Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: Christmas, control, life, men, norms, random, relationships, tattoos, thoughts, women
Last night’s drink: Maker’s Mark and water.
Once you pass the age of, oh say 24, life starts to pan out a little bit. It becomes a little more predictable, and a little less flexible. This must be where the quarter life crisis comes in. It isn’t that 25 year-olds are freaking out because they don’t know what to do with the next 30 years of their life – it’s because they don’t want to be doing this.
Last night, I had a moment that was undecidedly outside of my life pattern – I sat with Big Josh and Little Josh in my tiny apartment as Big Josh tattooed the top of his own thigh.
Thankfully, he did a great job. He’s an awesome artist, so I’m sure that’s part of it, but he didn’t even practice on grapefruits first. He just went directly for the skin. It was fascinating to watch, and a little nerve-racking at the same time. I almost felt akin to planning a crime or something – like, if my neighbor knocked on my door and was like, “What is that loud, buzzing sound?” I’d have to bar her view of the inside of my apartment and think of a good excuse. Tattoos or mass sexual escapades.. which is worse?
I fell asleep while Little Josh was picking out what he wanted to get. I felt bad, then, when Big Josh woke me up to say goodbye, since I had sort of put an end to their fun for the evening. Something tells me I won’t be seeing those two tonight.
Jenn asked me the other night if I liked Big Josh.. like, really liked him. The thing about Big Josh is that our relationship is so incredibly different than any relationship I’ve ever had, that I can’t get a gauge on it. I know I really like being with Big Josh, and that we are growing more comfortable with eachother. But when I compare it to my past successes and failures, it doesn’t compute. At this point, I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing.
I’m used to being in control of the relationship, and I’m definitely not in this one. I won’t really know how I feel about that until the fluffy fun and honey heat drip out of our first few months together. I can give you some insight into how a guy might feel about that though – just read this post. I don’t know why I love reading that guy’s stuff. I just do.
With Christmas shopping almost done and half the fudge and cookies gone at work, I’m ready for the weekend and my Christmas alone. I’m thinking of getting a teeny weeny tree for the two presents I bought this year on my very small Christmas budget. I thought it would make me feel extra single, but now I think it might complete the solitude – and I mean that in a good way.
Is it rum that goes in egg nog?
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: babies, dreams, evolution, food, life, literature, love, men, random, sex, thoughts, women
Last night’s drink: Emergen-C.
The hot water is no match for the cold, so the shower will not be hot enough until February, at least.
Cumin in its whole form is so potent, three seeds taste like an entire Indian buffet.
The marmalade has crystalized, so the rinds now taste like candy.
I’m sort of on sensory overload right now. Every flavor, every thought, every emotion or tickle in my throat is consuming me in a gradual way – like a snake swallowing me from the bottom up. Henry Miller is whispering in my ear and my mind is receiving it, masticating, and absorbing the digestable parts. The result is a mind warp where the spread of San Diego looks like a champagne brunch sparkling in the sunlight. I could either order off the menu or walk over to the omelet bar and start kicking the tables over.
Lately, my drug of choice has been the pherormones that won’t leave my pillow, with or without the carrier. Somehow, he is always here when I lay down. We talk about nothing, really, and I file it away. But I wake up with my brain bathed in those invisible hands, and I can’t purge the scent or the visions that come with them. If I’m being honest, though, I haven’t tried.
Evolution is constantly used to explain the present or justify the past. It’s no leap for me, then, to think it can predict the future. If two people have chemistry so strong that their brains completely forfeit control over their bodies, it has to be some primal cue for compatibility. Forget love, trust, upbringing, religion, politics, demeanor, opposites attracting or any of the psychology that flaps its wings around it. I just want to know the physical product of pure, prolonged chemistry.
My guess is that I won’t find out for myself, but I’m inclined to think it’s some sort of baby recipe for divinity. Think of all the naturally perfect one-plus-ones. Honey and peanut butter. Chicken and plum sauce. Coffee and cinnamon. Mozzarella and basil. Chocolate and raspberries. Pecans and brown sugar, carmelized. This wouldn’t just be a love child- it would be Gia covered in cocoa soaking in a buttermilk bath; or Samson dripping with olive oil, tearing apart a garlic baguette.
The say you are what you eat. I bet evolution coined it.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: , dating, life, love, men, random, relationships, thoughts, trust, vulnerability, women
Tonight’s drink: Firefly Ridge Merlot.
I get it. I get the reason why my relationships never work. If not the sole reason, then a huge, underlying factor. Like a rotting plywood floor in the third story apartment, the foundations for all of my relationships have been flawed, because of one major factor: trust.
It sounds so easy, and so cliche, right? Who doesn’t have trust issues. But my fundamental trust issues have to do with vulnerability – namely, that I don’t like it. I have a hard, hard, HARD time being vulnerable with anyone. Even my best friend and closest confidante in the world, Jenn, would agree. I cannot open up for shit. The thing is, I have always seen this as a virtue, and a sign of my strength. Now I see that it’s a red flag for weakness.
This came about today as I was talking to high school friend and incredible genius, Andy, on a walk that ended up taking me through Balboa Park, into downtown San Diego, and back up through Golden Hill. It was a beautiful day and a perfect five-mile-ish walk, filled with tourists, locals, and brisk conversation about women as oppressive leaders and the symmetrical effects of testosterone. At one point, Andy began to develop a secondhand theory on women, mate choice, and infidelity, in which a woman will marry a man who is less comparable to her mating level, and then cheat on him with a man who is more attractive and “fit,” in the evolutionary sense of the word. This way, she has the best of both worlds: attractive offspring that is likely to mate, and a poor sap who is practically guaranteed to stick around and raise it, because he probably can’t do better than his wife.
In a business sense, this is totally logical – the woman is covering her bases in terms of high quality product and stable infrastructure. From a personal and emotional standpoint, she is being a callous bitch. On which side of the fence did my sentiments immediately fall? I believe my exact words were, “Well, yeah.. you can’t trust men.”
I felt my insides pull back as the words escaped my mouth. What had I become? How could I so hypocritically justify the infidelity of my fellow women with the exact same trespasses with which I vindicated men? Not only did I feel illogical and unjust, but I could taste the banality and the bitterness. At that moment, I knew I had to reevaluate my idea of trust.
I began, again, with searches through psychology journals and academic research, but finally ended up in the throes of relationship advice columns with titles like “10 Crucial and Surprising Steps to Building Trust in a Relationship.” In the article, “Do you trust him?,” the idea of vulnerability is introducted briefly, but it hit home for me. You have to reveal yourself in order to build trust.
After reading up on vulnerability, I found that I am a great example of how denying vulnerabilty manifests itself in people. Directly following these lists are the benefits of being more vulnerable – many of which have to do with strong relationship building. All this time, the strength and confidence I’ve prided myself on has been my strongest pitfall. Men haven’t had difficulty dealing with my confidence and strength – they’ve had a difficult time trying to figure out who the hell I am.
This may all come as news to the blog world – you’ve been given the grand tour of the gammut of my vulnerabilities through these posts. However, these thoughts don’t come out of my mouth on a regular basis, if at all. So I guess I’ve got a good start toward building trust, because I’m already publicizing my demons and daisies – now I just have to let people in the real world see them.
So… which posts should I delete first.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: facade, life, love, men, random, relationships, sex, thoughts, time, women
Last night’s drink: House merlot at Union Station.
What is the true basis for timing and timelines? When you have projects, you base its timeline on when you need or expect it to be complete. Expectant mothers have a general sense for what their baby will look like in week 20, because experience has indicated the general outline of the process. Each timeline sets milestones and goals, and prescribes or projects the amount of time it will take to get to each, in order for the final outcome to materialize in the most desirable form.
For relationships, there is a certain timeline that everyone sort of knows about, but no one can quite put their finger on. One-night stands typically have a shorter timeline, by virtue of the end goal being sex, and nothing more. The milestones are flirting, touching, kissing, groping, and then, finally, home base.
When you really like someone, though, and the goal is something more permanent, the milestones are more spread out, and the goal is much further down the road. You set rules for when you can call the person, you withhold topics of dinner conversation until the appropriate number of dates has passed. You start to tell people about them gradually, and in more detail. All for the sake of keeping the timeline. Really, all of those things would have happened sooner or later. It’s the speed at which they travel that determines the probability of an ensuing wreck.
So why does the speed make all the difference? It’s no secret that people these days have short attention spans, and a need for instant gratification. But easy come, easy go seems to stick here. If you don’t have to wait for it to blossom and emerge, then it isn’t worth the effort or the call back. Perhaps it’s a matter of proving your stability and your trust.
There are plenty of indicators outside of my relationships which clearly outline my dependability and trustworthiness, but when it comes to love, I get excited. I want to take it out of its box and play with it immediately. Instead of indicating my giddiness and swirly emotions, this inclination comes across more as desperate and psycho. But I’m not boiling bunnies or crouching outside of windows – I just want to talk to them again.
What dictates that the speed of love be slow? When you drive, you may slow down to be cautious. You don’t run with scissors. When you learn things, you practice repeating them slowly at first. Maybe slowing the speed of love helps you to avoid taking the wrong step as you slowly get to know the other person. But if you’re being yourself and you take a wrong step, isn’t that just being honest? Think of all the friends you’ve ever hit it off with immediately – why shouldn’t love be that way?
This is not a promotion for speed dating by any means – if you haven’t heard my experience, I’ll fill you in later. I think it all comes back to this creeping feeling I get that we’re all just taking that Shakespeare qoute to the next level, and truly treating the world as if it were a stage, and we are all actors.
Can someone show me to the Green Room?
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: , Bethesda, faith, family, guilt, life, martyrs, Maryland, people, random, thoughts, work
Last night’s drink: House merlot at the Saphire [sic].
I successfully evaded three hours of dining with my coworker last night, and opted, instead, to take an early evening nap and a walk around downtown Bethesda. This part of Maryland is very cute and made for rich people. It has safe options, like Rock Bottom and cute little boutiques. But every town, no matter how ritzy, has it’s dive. The Saphire was my saving grace, along with Tony, Charlie, Chris, the bartender, and the Tastee Diner we went to after I’d had a few.
Tony, who graciously covered all of my food and drinks last night, couldn’t understand why I wasn’t thrilled to be in a job that sent me last minute to Washington D.C. The thing is, he was right. And I am grateful for the paid trip, and the expensed food. What I’m not grateful for is the 24 hour company of martyrs and health nuts.
I’ve struggled with the ability to blow off martyrs for… well, forever. If you are secure in yourself and your abilities, confident in your work ethic, and have reasonable self-esteem, martyrs should not bother you. I have all of those things, and martyrs get me every time. Whether they are family members who take on the extra load, or co-workers that treck into work with the flu, they always ping me in that one cerebral spot – the one that makes my jaw tighten with guilt. As soon as I’ve been exposed to their cross, all I can do is think about how I should be doing that, too.. and how inadequate I am as a result.
Of course, an hour later I’m over it – even sooner if I have a glass of wine to wash it down. But what can I do to circumvent it all together? The readiest answers are to either: a) tell that person to get a life; or b) tell the world to go F itself. I’m not the kind of gal that would do either of those things, so those aren’t viable solutions for me, as relieving as they sound. Besides, it’s my problem that these people are getting to me – not theirs. I need to find the anchor inside me that I can hold on to when I get the urge to throw things at these people’s faces.
….and… nothing comes to mind. Normally, I’m pretty good at identifying this stuff, but all I can think is that I just want martyrs to leave me alone. Stop making me feel guilty for enjoying myself after work. Stop making me feel bad for eating chocolate cheesecake. Stop making me feel like a selfish brat for not visiting my grandparents all the time. I put in my hours – I exercise willpower – I write them nice, long handwritten cards every few months. I pay my dues, dammit – and I don’t rub it in your face to prove it.
I think some people need to identify with their suffering, because they can’t identify with their joy. They need it to bond with others, and to have meaning in their lives. Suffering is, I believe, the root of all faith in religion. If you never had to see through a bad time, you never had to have faith that you would. So when you bond with others and you find your spirituality in the things that bring you down, it’s no wonder that you feel the need to put it out there. Maybe these people, in actuality, are trying to bond with me, in a funny way? I don’t know… I think martyrs hate competition.
Joy doesn’t prequisite faith, though it can spring from it. And I can identify with my joy a little too much sometimes. I still have faith, though, but I think mine springs more from confusion and that wierd, floaty feeling of the unknown. And I think I bond with people more over the unknown than the grief that sometimes comes from it.
It’s not likely I’ll be persecuted anytime soon, as a waspy, middle class chick from Southern California. But I hope I don’t try to bond over it, if I ever do.
I’d rather just go get a drink with you.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: diplomacy, facade, honesty, life, random, reality, sassy, tattoos, thoughts, women, work
Tonight’s drink: Smoking Loon Merlot.
I consider myself a generally nice person, but being fake nice is just exhausting. I’m currently in my own hotel room in Maryland, just outside of Washington D.C., finally starting to decompress from a full 36 hours with a co-worker.
This particular co-worker is actually pretty cool, compared to some of the people I could have made this trip with. However, like me, she can be controlling, neurotic, know-it-all, indecisive, stubborn, and passive. You would think that spending so much time with someone like you is a piece of cake, but it’s actually more exhausting than being with someone more your opposite. When you’re with someone who is different from you, you can easily identify the characteristics you don’t mesh with, and react or accomodate accordingly. This is especially true for those traits that annoy you. You sort of just swat the things off like flies, annoy the other person with your quirky ways, and let the two of you tumble along in a rolling yin-yang of contradiction. Somehow, a balance ensues.
When the things that annoy you about someone else are the same things that annoy you about yourself, a friction is created. The parallels rub against eachother like Oprah’s thighs, and generate a sort of heat-rash of frustration. And just as Oprah can’t get mad at her thighs for the irritation they bring her, so, too, can you not get pissed at your twin figure for being your bad side. Deep inside, you know you’re slowly rubbing them the wrong way, too, but all you can do is continue being yourself. You aren’t funny, because they’ve heard that joke before. You’re not cute, because they’re used to being the cute one. You’re not smart, because they’re used to being smarter. Your life stories are basically all the same.
There is one noticable difference between the two of us – she’s married. While this is basically the great divide of all women over 25, the difference is more the ultimate buzzkill than a conversation piece. Her next big goal is kids – my next big goal is a recreation of Sex in the City, a la me and Jenn.
Part of the problem is definitely my job. When you work as a manager in a non-profit, you have to accept that life as your own. I’ve grown to understand that the only work you leave at home is the work you don’t care about. I actually love work, so I have to do what I love, and what lets me be myself.
As I get ready to go to bed, I have the Miami Ink marathon on in the background. I love tattoos – I love getting them, I love seeing them on me in the shower, I love seeing them on others. Of course, the tattoos I have are hidden to the world, for the most part. This was mostly out of respect for my father, but also in consideration of my professional life. If I’m honest with myself, though, I want a job that doesn’t blink if I have a tattoo of a long, lovely pin-up on my forearm, and I put mousse in my hair to make it more voluminous. A job where the arts and a little controversy are just another day. A job with a little less diplomacy, and a lot more sass.
And no more of this one glass of wine with dinner B.S.
