As It Turns Out, I’m An Asshole

Today I realized that I’m a world class asshole.

Exhibit A: I am still completely undone with love for a man who absolutely does not love me back, and was, by any reasonable person’s standards, kind of a dick to me while we were together.  If he showed up on my doorstep tomorrow and sincerely apologized I'd forgive him instantly, like an idiot. After things ended in a remarkably predictable fashion – e.g. me with a broken heart, just pining away – I now have the nerve to be sad about it! And wallow! And fret! And complain and whine incessantly to my beloved friends who are without a doubt sick-to-death of hearing about it at this point. And keep myself up nights listening to every song ever made that makes me think of him! And make a batch of Rice Krispie Treats and eat nearly all of them in a day! And get drunk and fall down stairs! And screw anyone I want and everyone I shouldn't! And all of this for an unjustifiably long period of time, relative to the length of the actual relationship!

See? Asshole.

Exhibit B: I am utterly incapable of being attracted to any man who might actually be (gasp!) appropriate for me. Emotionally available? Bor-ing! Got a good job? Not interested! Well educated and intelligent? No thank you! Financially responsible? Move along! Funny, tall, charming, and clearly into me? Who wants to be bothered with THAT!? Not me! No, instead of giving weight to important things that actually matter, I prefer to be a snarky, judgmental bitch that gets annoyed because you left my half and half out, causing it to spoil and me to spend an unnecessary $1.59 to replace it. Or irritated because you’d rather not get your shoes dirty, like a pussy. Or because that one time you looked at me when you didn’t have your glasses on your eyes kind of crossed and that was suuuuper weird.  Or because you, like 80% of all people on the planet, are physically incapable of loading the dishwasher in a not-retarded way. I mean, WTF? It is not rocket science. No, I will invariably choose to ignore any large, waving red flags that warn of potentially major pitfalls in the course ahead (Unemployed? Never finished college? Habitual adulterer? Near-hoarder? All-out liar? No biggie!); but a little pebble in the road and HOLD THE PHONE! I’m outta here!

See! Ass. Hole!

Exhibit C: If you’re in love right now, I fucking hate you. Even if I absolutely love you, I still fucking hate you. I hate that you and your partner get to go grocery shopping together. And make dinner together. And have fights about how much you’re spending on groceries. And do laundry for each other. And help pick out the best jeans for your butt. And see each other’s emergency underwear on those days when it’s been too long since you last did laundry together. And go on vacation together. And sit at home and read the paper together. And sleep on each other’s shoulders. And oh just fuck you.

See?! I can say that because I am an ASSHOLE!

Exhibit D: I’ve used like twenty exclamation points in this blog post so far. And you know who abuses their punctuation rights like that? 

Yep! Assholes!

If the first step to recovery is admitting the problem, then I guess I’ve taken an important step by admitting my assholeishness to the world. Funny how that doesn’t really make me feel any better. Maybe it needs to be more formal. 

"Hi. My name is Maria and I am an asshole."

Nope, still don't feel any better.

Someone give me a fucking Rice Krispie treat.

See Hear Taste Smell Touch Memory

Tonight I cut up the last tomato from my garden into fat slices, sprinkled them with seasoned salt, and ate them while leaning against the kitchen counter. I ate slowly, thinking of the time it took for the fruit to perfectly ripen on the vine outside my bedroom window, watching water drip from the glasses in my dish rack, and thinking of my father.

My father was the first person to introduce me to this method of eating a tomato. I think I may have been ten years old, or perhaps twelve. Dad had taken little brother and I to Kensington Metro Park for the day to fish and have fun. There must have been other food -- burgers grilled to Dad's degree of extreme well-doneness in all likelihood -- but whatever else we ate that day is fully eclipsed by the memory of those tomatoes.

He cut them up with his sharp, clean fillet knife and pulled out the Lawry's salt. Although I can't remember what his exact words were, I can hear his voice clearly, saying something like, "Now, have you ever tried tomatoes this way?" Little brother and I shook our heads, No, reveling in this rare summer quality time with Dad, watching as he deliberately and demonstratively sprinkled exactly the right amount of red and orange salt onto the open flesh of the tomatoes. He knew we'd want to remember the steps in order to recreate them some day. Little brother and I ate the sweet and salty fruit, licking the salt and pink juice from our lips, laughing with our father in the Michigan summer sunlight.

Almost every time I eat a tomato with seasoned salt I remember that moment. Everything about the salty slices, from their appearance to the way they feel on my tongue, conjures up that first experience. I have an arsenal of memories like this. Memories that come to me forcefully when I see, hear, taste, smell or touch something. Tonight's tomato reverie was a most welcome surprise.

Lately most of the deep memories are of a man who could not love me, no matter how hard he tried. Some memories are distant, from fourteen years ago; some are closer, from four months ago. There are those that creep up on me, and there are those that arrive suddenly, disruptive and uninvited. It is always a strange, haunted ache that I am left with. I look forward to the day when the ache is surpassed by peaceful acceptance; but in the meantime, while I'm waiting for time to do what only it can, I'll take comfort in the memory of tomatoes.

I Better Be Quiet Now

Wish you gave me your number,
Wish I could call you today,
Just to hear a voice.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.

If I didn't know the difference
Living alone would probably be ok.
It wouldn't be lonely.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.

A lot of hours to occupy,
It was easy when I didn't know you yet.
Things I have to forget.
But I better be quiet now,
I'm tired of wasting my breath
Carrying on and getting upset.

Maybe I have a problem,
But that's not what I wanted to say.
I'd prefer to say nothing.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.

Had a dream as an army man with an order just to march in my place,
While a dead enemy screams in my face.
But I better be quiet now,
I'm tired of wasting my breath
Carrying on, not over it yet.

Wish I knew what you're doing,
And why you want to do it this way, so I can't go the distance.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.

Falling Down

Last night I got drunk with my roommate. This morning I woke up with bruises and an OK Cupid profile that had type-o’s in it. The bruises are from falling on some stairs at a bar (no one saw me fall though – which raises the question, if a drunk girl falls down a flight of stairs and no one sees it, did it actually happen?); the online dating profile rife with misspellings is from the broken heart. Between the drunkenness, the fall, the participation in e-dating (that I think is stupid!), and the type-o’s, I am most embarrassed by the type-o’s. I mean, Jesus Christ!

On Friday I lied out loud to my roommate by saying, “You know, I think I’m almost done being sad about loving a man who didn’t even deserve the affection in the first place.” I believe that is what we call ‘wishful thinking.’ Who do I think I’m kidding? I’m still sad. I’m still really, fucking sad.

This is the part where I get angry.

I am mad at him for not knowing himself well enough to know that he is in love with another woman. A fact which has been so abundantly obvious to me that it still blisters my eyes to think about it. My gut instinct whispered to me at every turn, He is still in love with her. And yet he couldn’t just say it. He couldn’t just say to me, “Maria, I am sorry but I am in love with her.” This makes me the stupid, stubborn, brokenhearted fool.

I am mad at him for calling me after a month of us not speaking to tell me that he missed me and wanted us to try to be together. I am mad at him for telling me that he was absofuckinglutely sure when I asked him if I was what he really wanted. I am mad at him for opening the door and then not actually having any room for me in his life, emotionally or physically. Most of the time there wasn’t even a place for me to sit down at his house. Except his bed. Of course.

My brother was right when he said, “Maria, he used you for sex.” Ouch. But true.

Paul was right when he hugged me as I cried and trembled and tried to dish up a dinner plate, he said, “Maria, you deserve so much better.” Ouch. But true.

Adam was right when he said, “Maria, if he doesn’t know his own heart well enough to take care of it, how could he ever take care of yours?” Ouch. But true.

James was right (three months ago!) when he said, “Maria, you are reaching for him and he’d be settling for you if he really feels that way.” Ouch. But true.

Maybe Hassan was right when he said, “Fucking asshole.” Ouch. But true? I hope not.

This is the part where I get sad.

Everything reminds me of him. Bicycles. Firemen. Fire engines. Zombies. Michael Jackson. German shepherds. Cats. The exit for Linwood on the Lodge. Vegetarian cooking. Hyperballad. Soccer. Elbow. Fish tacos. The word, “integrity.” Jack Burton. The Hobbit. Tall men. His name. Everything. Annoying.

The break-up conversation started with a funny story about his short-lived career as a Boy Scout. We were laughing, genuinely laughing together, just fifteen minutes before he was apologizing and I was crying. Boy Scouts will remind me of him for a long time to come.

The last time we ate dinner together we had tuna melts. He jokingly sang Simply Red to me across the dinner table because somehow he knows all of the words to every song ever written, even the ones he doesn’t like. I was laughing. His eyes were mischievous. Simply Red will remind me of him for a long time to come.

In fact, the list of music that will remind me of him is terrifyingly long. I might have to stick to classical and jazz for awhile. Except for John Coltrane. John Coltrane will just remind me of the night we sat on my couch after eating dinner and watching a movie, when we were trying to just be friends. And so we sat, I with my head on his shoulder, he with his arm around me, and did not speak for thirty minutes. He finally stirred to get up and “Blue Train” came on. Instead of saying goodbye he said softly to the top of my head, “Well one of my favorite songs is on now. I guess I’ll have to stay a few more minutes.” And we just listened. At the end of the song he went home.

This is the part where I get to feeling sorry for myself, but just for a moment.

The fact that I have, yet AGAIN, offered up on a platter my trust, my time, my affection, my body, and my love to a man who sampled it, almost consumed it entirely, only to say, “You know what, this is not what I wanted after all,” makes me feel foolish and small and quiet and skeptical and unsure and unattractive and undesirable and hopeless. But just for a moment.

Breaking up with a man I love is difficult. The fact that he never, in all the time we spent together, actually loved me back makes things harder still. Sara urges me to learn from this. I believe the lesson is to choose more carefully. Heart, did you hear that? Choose more carefully. Or else there may be nothing left by the time the right person shows up.

What Wasted Unconditional Love...

What you did to me made me
See myself something different.
Though I try to talk sense to myself
But I just won't listen.

Won't you go away,
Turn yourself in
You're no good at confession.
Before the image that you burned me in
Tries to teach you a lesson.

What you did to me made me see myself somethin' awful.
A voice once stentorian is now again meek and muffled.
It took me such a long time to get back up the first time you did it.
I spent all I had to get it back, and now it seems I've been outbidded.

My peace and quiet was stolen from me.
When I was looking with calm affection,
You were searching out my imperfections.

What wasted unconditional love!
On somebody...
Who doesn't believe in the stuff.

You came upon me like a hypnic jerk
When I was just about settled.
And when it counts you recoil
With a cryptic word and leave a love belittled.

Oh what a cold and common old way to go.
I was feeding on the need for you to know me
Devastated at the rate you fell below me.

What wasted unconditional love!
On somebody...
Who doesn't believe in the stuff.

Oh, well.

Prince.

I honestly don't know why I ever bothered dating men who don't like Prince. Having learned the error of my ways, I will be sure to *never* repeat my past mistakes. Seriously. So amazing.

Baby You Can Drive My Car

I’ve decided to perform an experiment for the month of June. No, it does not involve beakers or Bunsen burners, but rather bicycles and buses. Oh. And my weird feet, of course. From June 1-30, 2011, I will park my car and use alternate forms of transportation in order to get where I need to go. Instead of driving, I will take the bus, walk, or ride my bicycle.

I am allowed to beg for a ride somewhere twice, once from my mom, and once from a friend. I’m only allowed to catch a ride with someone if they are going to the same place that I am, and if they don’t have to go more than one mile out of their way to pick me up.

I’ve given myself three outs for using my car, which is currently parked on the street in front of my house:

1. In the event of an absolute *emergency* – someone’s in the hospital or stranded on the freeway
2. If it is going to be inordinately dangerous; for example, if I have to go somewhere alone and will be coming back too late at night or have to transfer buses in an unsafe neighborhood
3. If it is going to jeopardize my job in any way because I’m unable to get where I need to be when I need to be there

I think these are reasonable exceptions and I’m interested to see how often I’ll need to use them. I’m also interested to see how many times I flake out and use my car just because it’s too much of a pain in the ass not to.

I started thinking about this when I moved at the end of March. I lived in my little apartment for a year, just one year, and managed to acquire a shocking amount of stuff. I’d go to Bed, Bath and Beyond for a shower gift and come home with a cake stand (only $10!), and an extra laundry basket ($2!!), and who knows what else. I’d go to the grocery store and buy every beautiful vegetable in sight and end up throwing far too many of them in the trash because I couldn’t eat them all before they spoiled. It was easy to acquire stuff because I didn't have to think about how to transport it, I could just toss it in the back of my car and presto! I started to wonder, what if I actually had to carry all that crap I consumed, in my arms, all the way home from the store?

I'd have a lot less shit in my basement.

One day my friend Sara and I began discussing what it would take to go completely without a car in metro Detroit.

Me: “It’d be hard. Especially in February.”

Her: “If you’re seriously considering it you need to try it for a month in the summer and a month in the winter, to see if it’s even possible.”

This was, of course, a brilliant idea. (I really love having brilliant friends, but that's beside the point, back to my experiment.) I knew she was right. If I was serious I was going to have to commit to a serious test.

So this is my summer test drive. Or rather, my summer test walk. Twelve days in to my little transportation experiment I’ll say that it’s been… interesting. Easy at times, difficult at others. Sometimes relaxing, sometimes stressful. I’m tracking all of my miles and the method of travel. I’m taking notes and making observations. I keep reminding myself that if I could manage to go without my car it would save me $350/month.

We’ll see where I land in another 18 days. Wish me luck.

Smithereens

Fall in love with a dear friend who is in love with someone else. This is an excellent test of your mettle; that is, if you can avoid getting your heart smashed to smithereens.

Seeing Red

I bought new reading glasses. They are red. I love them a lot.

A lot.

Things At Which I Am Just No Good

1. Exercising self-restraint
2. Masking my feelings
   
3. Exercising on a regular basis
4. Giving up caffeine
5. Taking my thyroid medication
6. Folding my clean laundry in a timely fashion
7. Putting my foot down
8. Making pie crusts
9. Meeting deadlines
10. Holding back tears
11. Being quiet
12. Taking quick showers
13. Finishing my book club books
14. Listening to music at low volumes
15. Biting my tongue
16. Keeping secrets

Don't Look Now

It has been a very long time since a man touched me with love on his fingertips. I’m not sure I remember the feeling.

Confession: I spent most of 2010 making love to a man who was not making love to me in return. Oh the physical act was there, and at times I could swear I’d see a flicker of love in his eyes, but that was just my confusion of sexual tenderness for love. I am easily confused.

Somehow when a lover hurts my feelings it’s like I can feel every past hurt from every past lover rush back to me all at once. And the twinge in my heart is so great that tears bloom in my eyes.

Suddenly I am sitting in my bedroom, talking on the telephone. My grandmother has just died and I’m saying, “I just need you to come over and hold me.” Mark refuses to come. And he does not understand. I am crying.

Suddenly I am driving my car in Ann Arbor with a dark haired man in the passenger seat. The windows are down and we are listening to Pearl Jam. I am laughing when I turn toward him and finally notice the marks on his neck that were not made by me. I’m hitting the brakes while trying not to hit him in the face. I’m kicking Chris out of my car miles from his house. I am crying.

Suddenly I am looking at my checking account balance wondering why his check for half the rent bounced. I am sitting in an airport listening to him explain that he doesn’t have the money he promised he’d save for our vacation mere hours before we are supposed to leave. I’m talking to his sister realizing the computer he “sold for $40” was actually sold for four hundred dollars. Another lie. About money. Again. And I am crying. I am crying. I am crying myself to sleep on the couch while Shaun sleeps peacefully in our bed.

Suddenly I am waking up in bed next to him, his long arms and legs wrapped around me, keeping me warm. I am coasting down a hill behind him on my bicycle, wind and happiness on my cheeks on a hot summer day. I am closing my eyes as he kisses me, knowing that he is a man who will never lie to me. I am sitting in a dark movie theater listening to the sound of our laughter rise up toward the ceiling. I am watching him fidget with his keys while he talks about movies with the video store clerk, knowing we won't actually watch the one we are renting. I am chopping peppers, listening to music he gave to me, music that I love, music that he knew I’d love. I'm on a rooftop in Nashville, at a wedding on my birthday, hoping that he will call me to wish me a happy one. I am standing at the foot of his bed as Mike says to me, “Don’t fall in love with me.”

I am lying when I respond, “I won’t.”

I am lying.

Winter in Chicago