brushing the front of me with her pert bottom until she can feel what she's looking for.
And then, like a good little husband, I hike up her dress and give it to her under the city sky.
And re:Sade in the above video; She is why I want to stay hetereo. So. So beautiful.
The Yin And The Yang Of It All
(Originally 4/26/07)
After yesterday's post about My Other Hero's loss, I didn't exactly want to come here and gush about positive things. Yet My Other Hero seems to have coped with it better than I have, and I didn't even know Jamie Bishop.
For the past month and a half, my allergies have been fierce. A month ago I couldn't sleep a solid night for the coughing, and I resorted to a $9 pack of Alavert, which didn't seem to cure me. Well a month later, I'm sleeping through the night, but I'm still coughing all day--producing nice yummy little blobs of phlegm every time (where is all this fluid coming from?). So I went to the doctor for a checkup. I was prescribed antibiotics and a chest X-Ray, which I took yesterday. The results are not back yet.
This is going to sound maudlin and self-serving, but if the results come back showing something awful, like The Big C, I'm going to breathe a sigh of relief (and then probably cough). Because I'm ready to move on. This life is a failure and not just sometimes, I despair of it.
I move from one distraction to the next, trying to eek whatever joy I can get from my circumstances, but generally it's only the quality of my fantasies that determine how good my day is going to be. I live through virtuosity. Not only through fantasy per se, but through other people's lives. Through your families and loves and successes. Because it feels like the only success I'm going to personally experience in these areas can only be imagined. The chemical ingredient that transforms my deepest desires into reality is not present.
You understand, of course, that I'm not in any way, shape, or form contemplating suicide. There's still a glowing hoper inside of me that would like to see things get better, and I'm not going to cut off my chances of that happening. But if something else that I can't control comes along, like a fatal illness, -- the way that accident came along, despite my wrestling with the steering wheel like an action hero -- then so the hell be it. I'm ready to write my farewells, throw all my junk out, give my books away to charities and friends, and shed the effluvia of my transient life.
Am I having a bipolar shift into depression? Maybe so. Will succesfully courting a mate and marrying her (or him) solve this depression? Probably not. So what then? Get some medication? Get the hell over it? Get another comic book? Write another story? Dive back, and this time go deep, into the fantasy world?
I'm going to call my insurance carrier again, and this time instead of X-Rays, I'm going back to therapy.
Now, here's the craziness of it all. On that Friday Night a few weeks ago, between the Moon and New York City, along with the dancing I did, I sang. The mood was right, the live band was playing, and the people were encouraging. So when Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On" started to play, I lifted my head and went "Mother, mother ...there's too many of you crying ... Brother brother brother ... there's far too many of you dying ..." My Friday Night Date made the same expression she made when she first saw me in my tux and said, "Sing it, Al!"
Oh, the encouragement of a good woman. No medicine like it.
So a few nights ago, I broke open my podcasting mic, plugged it into my laptop, and sang three songs. No, make that four. Then I listened to them, all the way through. And whereas I've tried this before, both privately and publicly, I have arrived to the place I wanted to be with this singing thing. I'm ready to put these renditions of mine online somewhere.
I know it now. I actually can sing.
So with that major goal in life met, why am I ready to accept cancer and shuffle off the mortal coil? That's why I'm going back to therapy. Unless you guys reading this can tell me if this is a normal state of The Human Condition? And that is, with all the ups in your lives, there is an equal amount of downs. That you can go along in a great mood, and suddenly something comes along and it all gets dark, like there was never a reason to feel good in the first place? And if not, then is it just me ... and the millions of others who suffer from mood disorders?
You'd think I should know, right? Being a therapist and all. (OO! Don't go to that guy!)
Talk to me, somebody.
After yesterday's post about My Other Hero's loss, I didn't exactly want to come here and gush about positive things. Yet My Other Hero seems to have coped with it better than I have, and I didn't even know Jamie Bishop.
For the past month and a half, my allergies have been fierce. A month ago I couldn't sleep a solid night for the coughing, and I resorted to a $9 pack of Alavert, which didn't seem to cure me. Well a month later, I'm sleeping through the night, but I'm still coughing all day--producing nice yummy little blobs of phlegm every time (where is all this fluid coming from?). So I went to the doctor for a checkup. I was prescribed antibiotics and a chest X-Ray, which I took yesterday. The results are not back yet.
This is going to sound maudlin and self-serving, but if the results come back showing something awful, like The Big C, I'm going to breathe a sigh of relief (and then probably cough). Because I'm ready to move on. This life is a failure and not just sometimes, I despair of it.
I move from one distraction to the next, trying to eek whatever joy I can get from my circumstances, but generally it's only the quality of my fantasies that determine how good my day is going to be. I live through virtuosity. Not only through fantasy per se, but through other people's lives. Through your families and loves and successes. Because it feels like the only success I'm going to personally experience in these areas can only be imagined. The chemical ingredient that transforms my deepest desires into reality is not present.
You understand, of course, that I'm not in any way, shape, or form contemplating suicide. There's still a glowing hoper inside of me that would like to see things get better, and I'm not going to cut off my chances of that happening. But if something else that I can't control comes along, like a fatal illness, -- the way that accident came along, despite my wrestling with the steering wheel like an action hero -- then so the hell be it. I'm ready to write my farewells, throw all my junk out, give my books away to charities and friends, and shed the effluvia of my transient life.
Am I having a bipolar shift into depression? Maybe so. Will succesfully courting a mate and marrying her (or him) solve this depression? Probably not. So what then? Get some medication? Get the hell over it? Get another comic book? Write another story? Dive back, and this time go deep, into the fantasy world?
I'm going to call my insurance carrier again, and this time instead of X-Rays, I'm going back to therapy.
Now, here's the craziness of it all. On that Friday Night a few weeks ago, between the Moon and New York City, along with the dancing I did, I sang. The mood was right, the live band was playing, and the people were encouraging. So when Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On" started to play, I lifted my head and went "Mother, mother ...there's too many of you crying ... Brother brother brother ... there's far too many of you dying ..." My Friday Night Date made the same expression she made when she first saw me in my tux and said, "Sing it, Al!"
Oh, the encouragement of a good woman. No medicine like it.
So a few nights ago, I broke open my podcasting mic, plugged it into my laptop, and sang three songs. No, make that four. Then I listened to them, all the way through. And whereas I've tried this before, both privately and publicly, I have arrived to the place I wanted to be with this singing thing. I'm ready to put these renditions of mine online somewhere.
I know it now. I actually can sing.
So with that major goal in life met, why am I ready to accept cancer and shuffle off the mortal coil? That's why I'm going back to therapy. Unless you guys reading this can tell me if this is a normal state of The Human Condition? And that is, with all the ups in your lives, there is an equal amount of downs. That you can go along in a great mood, and suddenly something comes along and it all gets dark, like there was never a reason to feel good in the first place? And if not, then is it just me ... and the millions of others who suffer from mood disorders?
You'd think I should know, right? Being a therapist and all. (OO! Don't go to that guy!)
Talk to me, somebody.
While I Was Successfully Avoiding The News..
(Originally 4/25/07)
...My Other Hero, Alex Wilson, lost his friend at Virginia Tech.
Hate it hate it hate it hate it ...
I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to personalize the horror and the fear and the panic and everything that must have happened in that nine minutes. It's foetal-position worthy and it hurts to really think about it and I just keep typing to avoid the real thoughts but I can't and shouldn't now because My Other Hero's friend died in this and it must hurt him to think about it, and if I care for My Other Hero then I should care for his friend.
I just can't do anything about it but be numb and feel furious. My force of will means nothing. I can't save them. I can't stop the killer. All the fantasy about superheroics and time-traveling Japanese office workers and flying politicians and healing cheerleaders are useless.
My Other Hero's friend, Christopher James Bishop, was killed by a violence that animals don't deserve.
It is not fair.
...My Other Hero, Alex Wilson, lost his friend at Virginia Tech.
Hate it hate it hate it hate it ...
I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to personalize the horror and the fear and the panic and everything that must have happened in that nine minutes. It's foetal-position worthy and it hurts to really think about it and I just keep typing to avoid the real thoughts but I can't and shouldn't now because My Other Hero's friend died in this and it must hurt him to think about it, and if I care for My Other Hero then I should care for his friend.
I just can't do anything about it but be numb and feel furious. My force of will means nothing. I can't save them. I can't stop the killer. All the fantasy about superheroics and time-traveling Japanese office workers and flying politicians and healing cheerleaders are useless.
My Other Hero's friend, Christopher James Bishop, was killed by a violence that animals don't deserve.
It is not fair.
Home
(Originally 4/24/07)
I believe I am struck by an ideal of "home", which is why the previous song, "Soon As I Get Home" is so touching to me. From the same musical is the showstopper "Home" which I've always thought of as a continuation of "Soon As I Get...", but it's the one that survived outside of the musical and crossed onto the R&B charts as a classic. The lyrics will speak to what I think a "home" should be, but they also cross over into my experience of living This Redeemable Life, so I inserted relevent links;
Home
by Charlie Smalls
When I think of Home
I think of a place
Where there's
Love overflowing
I wish I was Home,
I wish I was back there
With the things,
I've been knowing;
Wind that makes the tall grass bend into leaning
Suddenly the raindrops that fall have a meaning
Sprinkling the scene
Makes it all
Clean.
Maybe there's a chance for me to go back
Now that I
Have
Some direction
It sure would be nice to be back Home
Where there's love
and affection
And just maybe I can convince time to slow up
Giving me enough time
In my life
To grow up
Time, be my friend?
Let me start
Again?
Suddenly my world's gone and changed it's face
But I still know where I'm going
I have had my mind spun around in space
Yet I've watched it growing
And oh, if your listening God,
Please don't make it hard
To know
If we should believe the things that we see.
Tell us
Should we try to stay
or should we run away
Or would it be
Better just to let things be?
Living here, in this brand new world
Might be a fantasy
But it's taught me to love
So its real
real
Real to me
And I've learned, we must look inside our hearts
To find
A world full of love
Like yours,
Like mine,
Like Home.
I believe I am struck by an ideal of "home", which is why the previous song, "Soon As I Get Home" is so touching to me. From the same musical is the showstopper "Home" which I've always thought of as a continuation of "Soon As I Get...", but it's the one that survived outside of the musical and crossed onto the R&B charts as a classic. The lyrics will speak to what I think a "home" should be, but they also cross over into my experience of living This Redeemable Life, so I inserted relevent links;
Home
by Charlie Smalls
When I think of Home
I think of a place
Where there's
Love overflowing
I wish I was Home,
I wish I was back there
With the things,
I've been knowing;
Wind that makes the tall grass bend into leaning
Suddenly the raindrops that fall have a meaning
Sprinkling the scene
Makes it all
Clean.
Maybe there's a chance for me to go back
Now that I
Have
Some direction
It sure would be nice to be back Home
Where there's love
and affection
And just maybe I can convince time to slow up
Giving me enough time
In my life
To grow up
Time, be my friend?
Let me start
Again?
Suddenly my world's gone and changed it's face
But I still know where I'm going
I have had my mind spun around in space
Yet I've watched it growing
And oh, if your listening God,
Please don't make it hard
To know
If we should believe the things that we see.
Tell us
Should we try to stay
or should we run away
Or would it be
Better just to let things be?
Living here, in this brand new world
Might be a fantasy
But it's taught me to love
So its real
real
Real to me
And I've learned, we must look inside our hearts
To find
A world full of love
Like yours,
Like mine,
Like Home.
As Soon As I Get Home
(Originally 4/24/07)
As Soon As I Get Home
by Charlie Smalls
There’s a feeling here inside
That I cannot hide
And I know I’ve tried
But it’s turning me around
I’m not sure that I’m aware
If I’m up or down
If I’m here or there
I need both feet on the ground
Why do I feel like I’m drowning?
When there is plenty of air?
Why do I feel like frowning?
I think the feeling is fear.
Here I am in a different place
In a different time
In this time and space
And I don’t want to be here**
I was told I must see the Wiz*
But I don’t know what a wizard is
I just hope
the Wiz is there.*
Maybe I’m just going crazy
Letting myself get uptight.
I’m acting just like a baby
But I’m going to be alright ...
Soon as I get home
As soon as I get home
In a different place
In a different time
Different people ‘round me
I would like to know of their different world
And how different they find me
And just what’s a Wiz
Is it big
Will it scare me?**
If I ask to leave
Will the Wiz
Even hear me?**
How will I know then
If I'll ever get home again?
Here I am alone
And it feels the same
I don't know where I'm going
Right here on my own
And it's not a game
And a strange wind is blowing
I am so amazed by the things that I see here
Don't want to be afraid**
I just don't want to be here**
In my mind this is clear
What am I doing
Here?
I wish I were home.
(* - you can subsitute God for The Wiz in my internalization of this osng)
(** - These are the lines that seem to make me cry every time.)
As Soon As I Get Home
by Charlie Smalls
There’s a feeling here inside
That I cannot hide
And I know I’ve tried
But it’s turning me around
I’m not sure that I’m aware
If I’m up or down
If I’m here or there
I need both feet on the ground
Why do I feel like I’m drowning?
When there is plenty of air?
Why do I feel like frowning?
I think the feeling is fear.
Here I am in a different place
In a different time
In this time and space
And I don’t want to be here**
I was told I must see the Wiz*
But I don’t know what a wizard is
I just hope
the Wiz is there.*
Maybe I’m just going crazy
Letting myself get uptight.
I’m acting just like a baby
But I’m going to be alright ...
Soon as I get home
As soon as I get home
In a different place
In a different time
Different people ‘round me
I would like to know of their different world
And how different they find me
And just what’s a Wiz
Is it big
Will it scare me?**
If I ask to leave
Will the Wiz
Even hear me?**
How will I know then
If I'll ever get home again?
Here I am alone
And it feels the same
I don't know where I'm going
Right here on my own
And it's not a game
And a strange wind is blowing
I am so amazed by the things that I see here
Don't want to be afraid**
I just don't want to be here**
In my mind this is clear
What am I doing
Here?
I wish I were home.
(* - you can subsitute God for The Wiz in my internalization of this osng)
(** - These are the lines that seem to make me cry every time.)
This Mental Illness Among Us
(Originally 4/20/07)
My challenge is to face the world with mental illness. No, not just my own (which again, I'm relieved to note that I don't have a disorder which needs to be treated with medication, although sometimes I feel like I do, but I have some tendencies and hurdles which have adversely affected my development). I'm referring to all the mental illness everywhere.
This morning I got hit with a double-whammy. In my beloved fangroup, a member re-exposed her ugly side and wrecked my whole morning. She gave herself permission to turn the forum into a cesspool. She railed against another member who hadn't even been the object of her initial ire. She did this in the name of defending her actions against someone else whom she called immature, and with that action, she blew her own actions out of the water. She apologized before for rash and incindiary speech but she'd never done this before, which makes me think her apologies aren't worth the 1's and 0's that they're made out of.
Then I leave my house (HAHA! "my" house.) get in my car (BWAHAHA! "MY" car) and turn on the radio to hear some guy calling in to cuss someone out, saying that he was going to catch up to someone and really give it to her good--threatening and extremely nasty. I though he was calling the radio station but they were just playing his recorded message. Turns out it was Alec Baldwin, cussing out his own daughter, who is no more than 11 or twelve. And it turns out that the recording was given by Kim Basinger, as a defense for her own side in their custody case.
WHAT AN UGLY WORLD I LIVE IN.
I spend so much time in fantasy because it tears my heart out to have to face this miserable condition we suffer from. (Yes, "we". Like me in my car, for instance, when I can't say civil things to people just because they linguered at a traffic light for 6 picaseconds longer than I would have liked them to.) I'm taking responsibility for this tenderhearted weakness I feel like I have, but it does have a root cause. When I said in an earlier post that my mother treated her patients better than she treated me, I was totally not kidding. My mother would curse me out at the drop of a hat. She'd curse anyone out. Somehow, I developed a total fetish for a woman who cussed out their man, but at the same time, a phobia when I'm on the receiving end. No, a real I-can't-be-in-a-relationship phobia. I would walk on glass to prevent an argument. I had one girlfriend who never argued with me. Her I should have married. Yet I fear I probably would have been the abuser in the relationship, because again, I'm no saint.
I know I need to get over this. I can't be giving this much power to people's words. I've sold a good twenty-five years of my life away for a peace that doesn't really exist, and it hasn't improved my life at all, because I'm still vulnerable to negativity. I still crave, puppy-like, approval and acceptance. I can still be devastated by the harsh word from a loved one.
My challenge is to face the world with mental illness. No, not just my own (which again, I'm relieved to note that I don't have a disorder which needs to be treated with medication, although sometimes I feel like I do, but I have some tendencies and hurdles which have adversely affected my development). I'm referring to all the mental illness everywhere.
This morning I got hit with a double-whammy. In my beloved fangroup, a member re-exposed her ugly side and wrecked my whole morning. She gave herself permission to turn the forum into a cesspool. She railed against another member who hadn't even been the object of her initial ire. She did this in the name of defending her actions against someone else whom she called immature, and with that action, she blew her own actions out of the water. She apologized before for rash and incindiary speech but she'd never done this before, which makes me think her apologies aren't worth the 1's and 0's that they're made out of.
Then I leave my house (HAHA! "my" house.) get in my car (BWAHAHA! "MY" car) and turn on the radio to hear some guy calling in to cuss someone out, saying that he was going to catch up to someone and really give it to her good--threatening and extremely nasty. I though he was calling the radio station but they were just playing his recorded message. Turns out it was Alec Baldwin, cussing out his own daughter, who is no more than 11 or twelve. And it turns out that the recording was given by Kim Basinger, as a defense for her own side in their custody case.
WHAT AN UGLY WORLD I LIVE IN.
I spend so much time in fantasy because it tears my heart out to have to face this miserable condition we suffer from. (Yes, "we". Like me in my car, for instance, when I can't say civil things to people just because they linguered at a traffic light for 6 picaseconds longer than I would have liked them to.) I'm taking responsibility for this tenderhearted weakness I feel like I have, but it does have a root cause. When I said in an earlier post that my mother treated her patients better than she treated me, I was totally not kidding. My mother would curse me out at the drop of a hat. She'd curse anyone out. Somehow, I developed a total fetish for a woman who cussed out their man, but at the same time, a phobia when I'm on the receiving end. No, a real I-can't-be-in-a-relationship phobia. I would walk on glass to prevent an argument. I had one girlfriend who never argued with me. Her I should have married. Yet I fear I probably would have been the abuser in the relationship, because again, I'm no saint.
I know I need to get over this. I can't be giving this much power to people's words. I've sold a good twenty-five years of my life away for a peace that doesn't really exist, and it hasn't improved my life at all, because I'm still vulnerable to negativity. I still crave, puppy-like, approval and acceptance. I can still be devastated by the harsh word from a loved one.
Heterosexuality Revisited
(Originally 4/19/07)
Is there such a thing as bi-sexuality? Can we be attracted to both sexes, make whoopie with both men and women with equality?
When I fail with women, I say more glibly now than I ever thought possible, that I'm going to switch my orientation. As if this were possible. And I say it because I know that I find men attractive as well as I do women.
The facts are that women do this all the time. All. The. Time. For them, it's nothing to compliment each other. "Cyute shoes! LOVE your hair! Your butt looks so good in those jeans!" If we were socialized differently, men would be saying the same. But even though we don't express it verbally, I see it at the gym expressed non-verbally. The guys with the best physiques attract a lot of man-nods, eye-contacts, and "What's up"s. There's even a new verbal technique guys use to pay each other compliments. "Yo, dude, no homo, but that shirt looks cool on you." I say all this to acknowledge that we recognize what looks good in people of own own genders.
Now, what we do with that is the question.
I mentioned a little bit ago about a co-worker at one of my sites who told me she once had a girlfriend whom she lived with. No, I mean a real "we kissed and slept in the same bed" girlfriend. Then she met a guy in college and married him and had a son. Now she divorced that guy, but has married another guy. When she started relating to me past the "Hello" stage, she first asked me if I was gay and then went into all that history about herself. So ... is she a lesbian? Was she ever really? Is she a hetereosexual who had a same-sex season? Or is sexuality interchangeable according to your own tolerance?
That particular woman has been paying me compliments lately (she's still married), now that the coats and sweaters are coming off. She notices my thirty-pound weight loss and she likes it.
And can I tell you, I love it that she notices. I want to flirt back with her. She is tall and shapely, and I purposely resist complimenting her in kind because she is sexy as hell to me and I'm trying to be appropriate at my workplace.
And currently, I'm at another worksite where there are women everywhere, pushing the envelope of the dress code. There's a perky little honey to my left, and a luscious full-figure mommy who runs this place with the most adorable personality and face with freckles sprinkled across her nose, and then there's a slinky boomer chick with painted-on jeans and a coke bottle figure that makes me mistype everytime she walks by.
And what I'm very happy to say is that these women find me attractive as well. The way they smile at me and change their voice tone when speaking to me, and even giggle. To them, I'm a man of authority and some position, and I know that's attractive to women. But of course, for my own needs, I want to think I look good to them too. I want what I think is physically appealing on a man. Friday night, my "date" (who still hasn't responded to anything I've sent her) said "Oo, you clean up nice," when she first saw me in my tux. That was nice. (And I returned the compliment, but hindsight tells me I could've done so much more.)
And this is the area in which I exist. Craving attention and attraction, and terrified to follow up on it. Trying to content myself with my choices, yet coming here to expel the energy that builds up from not following through.
And on we go.
Edit, April 21st: My Friday Night Date (formerly known as Childhood Bud II) has responded. Seems my dread of her lasting impressions of me was just another drive-by from Worst-Case Scenario Man. She was just swamped with work. She had a good time and we're still friends.
Is there such a thing as bi-sexuality? Can we be attracted to both sexes, make whoopie with both men and women with equality?
When I fail with women, I say more glibly now than I ever thought possible, that I'm going to switch my orientation. As if this were possible. And I say it because I know that I find men attractive as well as I do women.
The facts are that women do this all the time. All. The. Time. For them, it's nothing to compliment each other. "Cyute shoes! LOVE your hair! Your butt looks so good in those jeans!" If we were socialized differently, men would be saying the same. But even though we don't express it verbally, I see it at the gym expressed non-verbally. The guys with the best physiques attract a lot of man-nods, eye-contacts, and "What's up"s. There's even a new verbal technique guys use to pay each other compliments. "Yo, dude, no homo, but that shirt looks cool on you." I say all this to acknowledge that we recognize what looks good in people of own own genders.
Now, what we do with that is the question.
I mentioned a little bit ago about a co-worker at one of my sites who told me she once had a girlfriend whom she lived with. No, I mean a real "we kissed and slept in the same bed" girlfriend. Then she met a guy in college and married him and had a son. Now she divorced that guy, but has married another guy. When she started relating to me past the "Hello" stage, she first asked me if I was gay and then went into all that history about herself. So ... is she a lesbian? Was she ever really? Is she a hetereosexual who had a same-sex season? Or is sexuality interchangeable according to your own tolerance?
That particular woman has been paying me compliments lately (she's still married), now that the coats and sweaters are coming off. She notices my thirty-pound weight loss and she likes it.
And can I tell you, I love it that she notices. I want to flirt back with her. She is tall and shapely, and I purposely resist complimenting her in kind because she is sexy as hell to me and I'm trying to be appropriate at my workplace.
And currently, I'm at another worksite where there are women everywhere, pushing the envelope of the dress code. There's a perky little honey to my left, and a luscious full-figure mommy who runs this place with the most adorable personality and face with freckles sprinkled across her nose, and then there's a slinky boomer chick with painted-on jeans and a coke bottle figure that makes me mistype everytime she walks by.
And what I'm very happy to say is that these women find me attractive as well. The way they smile at me and change their voice tone when speaking to me, and even giggle. To them, I'm a man of authority and some position, and I know that's attractive to women. But of course, for my own needs, I want to think I look good to them too. I want what I think is physically appealing on a man. Friday night, my "date" (who still hasn't responded to anything I've sent her) said "Oo, you clean up nice," when she first saw me in my tux. That was nice. (And I returned the compliment, but hindsight tells me I could've done so much more.)
And this is the area in which I exist. Craving attention and attraction, and terrified to follow up on it. Trying to content myself with my choices, yet coming here to expel the energy that builds up from not following through.
And on we go.
Edit, April 21st: My Friday Night Date (formerly known as Childhood Bud II) has responded. Seems my dread of her lasting impressions of me was just another drive-by from Worst-Case Scenario Man. She was just swamped with work. She had a good time and we're still friends.
Sailing Over
(Originally 4/18/07)
When I open up my Yahoo page, or the automatic MSN browser that came with this work laptop, I can't help but see the Virginia Tech story. The same way I couldn't help see the Imus story. And all the other stories that raise my blood pressure and cause me throughout the day to shake my head and talk to myself and my God, and ask aloud just what the hell is really going on out here.
No, Imus does not equate with Virginia Tech. They are two distinctly different tragedies. But what they have in common is the fact that I keep trying to avoid them and I can't. I avoid writing about them, but in my head, they romp and roam.
So I've felt guilty for 'ignoring' current events, and here's my feeble attempt at addressing them.
Crazy people are like a force of nature. They're as a part of the world as tornadoes. Just as differing air pressures, air temperatures, and geography causes tornadoes, I think culture and biology causes crazy people. And of course, when I say crazy, I don't mean crazy-like-me, but DSM-IV-diagnosed crazy.
When I say biology, I mean people are born with different brain biology which spans from one spectrum to the other. An infant is born with a brain that may never develop the personality and emotions past the age of five. Or it might not allow the person to process anger successfully without a major blowup first to relieve the pressure. Or it may cause the person to experience a sense of pervasive dread all their lives. Or it might cause them to be sunny and optimistic through the worst times imaginable. Or it might cause them to cycle all of the above on a regular basis, improperly. Or properly. Or it might allow the person to operate normally in whatever society they were born in. Or. Or. Or.
It's a miracle that any planet with billions of these people last through any given day. This is why people believe in a God.
And now we see a young man who developed in a way, through how many ever cultures (Chinese national, American student), to think it was an acceptable alternative to get a weapon and murder a classroom full of people who was not even connected to the object of his obsession, and then kill himself. To you and me, this is crazy. To him, it was the way to negotiate through his problem.
I'm a mental health professional (go ahead, get the laugh out now) because of two primary reasons. One, my mother set out a good example for me to learn how to accept mentally ill people. Not because she herself was ill (this I didn't figure out until years after her death), but because she worked at a psychiatric hospital and she treated her patients like people. She treated them better than she treated me, in fact. The second reason is because I like to understand my world, and since it's comprised of people, learning what makes them tick brings order to my own mind. If someone wigs out on the grocery line, instead of the fear that I can imagine myself feeling, I can explain to myself why the person might be wigging, and if necessary, I can even control the situation with a few well-placed words. (This may be the motivation behind why people become police or firefighters too; but again, that's me explaining to myself why the world is the way it is).
So when I'm faced with something like a Columbine or now a "Virginia Tech" (welcome to the lexicon of tragedy, Virginia Tech. I'm sure that was never a goal of yours) I need to cut it up into bite-sized morsels of understanding; man's search to bring order to chaos.
Or do my best to avoid it.
Most times, I excel at the latter, and right now, that's I'm going with. Because ven the bite-sized chunks are too big to handle.
When I open up my Yahoo page, or the automatic MSN browser that came with this work laptop, I can't help but see the Virginia Tech story. The same way I couldn't help see the Imus story. And all the other stories that raise my blood pressure and cause me throughout the day to shake my head and talk to myself and my God, and ask aloud just what the hell is really going on out here.
No, Imus does not equate with Virginia Tech. They are two distinctly different tragedies. But what they have in common is the fact that I keep trying to avoid them and I can't. I avoid writing about them, but in my head, they romp and roam.
So I've felt guilty for 'ignoring' current events, and here's my feeble attempt at addressing them.
Crazy people are like a force of nature. They're as a part of the world as tornadoes. Just as differing air pressures, air temperatures, and geography causes tornadoes, I think culture and biology causes crazy people. And of course, when I say crazy, I don't mean crazy-like-me, but DSM-IV-diagnosed crazy.
When I say biology, I mean people are born with different brain biology which spans from one spectrum to the other. An infant is born with a brain that may never develop the personality and emotions past the age of five. Or it might not allow the person to process anger successfully without a major blowup first to relieve the pressure. Or it may cause the person to experience a sense of pervasive dread all their lives. Or it might cause them to be sunny and optimistic through the worst times imaginable. Or it might cause them to cycle all of the above on a regular basis, improperly. Or properly. Or it might allow the person to operate normally in whatever society they were born in. Or. Or. Or.
It's a miracle that any planet with billions of these people last through any given day. This is why people believe in a God.
And now we see a young man who developed in a way, through how many ever cultures (Chinese national, American student), to think it was an acceptable alternative to get a weapon and murder a classroom full of people who was not even connected to the object of his obsession, and then kill himself. To you and me, this is crazy. To him, it was the way to negotiate through his problem.
I'm a mental health professional (go ahead, get the laugh out now) because of two primary reasons. One, my mother set out a good example for me to learn how to accept mentally ill people. Not because she herself was ill (this I didn't figure out until years after her death), but because she worked at a psychiatric hospital and she treated her patients like people. She treated them better than she treated me, in fact. The second reason is because I like to understand my world, and since it's comprised of people, learning what makes them tick brings order to my own mind. If someone wigs out on the grocery line, instead of the fear that I can imagine myself feeling, I can explain to myself why the person might be wigging, and if necessary, I can even control the situation with a few well-placed words. (This may be the motivation behind why people become police or firefighters too; but again, that's me explaining to myself why the world is the way it is).
So when I'm faced with something like a Columbine or now a "Virginia Tech" (welcome to the lexicon of tragedy, Virginia Tech. I'm sure that was never a goal of yours) I need to cut it up into bite-sized morsels of understanding; man's search to bring order to chaos.
Or do my best to avoid it.
Most times, I excel at the latter, and right now, that's I'm going with. Because ven the bite-sized chunks are too big to handle.
Between The Moon And New York City II
(Originally 4/17/07)
High. Life.
The beginning component was that I trusted what I'd heard from Childhood Bud II to believe that she wouldn't make the night difficult after reading what I'd written. I think she was flattered, actually. Plus, upon re-reading it, I didn't actually propose marriage, so I guess it was okay after all.
As for a narrative on the night in question, I'm actually at a loss for words. I might not be completely primed to give the telling yet, even though it's four days prior now. I guess it was all sweeping grandeur that kept me breathless for a little while. And then there are questions I have which I'm afraid of asking. They come under the heading of, What Do I Do Wrong?
Thing is, I haven't heard from Childhood Bud II since Saturday. That was the next day and I was supposed to reconnect with them and go see "The Color Purple" on Broadway, which was an invitation made by the trip originator --Childhood Bud II's boss. We were getting along pretty well and they all seemed to enjoy my company, and from that came the invitation. So I was feeling accepted and liked and thought I'd found a new social outlet. But when the next day came, and I was in NYC looking for parking, Childhood Bud II texts me and says, "I think my boss forgot to get you a ticket." This was about two hours before the show started. So yeah, I was not going to the play.
So the whole Friday seems lost in a bit of Saturday seaspray. The waves of doubt are lapping on the shore, repeating the susurrus of "What did I do wrong?" Should I have met up with them anyway, even though I wasn't going to the play? Should I have tried to kiss Childhood Bud II goodnight when we went back to the hotel? Should I have spent the night in her boss' nephew's room? Or Childhood Bud II's room? Should I have tried to kiss her when we danced?
Always the mystery of "What did I do wrong?" What misstep am I guilty of now? At what point did I fall short of the knight in armor, bright, faithful and true?
And in these foamy regrets come the time when I think I really should just switch orientation and take the passion of my hero-worshipping into that last forbidden arena. Because when I'm in the moment with a woman, I always seem to pull away. That last bit of energy that seems to propel others into those memorable embraces usually feels to me like fear, doubt, and faintheartedness. A gray miasma that enshrouds my heart and brings the corners of my face down.
But what would it be like with another man? How would it be any different? How would my admiration of masculinity translate any better into a physical relationship than what I've done with women? Am I proposing that the presence of breasts and the tucked-away promise of a vagina is what makes me lose heart? But the presence of chest hair, rock-hard abs and broad shoulders would be my impetus?
That doesn't seem to gel. The problem I have is with intimacy and trust, not body parts. There are guys who I could just as easily make a pass at, as I could have done with Childhood Bud II (to get my face nice and slapped), which I haven't done. Mostly because I don't want to be homosexual (not, though, because I'm disgusted by it--except for that whole anal aspect wherein doody lives, so maybe yeah, a little disgusted). But then again, also mostly (how can there be two "mostlies"?), I'm just as afraid of the rejection from a dude as I am from a gal.
That's what it is. The rejection. The several thousand different ways the other person will be able to wrinkle their noses at me and laugh. Why I didn't rate enough of a presence for Childhood Bud II's boss to have remembered me the next day and get a ticket for me to join them. Why Childhood Bud II has not responded to my e-mail, or stopped by here to read all this.
Bleagh. This was supposed to be about the good time I had Friday night. Ashford and Simpson sang. The Rev Al Sharpton spoke. When he arrived he took some attention away from Yolanda King, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s daughter. Commissioner Ray Kelly came and spoke. Senator Chuck Schumer opened the night.
The honoree was Dr. Suzan Johnson-Cook, having her 50th birthday and they really rolled it out for her. Within limits. For instance, it was black-tie, but there was a buffet for food. In was in The Supper Club, but the building seemed old and coated in too many layers of bright gaudy paint. There was a live band, but we didn't escape the night without doing the Electric Slide, which transformed the dance floor into a choreographed marvel, I must say. And Dr. Sujay (as those in the know called her) came off her pink lounge chair to lead our table in the last dance. (Childhood Bud II's boss must have made a hefty contribution to own that table, and so the honoree honored her publicly).
To have all these people come to see her and speak for her tells of crazy mad influence. The woman, according to speakers, broke a lot of barriers and garnered a lot of admiration. First NYPD black female chaplain. Appointed by Clinton on a race relation White House committee. Etc, etc, etc. All before 50.
As for us, we arrived fashionably late in an Escalade. My "date" let me tempt her to the dance floor at least twice. She liked dancing and her biggest complaint were the shoes she'd bought the night before. She had pretty red toenails. We rode back to the hotel in a pedalcab, taking our lives literally into our own hands. It was like dashing into traffic blindfolded. We laughed and screamed and laughed some more. In the entourage was the author of two books--books about relationships! She's in her thirties and very pretty. Since my "date" wasn't having any of me, I considered this woman as a maybe.
Yet, without that Saturday follow-up, it's all gone in a haze. I'm now neither here nor there on the matter. Nothing lasting seems to have come out of it.
But it was nice while it lasted.
High. Life.
The beginning component was that I trusted what I'd heard from Childhood Bud II to believe that she wouldn't make the night difficult after reading what I'd written. I think she was flattered, actually. Plus, upon re-reading it, I didn't actually propose marriage, so I guess it was okay after all.
As for a narrative on the night in question, I'm actually at a loss for words. I might not be completely primed to give the telling yet, even though it's four days prior now. I guess it was all sweeping grandeur that kept me breathless for a little while. And then there are questions I have which I'm afraid of asking. They come under the heading of, What Do I Do Wrong?
Thing is, I haven't heard from Childhood Bud II since Saturday. That was the next day and I was supposed to reconnect with them and go see "The Color Purple" on Broadway, which was an invitation made by the trip originator --Childhood Bud II's boss. We were getting along pretty well and they all seemed to enjoy my company, and from that came the invitation. So I was feeling accepted and liked and thought I'd found a new social outlet. But when the next day came, and I was in NYC looking for parking, Childhood Bud II texts me and says, "I think my boss forgot to get you a ticket." This was about two hours before the show started. So yeah, I was not going to the play.
So the whole Friday seems lost in a bit of Saturday seaspray. The waves of doubt are lapping on the shore, repeating the susurrus of "What did I do wrong?" Should I have met up with them anyway, even though I wasn't going to the play? Should I have tried to kiss Childhood Bud II goodnight when we went back to the hotel? Should I have spent the night in her boss' nephew's room? Or Childhood Bud II's room? Should I have tried to kiss her when we danced?
Always the mystery of "What did I do wrong?" What misstep am I guilty of now? At what point did I fall short of the knight in armor, bright, faithful and true?
And in these foamy regrets come the time when I think I really should just switch orientation and take the passion of my hero-worshipping into that last forbidden arena. Because when I'm in the moment with a woman, I always seem to pull away. That last bit of energy that seems to propel others into those memorable embraces usually feels to me like fear, doubt, and faintheartedness. A gray miasma that enshrouds my heart and brings the corners of my face down.
But what would it be like with another man? How would it be any different? How would my admiration of masculinity translate any better into a physical relationship than what I've done with women? Am I proposing that the presence of breasts and the tucked-away promise of a vagina is what makes me lose heart? But the presence of chest hair, rock-hard abs and broad shoulders would be my impetus?
That doesn't seem to gel. The problem I have is with intimacy and trust, not body parts. There are guys who I could just as easily make a pass at, as I could have done with Childhood Bud II (to get my face nice and slapped), which I haven't done. Mostly because I don't want to be homosexual (not, though, because I'm disgusted by it--except for that whole anal aspect wherein doody lives, so maybe yeah, a little disgusted). But then again, also mostly (how can there be two "mostlies"?), I'm just as afraid of the rejection from a dude as I am from a gal.
That's what it is. The rejection. The several thousand different ways the other person will be able to wrinkle their noses at me and laugh. Why I didn't rate enough of a presence for Childhood Bud II's boss to have remembered me the next day and get a ticket for me to join them. Why Childhood Bud II has not responded to my e-mail, or stopped by here to read all this.
Bleagh. This was supposed to be about the good time I had Friday night. Ashford and Simpson sang. The Rev Al Sharpton spoke. When he arrived he took some attention away from Yolanda King, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s daughter. Commissioner Ray Kelly came and spoke. Senator Chuck Schumer opened the night.
The honoree was Dr. Suzan Johnson-Cook, having her 50th birthday and they really rolled it out for her. Within limits. For instance, it was black-tie, but there was a buffet for food. In was in The Supper Club, but the building seemed old and coated in too many layers of bright gaudy paint. There was a live band, but we didn't escape the night without doing the Electric Slide, which transformed the dance floor into a choreographed marvel, I must say. And Dr. Sujay (as those in the know called her) came off her pink lounge chair to lead our table in the last dance. (Childhood Bud II's boss must have made a hefty contribution to own that table, and so the honoree honored her publicly).
To have all these people come to see her and speak for her tells of crazy mad influence. The woman, according to speakers, broke a lot of barriers and garnered a lot of admiration. First NYPD black female chaplain. Appointed by Clinton on a race relation White House committee. Etc, etc, etc. All before 50.
As for us, we arrived fashionably late in an Escalade. My "date" let me tempt her to the dance floor at least twice. She liked dancing and her biggest complaint were the shoes she'd bought the night before. She had pretty red toenails. We rode back to the hotel in a pedalcab, taking our lives literally into our own hands. It was like dashing into traffic blindfolded. We laughed and screamed and laughed some more. In the entourage was the author of two books--books about relationships! She's in her thirties and very pretty. Since my "date" wasn't having any of me, I considered this woman as a maybe.
Yet, without that Saturday follow-up, it's all gone in a haze. I'm now neither here nor there on the matter. Nothing lasting seems to have come out of it.
But it was nice while it lasted.
Someday We'll Sit Back And Have Such A LAUGH
(Originally 4/12/07)
Yes, I deleted my beautiful post, called The Moon And New York City. Because while speaking to the subject in question, she asked for the blog address and I scrambled to my blogger controls, stalling her, so I could erase it lest she read it.
It didn't work. The page stalled longer than I did, and I told her the address, fully believing that I'd have the chance to delete before I finished the syllables. I didn't. She read it. I only deleted the way a person would drop the last bottle of Pepsi onto the ground after the other 11 out the the dozen has already shattered. I could have kept it, but the crashing tragedy and loss of possession was already done.
I.
FREAKED.
So now that she knows what I was considering, how will it turn out for our hero?
Well, we spoke not too long ago and it's going to be okay. She just happens to be going through another, different phase than I am right now. We're not as in sync as I thought we might be.
But we're still going to have a good time tomorrow night. I marvel that people are so NOT me. My reactions, thankfully, are not the same as others' reactions. She even said it was a good post. And she was mad at me for deleting it!
So go figure.
So, Childhood Bud, you're off the hook. I narcced on my own self. No Harry. No Sally. No Worries.
Yes, I deleted my beautiful post, called The Moon And New York City. Because while speaking to the subject in question, she asked for the blog address and I scrambled to my blogger controls, stalling her, so I could erase it lest she read it.
It didn't work. The page stalled longer than I did, and I told her the address, fully believing that I'd have the chance to delete before I finished the syllables. I didn't. She read it. I only deleted the way a person would drop the last bottle of Pepsi onto the ground after the other 11 out the the dozen has already shattered. I could have kept it, but the crashing tragedy and loss of possession was already done.
I.
FREAKED.
So now that she knows what I was considering, how will it turn out for our hero?
Well, we spoke not too long ago and it's going to be okay. She just happens to be going through another, different phase than I am right now. We're not as in sync as I thought we might be.
But we're still going to have a good time tomorrow night. I marvel that people are so NOT me. My reactions, thankfully, are not the same as others' reactions. She even said it was a good post. And she was mad at me for deleting it!
So go figure.
So, Childhood Bud, you're off the hook. I narcced on my own self. No Harry. No Sally. No Worries.
Between The Moon And New York City
(Originally 4/11/07)
I have been invited by Childhood Bud's sister, who has also made guest appearances here as the other "Childhood Bud", to a black-tie affair this Friday in midtown Manhattan.
Woooo-HOOOO!
I believe that through my experiences with My Hero that I've become a lot more receptive to taking friends' invitations for social events. I've called my friends out of the blue, become more sociable when I get phone calls, and have bopped out of the house to go meet people just to say "Hi!". Big big plusses for me that make me very happy. Successes that I haven't enjoyed, or even saw the merit of enjoying, for years and years. Even when I lived in NYC, I would stroll up and down avenues by my lonesome and call that a social life.
So as soon as I got the invitation, I leapt at it.
Now, here's the rub. Childbud Bud, hold onto your seat. And do NOT tell your sister to come here and read this. She is infrequent here--needs reminds to come read this every 6 months or so. Which is FINE with me. Especially now.
You know those longterm sitcoms where a male and a female friend will say, "If when we're 40 yrs old we haven't found a husband or a wife, lets marry each other." (Smartass twenty-something TV writers think they'll have their crap together by 40, so they have their perky little twenty-something TV characters say some blase' crap like that as if it were no big thing)
Well, no, me and Childhood Bud II have not had this conversation, but somehow ... somehow it's in my mind. She's one of my heroes, for sure. I cited her as such in my Heroes post many months ago before I met the Superhero. Well, over the years I've been peripheral in her life. I've popped in and out during her life phases. I was there when she announced her pregnancy with her first child (now a twenty-something college graduate), and I was there at said daughter's graduation dinner celebration. Gave the evocation at the dinner, in fact. Surprised myself with my 1) willingness to be there, and 2) ability to pray and address all those fancy upperclass people with a degree of competency. She and I communicated when I had girlfriends and when she had boyfriends. She and I communicated when we were both out of relationships and like Lola and Shoeless Joe in Damn Yankees, commiserated together.
And now we're going to trip the light fantastic at a black tie affair, as we're in our forties, with no one especially available to us. And I've been very vulnerable to romance lately. And there will be dancing. And I think if "Kiss of Life" comes on or "After All", and we're on the dance floor, I might do something irresponsible and impulsive.
And I'm wondering if after all this time, if that's not just okay.
Childhood Bud, I will officially excommunicate you if you direct your sister to this blog. And you know I can do it--that antisocial little troll that I can be is always right under the surface, constantly craving to break the skin.
Because I'm just saying. After all the years and all the girls ... it might just be better for me to settle into what I already know. It just might be what real love actually is.
I. am. just. saying.
I have been invited by Childhood Bud's sister, who has also made guest appearances here as the other "Childhood Bud", to a black-tie affair this Friday in midtown Manhattan.
Woooo-HOOOO!
I believe that through my experiences with My Hero that I've become a lot more receptive to taking friends' invitations for social events. I've called my friends out of the blue, become more sociable when I get phone calls, and have bopped out of the house to go meet people just to say "Hi!". Big big plusses for me that make me very happy. Successes that I haven't enjoyed, or even saw the merit of enjoying, for years and years. Even when I lived in NYC, I would stroll up and down avenues by my lonesome and call that a social life.
So as soon as I got the invitation, I leapt at it.
Now, here's the rub. Childbud Bud, hold onto your seat. And do NOT tell your sister to come here and read this. She is infrequent here--needs reminds to come read this every 6 months or so. Which is FINE with me. Especially now.
You know those longterm sitcoms where a male and a female friend will say, "If when we're 40 yrs old we haven't found a husband or a wife, lets marry each other." (Smartass twenty-something TV writers think they'll have their crap together by 40, so they have their perky little twenty-something TV characters say some blase' crap like that as if it were no big thing)
Well, no, me and Childhood Bud II have not had this conversation, but somehow ... somehow it's in my mind. She's one of my heroes, for sure. I cited her as such in my Heroes post many months ago before I met the Superhero. Well, over the years I've been peripheral in her life. I've popped in and out during her life phases. I was there when she announced her pregnancy with her first child (now a twenty-something college graduate), and I was there at said daughter's graduation dinner celebration. Gave the evocation at the dinner, in fact. Surprised myself with my 1) willingness to be there, and 2) ability to pray and address all those fancy upperclass people with a degree of competency. She and I communicated when I had girlfriends and when she had boyfriends. She and I communicated when we were both out of relationships and like Lola and Shoeless Joe in Damn Yankees, commiserated together.
And now we're going to trip the light fantastic at a black tie affair, as we're in our forties, with no one especially available to us. And I've been very vulnerable to romance lately. And there will be dancing. And I think if "Kiss of Life" comes on or "After All", and we're on the dance floor, I might do something irresponsible and impulsive.
And I'm wondering if after all this time, if that's not just okay.
Childhood Bud, I will officially excommunicate you if you direct your sister to this blog. And you know I can do it--that antisocial little troll that I can be is always right under the surface, constantly craving to break the skin.
Because I'm just saying. After all the years and all the girls ... it might just be better for me to settle into what I already know. It just might be what real love actually is.
I. am. just. saying.
Scott, If You Would, For Me, Please ...
(Originally 4/10/07)
... go get your wife and bring her to the computer. Stand her right here, looking at the screen. Then stand behind her and enfold her with your arms. Rest your chin on her shoulder so that your breath tickles her ear. Then click on the following YouTube embed, then the both of you close your eyes as the music starts (because the voice sync stinks and the dancing is cheeeesy).
AFTER ALL (Al Jarreau)
There,
there was a time I knew
That no matter, come what may,
love would prevail
And then
inside the dreams I knew
Came the question lovers fear
"Can true love fail?"
Then I would miss the childhood wish
And haven't I sung to you
Of the knight in armor, bright
Faithful and true
to you
Darling,
After all
I will be the one to hold you in my arms
After all
I will be the one to hold you
I will be the one to hold you in my arms
In my arms
I know in my heart and mind
That no matter, come what may, love will survive
And Love,
the Author of space and time
Keeps the galaxies and each
sparrow alive
And the love that heals the wound
After the war is through
Is the knight in armor bright
Faithful and true
to you
Darling,
After all
I will be the one to hold you in my arms
After all
I will be the one to hold you
I will be the one to hold you in my arms
In my arms
I need some vicarious romance, Scott, and you're my brother in mid-age-hood, successful in the pursuit of marriage and fatherdom. Plus you're going to be a published author soon, when you finish the novel about the football player, and I'd like to say I knew you when. And you'll look good on the back on the book.
So do this one little favor for me? Enjoy the woman you love? Do it for all us misfitted pariahs of society, whose inner voice is deafening us with their cries of "Leper! Outcast! Unclean!"
This song made me stay in my car this morning and drive an extra hour around the lakes of West Milford and Ringwood. I hit the repeat and let Mr. Jarreau sing it with me. I envisioned the woman I need to someday sing those words to, when I become The Knight to her, faithful and true. Faithful and true to her. I will become that knight when I have slain the dragon of doubt and fear. The dragon who has haunted me with the question "Can true love fail?" for all of my life. The dragon who destroyed my parents and claws after My Friend The Doctor and My Hero and My Other Hero and Childhood Bud's relationships. After I have slain that dragon, I will then know in my heart and mind that no matter come what may, love will survive. That the Author of space and time, who keeps the galaxies and each sparrow alive, has given her and I the love that heals the wounds when the war is done. And after all that ... after all that ... I will be the one to hold her. I will be the one. In my arms.
But for now Scott, in the absence of my happily ever after, would you please do it for me?
... go get your wife and bring her to the computer. Stand her right here, looking at the screen. Then stand behind her and enfold her with your arms. Rest your chin on her shoulder so that your breath tickles her ear. Then click on the following YouTube embed, then the both of you close your eyes as the music starts (because the voice sync stinks and the dancing is cheeeesy).
AFTER ALL (Al Jarreau)
There,
there was a time I knew
That no matter, come what may,
love would prevail
And then
inside the dreams I knew
Came the question lovers fear
"Can true love fail?"
Then I would miss the childhood wish
And haven't I sung to you
Of the knight in armor, bright
Faithful and true
to you
Darling,
After all
I will be the one to hold you in my arms
After all
I will be the one to hold you
I will be the one to hold you in my arms
In my arms
I know in my heart and mind
That no matter, come what may, love will survive
And Love,
the Author of space and time
Keeps the galaxies and each
sparrow alive
And the love that heals the wound
After the war is through
Is the knight in armor bright
Faithful and true
to you
Darling,
After all
I will be the one to hold you in my arms
After all
I will be the one to hold you
I will be the one to hold you in my arms
In my arms
I need some vicarious romance, Scott, and you're my brother in mid-age-hood, successful in the pursuit of marriage and fatherdom. Plus you're going to be a published author soon, when you finish the novel about the football player, and I'd like to say I knew you when. And you'll look good on the back on the book.
So do this one little favor for me? Enjoy the woman you love? Do it for all us misfitted pariahs of society, whose inner voice is deafening us with their cries of "Leper! Outcast! Unclean!"
This song made me stay in my car this morning and drive an extra hour around the lakes of West Milford and Ringwood. I hit the repeat and let Mr. Jarreau sing it with me. I envisioned the woman I need to someday sing those words to, when I become The Knight to her, faithful and true. Faithful and true to her. I will become that knight when I have slain the dragon of doubt and fear. The dragon who has haunted me with the question "Can true love fail?" for all of my life. The dragon who destroyed my parents and claws after My Friend The Doctor and My Hero and My Other Hero and Childhood Bud's relationships. After I have slain that dragon, I will then know in my heart and mind that no matter come what may, love will survive. That the Author of space and time, who keeps the galaxies and each sparrow alive, has given her and I the love that heals the wounds when the war is done. And after all that ... after all that ... I will be the one to hold her. I will be the one. In my arms.
But for now Scott, in the absence of my happily ever after, would you please do it for me?
5 Potential Victims
(Originally 3/30/07)
I've had 5 hits to the website from people searching for the phrase "www.60seconddecision.com". I wonder why. Are they responding to the same letter I got? From their jobs, so that their work computers won't have the web address in their address bars? And they have bad credit? Join the club! I hope I illustrated how terrible the "deal" is.
Now today, I recieved an offer from one of my banks for a credit card. I'm currently on the phone with them as I type, and I fully expect a rejection. Because the yearly fee is $59. And that's it.
Here's the other rub -- the letter is advertising for "The Irish Heritage Gold MasterCard -- Good news! You've been pre-selected** to receive the Gold MasterCard that says a lot about you." But, um, duh people? I'M NOT IRISH. The only thing this card will say about me is that my credit sucks. So what they trying to say about my Irish brethren? Oo, oo!! And what else? The envelope on the outside says "DO NOT BEND" because there's a card on the inside, right? BUT IT'S A MOCK CARDBOARD CARD. LOL!!! Well, at least if I get approved, I'll a pretty new plastic one, WITH A SHAMROCK ON IT!!!! Please, Lord, let me be approved just to get the chance to say in a store, "Yeah, I'm just celebrating my Irish heritage."
Heck, it's good enough for Superman to be Irish--why not me?
Minimum credit line is $300 measely little dollars, and only as high as $1,500. But again, it only costs $59 bucks a year to use and THAT is cheaper than two overdraft charges.
But this is what I love; "And because you're pre-selected, there's no application fee, no security deposit and no long wait for approval." Well, I just got off the phone with them, and they said I'd get my results in a week. So much for the "no long wait". I think that was their way of saying, "Not this time Charlie. Now take that hit to your credit score, sucka!"
Thanks to the car loan, I happen to know what my credit score is. It's LOW. In the 500's. (What does one of these 100's actally represent? Why is it better to have more of them than less? Just who the hell are making these judgments and classifications? Leave it to us to find ANOTHER way to seperate ourselves into yet another category by which we can discriminate.)
So let's just see what'll happen.
What a country!
I've had 5 hits to the website from people searching for the phrase "www.60seconddecision.com". I wonder why. Are they responding to the same letter I got? From their jobs, so that their work computers won't have the web address in their address bars? And they have bad credit? Join the club! I hope I illustrated how terrible the "deal" is.
Now today, I recieved an offer from one of my banks for a credit card. I'm currently on the phone with them as I type, and I fully expect a rejection. Because the yearly fee is $59. And that's it.
Here's the other rub -- the letter is advertising for "The Irish Heritage Gold MasterCard -- Good news! You've been pre-selected** to receive the Gold MasterCard that says a lot about you." But, um, duh people? I'M NOT IRISH. The only thing this card will say about me is that my credit sucks. So what they trying to say about my Irish brethren? Oo, oo!! And what else? The envelope on the outside says "DO NOT BEND" because there's a card on the inside, right? BUT IT'S A MOCK CARDBOARD CARD. LOL!!! Well, at least if I get approved, I'll a pretty new plastic one, WITH A SHAMROCK ON IT!!!! Please, Lord, let me be approved just to get the chance to say in a store, "Yeah, I'm just celebrating my Irish heritage."
Heck, it's good enough for Superman to be Irish--why not me?
Minimum credit line is $300 measely little dollars, and only as high as $1,500. But again, it only costs $59 bucks a year to use and THAT is cheaper than two overdraft charges.
But this is what I love; "And because you're pre-selected, there's no application fee, no security deposit and no long wait for approval." Well, I just got off the phone with them, and they said I'd get my results in a week. So much for the "no long wait". I think that was their way of saying, "Not this time Charlie. Now take that hit to your credit score, sucka!"
Thanks to the car loan, I happen to know what my credit score is. It's LOW. In the 500's. (What does one of these 100's actally represent? Why is it better to have more of them than less? Just who the hell are making these judgments and classifications? Leave it to us to find ANOTHER way to seperate ourselves into yet another category by which we can discriminate.)
So let's just see what'll happen.
What a country!
Am I Crazy? Or Is America?
(Originally 3/26/07)
So I got the spam solicitation for a credit card that I knew would come eventually and I reviewed it, ready to apply. I decided to use the online application process. You know, instant grat and all that.
The web address; www.60seconddecision.com
The surprisingly plain English terms of aggreement;
Our card is designed and geared to help people who have had credit problems in the past.
In addition we offer you a low 9.9% APR on all of your purchases as long as your account remains current. This will save you money if you carry a balance as compared to carrying a balance on cards with a higher APR.
You will have an Annual Percentage Rate on purchases of 9.9%. The cash advance and penalty APR is 19.9%. The minimum finance charge on an account with a balance will be fifty cents."
In addition, you will have a grace period on purchases of 25 days. The method for computing the balance for purchases is the average daily balance, including new purchases."
You will have at least a minimum credit line of $250 and based upon our final decision that credit line could be higher.
If it applies there will be a $25 late fee and a $25 over the credit limit fee. Also if you choose today to add an additional user to your account, there will be an additional card fee of $20 billed annually.
First PREMIER Bank will bill the following fees to your first statement which will reduce your available credit until they are paid. There is a one-time program fee of $95 and a one-time set up fee of $29. There is an annual fee of $48, and it is not billed again until your anniversary date. There is also a monthly participation fee of $6.00. Keep in mind your minimum monthly payment is only $20 or 3% of the balance, whichever is greater.
If you are assigned the minimum credit limit of $250, your initial available credit will be $72.00 ($52 if you choose the additional card option). Do you understand and agree to these fees being billed to your first statement and what the minimum available credit will be?"
So if I have this right, this credit card will be given to me with an "initial" credit limit of $72.00? And for this privilege, they will charge me a $124 "one-time/set-up" fee, and then $48 a year thereafter, plus another $72 per year, billed as a $6 mothly "participation" fee (which is still $120 every subsequent year, no matter how you slice it)?
So its $244 for the first year and $120 every year after that, for $72 worth of credit?!!!!!
How does America let things like this legally exist within its' borders, and talk about how wrong other nations' politics are?
Meanwhile, I. Pass.
So I got the spam solicitation for a credit card that I knew would come eventually and I reviewed it, ready to apply. I decided to use the online application process. You know, instant grat and all that.
The web address; www.60seconddecision.com
The surprisingly plain English terms of aggreement;
Our card is designed and geared to help people who have had credit problems in the past.
In addition we offer you a low 9.9% APR on all of your purchases as long as your account remains current. This will save you money if you carry a balance as compared to carrying a balance on cards with a higher APR.
You will have an Annual Percentage Rate on purchases of 9.9%. The cash advance and penalty APR is 19.9%. The minimum finance charge on an account with a balance will be fifty cents."
In addition, you will have a grace period on purchases of 25 days. The method for computing the balance for purchases is the average daily balance, including new purchases."
You will have at least a minimum credit line of $250 and based upon our final decision that credit line could be higher.
If it applies there will be a $25 late fee and a $25 over the credit limit fee. Also if you choose today to add an additional user to your account, there will be an additional card fee of $20 billed annually.
First PREMIER Bank will bill the following fees to your first statement which will reduce your available credit until they are paid. There is a one-time program fee of $95 and a one-time set up fee of $29. There is an annual fee of $48, and it is not billed again until your anniversary date. There is also a monthly participation fee of $6.00. Keep in mind your minimum monthly payment is only $20 or 3% of the balance, whichever is greater.
If you are assigned the minimum credit limit of $250, your initial available credit will be $72.00 ($52 if you choose the additional card option). Do you understand and agree to these fees being billed to your first statement and what the minimum available credit will be?"
So if I have this right, this credit card will be given to me with an "initial" credit limit of $72.00? And for this privilege, they will charge me a $124 "one-time/set-up" fee, and then $48 a year thereafter, plus another $72 per year, billed as a $6 mothly "participation" fee (which is still $120 every subsequent year, no matter how you slice it)?
So its $244 for the first year and $120 every year after that, for $72 worth of credit?!!!!!
How does America let things like this legally exist within its' borders, and talk about how wrong other nations' politics are?
Meanwhile, I. Pass.
Physician, Heal Thyself.
(Originally 3/27/07)
So the sensitivity training was first supposed to be taught by my boss, then he gave it to another girl that he calls up in a pinch for stuff (they've worked together for a long time. She'd make a great Assistant Director, but I was the one with the degree.) Then he wanted me to train it with her. Then he pulled her somewhere else and believed I could do the training alone.
And he was right. I could and did. As soon as I connect to whoever I'm training, I'm fine. And this subject matter was actually just what I needed to hear. It was the goal of the training to make the staff more aware of the needs of our clients and how to avoid being insensitive to them. In rehearsing what our own needs are, I attempted to make them more empathetic to the clients by showing that they had the same needs.
And in rehearsing the needs, I found out that my own needs are not unusual. Why do I have to keep being reminded of that? You guys would have laughed, or at least smiled like a loon to watch me saying "We all need someone in our lives who appreciate us, right? Someone who encourages us and likes to be around us? It makes us feel good--like we're worth something. Wouldn't you agree?"
Heheh. Yeah, that was me saying that. And yup, that's me now agreeing with that.
And that's what I missed as I rode 6 hours away from my friends and towards George's basement.
So let me call my peeps and get me some love up in here.
Nothing wrong with it.
So the sensitivity training was first supposed to be taught by my boss, then he gave it to another girl that he calls up in a pinch for stuff (they've worked together for a long time. She'd make a great Assistant Director, but I was the one with the degree.) Then he wanted me to train it with her. Then he pulled her somewhere else and believed I could do the training alone.
And he was right. I could and did. As soon as I connect to whoever I'm training, I'm fine. And this subject matter was actually just what I needed to hear. It was the goal of the training to make the staff more aware of the needs of our clients and how to avoid being insensitive to them. In rehearsing what our own needs are, I attempted to make them more empathetic to the clients by showing that they had the same needs.
And in rehearsing the needs, I found out that my own needs are not unusual. Why do I have to keep being reminded of that? You guys would have laughed, or at least smiled like a loon to watch me saying "We all need someone in our lives who appreciate us, right? Someone who encourages us and likes to be around us? It makes us feel good--like we're worth something. Wouldn't you agree?"
Heheh. Yeah, that was me saying that. And yup, that's me now agreeing with that.
And that's what I missed as I rode 6 hours away from my friends and towards George's basement.
So let me call my peeps and get me some love up in here.
Nothing wrong with it.
Still Adjusting
(Originally 3/27/07)
I SO have to get a girl.
Brenticus!! I published that picture of MFTD's wife and his baby so you could see it, you know. I was hoping one of the Texans frequenting the page was you. Can you e-mail me your phone number please? If you weren't both of them, then one of them is Bluezy Bunny.
Like I was saying, I have to get a girl. If I had come back to New Jersey with a loving relationship waiting for me, I'd be less lonely, I imagine. Although in my mind, I clearly remember one of my heroes asking me if I though being married always answered the problem of being lonely. I couldn't imagine what he meant at the time (this was back before cellphone dominance). But I kind of do. There's always some spot of unfulfillment inside us. You can have 1) the woman of your dreams, 2) the dream job, and 3) enough money in the bank to pay someone else a living wage salary from just your savings alone, and STILL yearn for "something more". Just ask Donald Trump.
So I don't guess I "have to" have a girl. She might not necessarily create a better homecoming, or homestaying. And I suppose it's normal to miss friends. Everyone does. I have a bunch to call up who are closer, if I so need to.
Doesn't stop what's going on inside here right now, though. It'll pass. Or improve. And even if it gets worse and I break down and have a good cry, it'll still get better once the emotion gets released. But I doubt it'll go there. I have a short "Sensitivity Training" to do in an hour and I'm sure some of the messy feelings inside are just mixed in with that nervousness.
But it sure would be nice to have Matt here for a few minutes. Or My Friend The Doctor. Or you, Brenticus. Or you, Steven. Or My Mentor. Or even Grim Jester.
Blaaaaah.
Anyway, I just heard this joke;
Q: How are men and parking spots similar?
A: The good ones are all taken, and what's left are Handicapped.
So that answers that about me getting a girl anyway. If she doesn't already have a good man then she'd have to settle for me--and not being everything she was looking for would probably feel worse than being alone.
BLAAAAaahhh. Should I be posting when I feel low? Well, duh! This is one of my coping mechanisms!
Oh, I'll be alright. Let me get ready for the training ...
I SO have to get a girl.
Brenticus!! I published that picture of MFTD's wife and his baby so you could see it, you know. I was hoping one of the Texans frequenting the page was you. Can you e-mail me your phone number please? If you weren't both of them, then one of them is Bluezy Bunny.
Like I was saying, I have to get a girl. If I had come back to New Jersey with a loving relationship waiting for me, I'd be less lonely, I imagine. Although in my mind, I clearly remember one of my heroes asking me if I though being married always answered the problem of being lonely. I couldn't imagine what he meant at the time (this was back before cellphone dominance). But I kind of do. There's always some spot of unfulfillment inside us. You can have 1) the woman of your dreams, 2) the dream job, and 3) enough money in the bank to pay someone else a living wage salary from just your savings alone, and STILL yearn for "something more". Just ask Donald Trump.
So I don't guess I "have to" have a girl. She might not necessarily create a better homecoming, or homestaying. And I suppose it's normal to miss friends. Everyone does. I have a bunch to call up who are closer, if I so need to.
Doesn't stop what's going on inside here right now, though. It'll pass. Or improve. And even if it gets worse and I break down and have a good cry, it'll still get better once the emotion gets released. But I doubt it'll go there. I have a short "Sensitivity Training" to do in an hour and I'm sure some of the messy feelings inside are just mixed in with that nervousness.
But it sure would be nice to have Matt here for a few minutes. Or My Friend The Doctor. Or you, Brenticus. Or you, Steven. Or My Mentor. Or even Grim Jester.
Blaaaaah.
Anyway, I just heard this joke;
Q: How are men and parking spots similar?
A: The good ones are all taken, and what's left are Handicapped.
So that answers that about me getting a girl anyway. If she doesn't already have a good man then she'd have to settle for me--and not being everything she was looking for would probably feel worse than being alone.
BLAAAAaahhh. Should I be posting when I feel low? Well, duh! This is one of my coping mechanisms!
Oh, I'll be alright. Let me get ready for the training ...
Not For The Lack Of Trying
(Originally 3/22/07)
George sneaks into the house at night. After my post, I purposed to say something when he returned home. It's a ranch style, so right inside the front door you can go upstairs to the kitchen, livingroom, or his three rooms and two bathrooms--or downstairs to the laundry room, den, my bedroom, my bathroom, or garage. So I was tucked away in my room and barely heard him open the door. He slipped off his shoes and then I heard nothing more. Didn't hear him go up the steps or anything. Didn't notice if he turned on a light. Don't know if he went to the kitchen to eat, or just put something in the fridge. Nothing.
That's what makes me think he was either drunk or high or both. Because my lights were on, and I don't sleep with them on. He knew I was awake. And most times, he calls down to me when he comes in to say hello or something--anything really. And that's what I was waiting for. I was going to respond, then ask him what movie he went to see after he dropped me off at the car dealer. Have a little convo and whatever else he may have wanted to chat'bout. Nothing. I haven't spoken to him since the dealer.
Well, that's too bad. I'll keep trying because I said I would, but at least now I know that it's not just me. As I told you in my history with George--he knows how to lie. He wants me to believe he's been sober since the rehab, so when he goes out to drink, or smoke crack, or whatever, he's not interested in talking. Which suits me fine--but does him no good. And I don't want to force a conversation with him, or expose his inebriation, because I don't want to live in a constant state of confrontation and performing interventions.
So that's all I'm going to say about that right now.
In other news, I had another bank relapse. Two actually. Last week, my gym charged me more than I expected them to and pushed my balance into the negatives. Then two more debit charges appeared after that. Goodbye $105. I let it go because I still had savings in another account and I figured it was a punishment I deserved (I kept saying 'This is the last time!' but still I'm an idiot, so too bad for me). Then I had a payday and shortly thereafter, the accident. Then I did my taxes. Then I paid my insurance bill for the month. Then I rented a car, and they overcharged me to cover the rental without a credit card. Then they didn't refund me the money the same day I returned the car (still haven't, in fact. 2-3 business days, my ass). Then I had to lay down $100 surety for the new car. Then I had to gas up. Then I had to eat. Then ... then ... then ... and next thing I know, my whole paycheck is gone and I'm in the negatives again. And here comes three more debit purchases.
Khaaaaaaan!
Goodbye ANOTHER $105.
I've already flogged myself, so I wont waste bytes repeating it. But My Friend The Doctor bailed me out again. I couldn't even call him this time. I just sent him an e-mail, informing him for the first time about the whole car situation plus the moneylessness. I couldn't ask him for $$ but the e-mail in itself was obviously a request. Which he knew instantly and responded. But aside from the money, he reassured me that I'm not the Crown Prince of all Sad-Ass Losers. He reminded me of my progress over the last year and under what kind of circumstances (See George; Former "My Benefactor", Postmodern Crackhead) that I managed to do it.
My Friend, The Doctor. He really wants to see me succeed. And I really want to. He believes in me. And I really want him to. He supports me, emotionally as well as financially. And I really need him to.
So that's alright then. And My Hero's a friend of mine too!
P.S.; note to self; GET A CREDIT CARD. Even though the interest will be 18%, like the car loan, a credit card would have saved me $210 dollars in overdraft fees for $35 worth of Starbucks and McDonald's, because I could have credit-carded the rental car instead of debiting it. And I can beat the interest if I pay the entire charge before the due date. The next spam application for credit, I'm filling out.
George sneaks into the house at night. After my post, I purposed to say something when he returned home. It's a ranch style, so right inside the front door you can go upstairs to the kitchen, livingroom, or his three rooms and two bathrooms--or downstairs to the laundry room, den, my bedroom, my bathroom, or garage. So I was tucked away in my room and barely heard him open the door. He slipped off his shoes and then I heard nothing more. Didn't hear him go up the steps or anything. Didn't notice if he turned on a light. Don't know if he went to the kitchen to eat, or just put something in the fridge. Nothing.
That's what makes me think he was either drunk or high or both. Because my lights were on, and I don't sleep with them on. He knew I was awake. And most times, he calls down to me when he comes in to say hello or something--anything really. And that's what I was waiting for. I was going to respond, then ask him what movie he went to see after he dropped me off at the car dealer. Have a little convo and whatever else he may have wanted to chat'bout. Nothing. I haven't spoken to him since the dealer.
Well, that's too bad. I'll keep trying because I said I would, but at least now I know that it's not just me. As I told you in my history with George--he knows how to lie. He wants me to believe he's been sober since the rehab, so when he goes out to drink, or smoke crack, or whatever, he's not interested in talking. Which suits me fine--but does him no good. And I don't want to force a conversation with him, or expose his inebriation, because I don't want to live in a constant state of confrontation and performing interventions.
So that's all I'm going to say about that right now.
In other news, I had another bank relapse. Two actually. Last week, my gym charged me more than I expected them to and pushed my balance into the negatives. Then two more debit charges appeared after that. Goodbye $105. I let it go because I still had savings in another account and I figured it was a punishment I deserved (I kept saying 'This is the last time!' but still I'm an idiot, so too bad for me). Then I had a payday and shortly thereafter, the accident. Then I did my taxes. Then I paid my insurance bill for the month. Then I rented a car, and they overcharged me to cover the rental without a credit card. Then they didn't refund me the money the same day I returned the car (still haven't, in fact. 2-3 business days, my ass). Then I had to lay down $100 surety for the new car. Then I had to gas up. Then I had to eat. Then ... then ... then ... and next thing I know, my whole paycheck is gone and I'm in the negatives again. And here comes three more debit purchases.
Khaaaaaaan!
Goodbye ANOTHER $105.
I've already flogged myself, so I wont waste bytes repeating it. But My Friend The Doctor bailed me out again. I couldn't even call him this time. I just sent him an e-mail, informing him for the first time about the whole car situation plus the moneylessness. I couldn't ask him for $$ but the e-mail in itself was obviously a request. Which he knew instantly and responded. But aside from the money, he reassured me that I'm not the Crown Prince of all Sad-Ass Losers. He reminded me of my progress over the last year and under what kind of circumstances (See George; Former "My Benefactor", Postmodern Crackhead) that I managed to do it.
My Friend, The Doctor. He really wants to see me succeed. And I really want to. He believes in me. And I really want him to. He supports me, emotionally as well as financially. And I really need him to.
So that's alright then. And My Hero's a friend of mine too!
P.S.; note to self; GET A CREDIT CARD. Even though the interest will be 18%, like the car loan, a credit card would have saved me $210 dollars in overdraft fees for $35 worth of Starbucks and McDonald's, because I could have credit-carded the rental car instead of debiting it. And I can beat the interest if I pay the entire charge before the due date. The next spam application for credit, I'm filling out.
And I'd Like To Say This About That
(Originally 3/20/07)
I need to go in for an attitude adjustment on My Benefactor.
I hope I've cited this somewhere else on these webpages, but this is what I know about how I feel about My Benefactor--I'm jealous of him and I'm also resentful of the adolescent position I'm put in by his generosity.
That said, let me detail my exact history with this man.
In 1987 I was hired to work in a mail facility on the overnights in Mount Vernon NY. I was in my twenties and it seemed that I was on my way to adultsville. The job paid well, it had benefits, and my girlfriend at the time also worked for the post office. We talked marriage and considered what all would happen when we combined our incomes. We were both in the same fanatical church so all our ducks were in a row. And yes, she was a bit of a nutjob, but she was the sweetest little nutjob I've ever known. Unlike the scary nutjobs I'd hooked up with thereafter.
Anyway, from the day I started that job, I was fascinated by this guy who looked like George Segal. And he with me. I know now that it was a mancrush. Then, being all religious and in High Denial, I never tried to define it. I just went with it. So after I found that this George Segal lookalike was also a community theater actor, I was hooked! And when I dared to say hello, he said hello back! Then I found out that he was as witty as Bugs Bunny, and as mercurial. And his fascination with me was a big plus. So we became friends. I met his wife and his two little kids. We'd gone out to a comedy club, ate sushi in the Village (my first time), saw community theater together, saw Shakespeare in the Park together. I considered us as really good friends, back before I even knew what friendship was supposed to be all about. Also, back then, I always had an agenda with being friends with people who were not in church. I was supposed to Lead Them To Christ. I had even brought him to my church a few times--but getting him to buy into Christianity was like getting Bugs Bunny to buy stock in shotguns. And I wound up going places with him that my Pastor would not have approved of anyway.
But self-delusion is a grand platform from which to dive into questionable behavior. At least, questionable for a Pentecostal, Fundamentalist, Conservative Born-Again Christian.
Okay, enter his fascination with The Asian Beauty. In our small elite work area, a woman had just come out of a long term affair with our married co-worker. Being a Christian, I wanted to offer her support--instead of throwing stones at her, I did what Jesus Would Have Done. I bent and wrote in the dirt instead of joining the condemning crowd. She and I became friends as well. And George (let's call him that) was besotted with her. He couldn't NOT speak with her. He moon-eyed every time she walked by. So when she and I became friends, George piggybacked off me to get face-time with her. Well, okay, I thought. She's a beautiful woman. He's a handsome man. But surely nothing will come of it!
Our other co-workers continually told me that George and Asian Beauty were getting busy. Well, I couldn't believe it. Wouldn't, in fact. Not when they both knew what a Christian I was. Not when I had appealed so strongly to her NOT to return back to being some man's jump-off (didn't know the term back then, but it means being no more than a sex-relief, no potential to be significant) And then, when the rumors were driving me crazy, I had to ask him and her, during one of our many lunches together--just the three of us, split off from everyone else because that's how "close" we had become.
They looked me dead in my face and swore that they weren't having an affair.
Shortly thereafter, in the morning when we all were supposed to leave, they were caught on the parking lot video cameras steaming up her station wagon windows. Before I reported to work that night, it was the talk of the previous two workshifts.
I hadn't had a cry that hard since I had been a toddler. I cried alone, and I cried with the Asian Beauty. She apologized. George apologized. They apologized together. They apologized seperately. So sorry. Everybody was SO sorry.
I grew up a little bit during that season. I realized people were capable of doing anything.
He tried to quit her, and I tried to help. I did my Christian best to help them off each other. (heh). But it was no use. They kept relapsing. I felt the eyes of scrutiny on me as well as on them. I did my best to be a Christian example through all their failures and shameful behavior. I kept asking myself, what would Jesus do? What would he do to George? What would he do to Beauty? Si that's what I tried to do.
Then in late '91, my mother was diagnosed with brain cancer. I didn't know what was in store, but surely things would work out fine? In prayer, I thought I heard God tell me that if my mother were to die, I would be free to go anywhere and do anything for him, as I was doing for George and Beauty. My mother died in early '92. Not more than six months after the treatments began.
George and the Beauty took a backburner to the challenge of What Was I Going To Do With The Rest Of My Life. By this time, I had another girlfriend who was the less friendlier version of a nutjob. She had two kids already and a bad temper. She liked my mother (no wonder) but I was 'estranged' from her by the time my mother died.
So, I packed up my cares and went to Missouri to Bible School to become The Next Biggest Preaching Sensation (I've come to know thate this would be the first in a series of runaways that I would perform to get out of uncomfortable and awful situations). The white people who received me had other ideas. Over the next five years, I grew up a little more. I also I forged a relationship with My Friend The Doctor, and with My Mentor, and got a Master's Degree in Counseling. Eight years later, I arrived back to the east, landing in Trenton, NJ (a runaway move to get out of Missouri--I left a doctoral program, a house, and incurred debt to afford to move). Three years later, I moved to NYC, failing at the relationship with the girl I believe I still love to this day (another runaway move to get away from the girl). But I would still get my NY license and become a therapist in the city and succeed, right?
Around then is when I ran into George, who was as fascinated with me as he had been back in '87. We caught up on old times. He informed me that Beauty and he had tried a relationship after I left. George had divorced his wife. But it didn't work out. It turns out that Beauty wanted him for his money. He'd even let her and her two kids stay with him in his New Jersey house. Eventually, he had to force her out. It ended badly.
A year later, my NYC life failed, by license stalled, and I got evicted.
George said, "Come live in my house. I'm hardly there. And I need some help."
Which turned out to be true, oddly enough. Because all the while, throughout all the plays and Shakespeare in the Parks and sushi and affairs and comedy clubs, he had been a stone-cold junkie. A suburban substance-abuser. A prescription pill-popping Poppa.
And I had no idea. All I thought I'd ever seen him do was have way too many beers before coming in to work, but he had an addictive personality and was out of control long before I'd ever met him.
Now I live with him. After all this time. Ain't life funny?
George (I like this name for him MUCH better. From now on My Benefactor will now be referred to as George) has never tried to do me any harm. He's only ever been his own out-of-control self. And through that, he managed to like me enough to do kind things for me.
So yesterday, when I finally took the rental car back, after cinching the deal on my new car, I returned home and started to plan on how I would get back to the dealership, purposing not to ask George for a ride back. I knew that I had not finished paying him for the car I had wrecked, and I know that paying for this new car would prevent me from realistically doing so in the future. If he wanted to sue me over the money I still owe him, he would win hands down. But also, as previous posts will attest, I felt like I hated George. I didn't want anything from George. I hated living with George and I hated George's ugly grown-up son.
So he asks me, "Did you get the car?"
And I say, "Yeah. I can't believe it, but I actually did."
And he says, "Well, c'mon let's go get it! You want a ride?!"
I swear. I can be such a scumbag sometimes. All George seems to want in return for my rent-free existence is the care and concern I showed him back in the day. And that's not too much to ask for is it?
So we rode back to the dealership and we talked about the plays he's been going to see lately (throughout his joblessness), and I went to get my brand new car and he never mentioned how I'm going to pay him for the car I wrecked, and then I left him to drive back by himself and I haven't spoken to him since.
I'm going to work harder at not being such a bad person to him. If repayment for all this generosity is just a few words in the day and the night of friendly concern, I think I could possibly afford that. All this Being Friends education that I've been learning in the last two seasons of my life, through Matt and everyone else, should extend to my home life as well, shouldn't it? And although George tends to want to go further than I do ("Want to see a movie? Want to go to a play? Let's go and get dinner!") I could still afford to say "Hello."
Couldn't I?
Could I?
I need to go in for an attitude adjustment on My Benefactor.
I hope I've cited this somewhere else on these webpages, but this is what I know about how I feel about My Benefactor--I'm jealous of him and I'm also resentful of the adolescent position I'm put in by his generosity.
That said, let me detail my exact history with this man.
In 1987 I was hired to work in a mail facility on the overnights in Mount Vernon NY. I was in my twenties and it seemed that I was on my way to adultsville. The job paid well, it had benefits, and my girlfriend at the time also worked for the post office. We talked marriage and considered what all would happen when we combined our incomes. We were both in the same fanatical church so all our ducks were in a row. And yes, she was a bit of a nutjob, but she was the sweetest little nutjob I've ever known. Unlike the scary nutjobs I'd hooked up with thereafter.
Anyway, from the day I started that job, I was fascinated by this guy who looked like George Segal. And he with me. I know now that it was a mancrush. Then, being all religious and in High Denial, I never tried to define it. I just went with it. So after I found that this George Segal lookalike was also a community theater actor, I was hooked! And when I dared to say hello, he said hello back! Then I found out that he was as witty as Bugs Bunny, and as mercurial. And his fascination with me was a big plus. So we became friends. I met his wife and his two little kids. We'd gone out to a comedy club, ate sushi in the Village (my first time), saw community theater together, saw Shakespeare in the Park together. I considered us as really good friends, back before I even knew what friendship was supposed to be all about. Also, back then, I always had an agenda with being friends with people who were not in church. I was supposed to Lead Them To Christ. I had even brought him to my church a few times--but getting him to buy into Christianity was like getting Bugs Bunny to buy stock in shotguns. And I wound up going places with him that my Pastor would not have approved of anyway.
But self-delusion is a grand platform from which to dive into questionable behavior. At least, questionable for a Pentecostal, Fundamentalist, Conservative Born-Again Christian.
Okay, enter his fascination with The Asian Beauty. In our small elite work area, a woman had just come out of a long term affair with our married co-worker. Being a Christian, I wanted to offer her support--instead of throwing stones at her, I did what Jesus Would Have Done. I bent and wrote in the dirt instead of joining the condemning crowd. She and I became friends as well. And George (let's call him that) was besotted with her. He couldn't NOT speak with her. He moon-eyed every time she walked by. So when she and I became friends, George piggybacked off me to get face-time with her. Well, okay, I thought. She's a beautiful woman. He's a handsome man. But surely nothing will come of it!
Our other co-workers continually told me that George and Asian Beauty were getting busy. Well, I couldn't believe it. Wouldn't, in fact. Not when they both knew what a Christian I was. Not when I had appealed so strongly to her NOT to return back to being some man's jump-off (didn't know the term back then, but it means being no more than a sex-relief, no potential to be significant) And then, when the rumors were driving me crazy, I had to ask him and her, during one of our many lunches together--just the three of us, split off from everyone else because that's how "close" we had become.
They looked me dead in my face and swore that they weren't having an affair.
Shortly thereafter, in the morning when we all were supposed to leave, they were caught on the parking lot video cameras steaming up her station wagon windows. Before I reported to work that night, it was the talk of the previous two workshifts.
I hadn't had a cry that hard since I had been a toddler. I cried alone, and I cried with the Asian Beauty. She apologized. George apologized. They apologized together. They apologized seperately. So sorry. Everybody was SO sorry.
I grew up a little bit during that season. I realized people were capable of doing anything.
He tried to quit her, and I tried to help. I did my Christian best to help them off each other. (heh). But it was no use. They kept relapsing. I felt the eyes of scrutiny on me as well as on them. I did my best to be a Christian example through all their failures and shameful behavior. I kept asking myself, what would Jesus do? What would he do to George? What would he do to Beauty? Si that's what I tried to do.
Then in late '91, my mother was diagnosed with brain cancer. I didn't know what was in store, but surely things would work out fine? In prayer, I thought I heard God tell me that if my mother were to die, I would be free to go anywhere and do anything for him, as I was doing for George and Beauty. My mother died in early '92. Not more than six months after the treatments began.
George and the Beauty took a backburner to the challenge of What Was I Going To Do With The Rest Of My Life. By this time, I had another girlfriend who was the less friendlier version of a nutjob. She had two kids already and a bad temper. She liked my mother (no wonder) but I was 'estranged' from her by the time my mother died.
So, I packed up my cares and went to Missouri to Bible School to become The Next Biggest Preaching Sensation (I've come to know thate this would be the first in a series of runaways that I would perform to get out of uncomfortable and awful situations). The white people who received me had other ideas. Over the next five years, I grew up a little more. I also I forged a relationship with My Friend The Doctor, and with My Mentor, and got a Master's Degree in Counseling. Eight years later, I arrived back to the east, landing in Trenton, NJ (a runaway move to get out of Missouri--I left a doctoral program, a house, and incurred debt to afford to move). Three years later, I moved to NYC, failing at the relationship with the girl I believe I still love to this day (another runaway move to get away from the girl). But I would still get my NY license and become a therapist in the city and succeed, right?
Around then is when I ran into George, who was as fascinated with me as he had been back in '87. We caught up on old times. He informed me that Beauty and he had tried a relationship after I left. George had divorced his wife. But it didn't work out. It turns out that Beauty wanted him for his money. He'd even let her and her two kids stay with him in his New Jersey house. Eventually, he had to force her out. It ended badly.
A year later, my NYC life failed, by license stalled, and I got evicted.
George said, "Come live in my house. I'm hardly there. And I need some help."
Which turned out to be true, oddly enough. Because all the while, throughout all the plays and Shakespeare in the Parks and sushi and affairs and comedy clubs, he had been a stone-cold junkie. A suburban substance-abuser. A prescription pill-popping Poppa.
And I had no idea. All I thought I'd ever seen him do was have way too many beers before coming in to work, but he had an addictive personality and was out of control long before I'd ever met him.
Now I live with him. After all this time. Ain't life funny?
George (I like this name for him MUCH better. From now on My Benefactor will now be referred to as George) has never tried to do me any harm. He's only ever been his own out-of-control self. And through that, he managed to like me enough to do kind things for me.
So yesterday, when I finally took the rental car back, after cinching the deal on my new car, I returned home and started to plan on how I would get back to the dealership, purposing not to ask George for a ride back. I knew that I had not finished paying him for the car I had wrecked, and I know that paying for this new car would prevent me from realistically doing so in the future. If he wanted to sue me over the money I still owe him, he would win hands down. But also, as previous posts will attest, I felt like I hated George. I didn't want anything from George. I hated living with George and I hated George's ugly grown-up son.
So he asks me, "Did you get the car?"
And I say, "Yeah. I can't believe it, but I actually did."
And he says, "Well, c'mon let's go get it! You want a ride?!"
I swear. I can be such a scumbag sometimes. All George seems to want in return for my rent-free existence is the care and concern I showed him back in the day. And that's not too much to ask for is it?
So we rode back to the dealership and we talked about the plays he's been going to see lately (throughout his joblessness), and I went to get my brand new car and he never mentioned how I'm going to pay him for the car I wrecked, and then I left him to drive back by himself and I haven't spoken to him since.
I'm going to work harder at not being such a bad person to him. If repayment for all this generosity is just a few words in the day and the night of friendly concern, I think I could possibly afford that. All this Being Friends education that I've been learning in the last two seasons of my life, through Matt and everyone else, should extend to my home life as well, shouldn't it? And although George tends to want to go further than I do ("Want to see a movie? Want to go to a play? Let's go and get dinner!") I could still afford to say "Hello."
Couldn't I?
Could I?
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