strange bedfellows

Did I see you walking with the boys, though it was not hand in hand? And was some black face in a lonely place when you could understand? 

Did she wake you up to tell you that it was only a change of plan? Dream up, dream up, let me fill your cup with the promise of a man.

My first year in graduate school for my first master’s degree, I parted ways with my long-time roommate and moved in with complete strangers. I arrived at my new digs a little worse for the wear because of the circumstances under which my friend and I had divorced. Her drug-addicted boyfriend had made a pretty aggressive pass at me and then crawled uninvited into my bed while I was sleeping one weekend when she was out of town, and the truth of it made living together awkward to the point of untenable. We’d talked it over, but it was getting no better. We hated where we were living anyway, so we took the opportunity to get out of the lease and go our separate ways in an effort to try and get some breathing room and save the friendship. We valued each other greatly and thought constantly rubbing up against each other in that grubby little basement apartment was stunting the healing process. We decided to give the friendship some light and air, but I felt neither light nor airy. I felt dirty and cheated and used and, above all, sad. I did agree with the proposition in theory, though, and I definitely needed some space, so I signed a lease with strangers in a building that sat on a busy corner of Main Street just a few blocks from campus. I could walk to class and work and the bars, and I thought a fresh start might be what the doctor ordered.

So, I moved in with a guy and a girl I had never met before. The guy had lived in the apartment for a couple of years. Like me, the other girl was new; she was never around and not all that charming, though, so it really was just my male roommate and I occupying that second-story flat. The building was a friendly place. Not part of any complex, it had nine units — three on each floor — with patios that looked down onto the gravel parking lot and the intersection below. It was a bird’s eye view onto the hub of activity for our little college town, and the residents would often hang out on the balconies and greet each other coming and going or stand down on the sidewalk or shout up to each other to make plans for barbecues or happy hours. It wasn’t unusual to be reading or napping on your couch and hear your name yelled from below only to get up, grab your bag and run out the door to ladies’ night or dime drafts or karaoke only minutes later. And if you came home on Friday afternoon and found the big green trash can on your porch, that meant it was your apartment’s turn to buy the keg and host that Saturday night’s party. It was a good system. They were good people, and we all enjoyed each other immensely and took care of each other beautifully.

We had our own version of Lenny and Squiggy living directly below us. A sweet couple of guys who were like the Three Stooges minus one. They were inseparable, had a penchant for using the word “bozak” (they were from Long Island), and would suddenly appear your apartment ala Kramer any time they saw food of any kind going up the stairs. I learned fast to always cook or order enough for their appetites, too. Across the hall lived three girls who were always good for a night out, an afternoon of sledding down the hill at the elementary school behind our building, or the Chinese buffet on a Sunday. A good friend from high school lived upstairs. We belonged to the same fraternity. He and I had fallen into a brother/sister bond years before, and he doted on me. A charming and funny pretty boy alpha male with disarming good looks and a bad habit of sleeping around on his girlfriends, he was exceedingly loyal, protective, affectionate when it came to me. He craved my company more than I deserved, and I could always count on him to want to spend time together. We shared a “little sister” in the fraternity. We tooled around town and up and down the Valley in his Jeep with me ever riding shotgun. We coordinated Halloween costumes. We volunteered together. We had a regular date to fall asleep on his living room floor in front of the tv watching Law and Order in the dark together holding hands. Even today, I can picture his big, soft, tanned hands with their perfectly square nails — always impeccably clean and trimmed with smooth white moons and edges. I’m not sure what that was all about, but it was sweet and reassuring and very, very comfortable. It wasn’t something we discussed with each other, it just was. I would just go upstairs, let myself in, turn off the lights, and curl up next to him. Sometimes we’d move to his bed to sleep at some point in the night, but often we’d wake up still on the carpet in the middle of the night or early morning if I didn’t get up and stumble downstairs to my own apartment at some point.

The year before, I had arrived at the crummy seaside Panama City Beach motel my travel companions had booked for spring break already tired of the sight of them after 15 hours in the car together. I immediately discovered this friend of mine and his three buddies were in a room a few doors down, and at their suggestion, moved in with them for the week. It somehow seemed less “gay” to have me in bed with them, I suppose. While everyone else hit the clubs for body shots and wet t-shirt contests and hook ups, my friend and I spent mornings on the Gulf’s white sand together with the beach to ourselves, the afternoons at local seafood dives watching sports on the TV and drinking Miller Lites, and the evenings with activities like entering an oyster eating contest that involved me sucking them down out of the shells blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back (I came in second place) or making mac and cheese in a thin, dented up aluminum pot on our room’s barely functional stove to go with the fish his roommates caught during the day and grilled on the little abandoned hibachi we’d found in the alley. And playing Spades. Lots and lots of cutthroat Spades rife with lively smack talk.  We’d nap and watch soap operas and take turns reading the chapters of a Stephen King book to each other laying in the sun or in bed at night. It was comfortable and restful and in no way your typical college spring break, but it was everything we believed a beach vacation should be, and when I moved into the building the following year, all three men quickly absorbed me into their family. Sharing a shitty motel room for a week while surrounded by loud, drunk idiots has a way of doing that to people, but the boys never did anything short of pampering me. I was spoiled.

And then there was my roommate — a gentle boy with glasses and an impish grin, sparkling eyes, and a ubiquitous baseball cap covering his receding fine, blond hairline. He appeared shy upon first glance, but still waters ran deep and included a wicked sense of humor and a great deal of creative talent. He was soft-spoken by day but headed up a punk band by night. They weren’t a very popular band, but they shouted really loud and broke their instruments — which I helped to tape back together after gigs — so I guess they were punk enough to serve as an emotional outlet for him. He also shot video for the ROTC and would often spend long evenings in the edit bays on campus, where I would bring him bologna sandwiches for dinner.

We fell into easy step together pretty quickly without becoming too involved in each other’s day-to-day lives, but we were always happy to come home and stumble over one another for a chat over breakfast or a pizza and beers. A huge music fan, he turned me onto Ween and Green Day (the latter of which never stuck), and I played his Screaming Trees and Alice In Chains CDs over and over again at top volume until they broke. In return, I introduced him to Star Trek: The Next Generation in the waning weeks of the last season, and we glued ourselves to the couch under a blanket to dork out together for a weekend marathon the local UPN channel aired before the finale while living off of shrimp fried rice take out from Yee’s Place and Gus’ Taverna delivery gyros. I brought an old Nintendo NES back after Christmas break, and I would come home to find him playing Mario Brothers at all hours. Sometimes I’d fall asleep on the couch to find that he’d propped my legs up in his lap so he could sit there and play that damn game around me. We’d hit a rotation of townie bars on Sunday and Monday nights to hustle pool to help pay our rent. I’d lure in the mark and we’d sandbag them with my lousy play and his awkward nervousness, and then he’d eventually run the table and we’d grab the cash and shag ass for the door. It was a quiet, comfortable partnership that worked.

My roommate had one major drawback, however: he was a terrible slob. When I moved in he was already fighting to open the door to his little bedroom — the smallest in the apartment — due to all the stuff he had piled up in there. I was pretty sure his disgusting bathroom was starting to develop new diseases. Darling guy. Filthy mess. By spring semester, his junk was kicking him out of his bedroom, and he started to sleep on the couch. Worse yet, his dirty laundry was starting to pile up in the living room, as he’d just drop his trousers and step out, leaving them in a puddle in the middle of the floor. I’d kick them to the edges of the room, but they eventually started to stack up. It was nearly impossible to get seriously angry with him, as he was about as harmful as a baby bunny, but I was starting to get a little annoyed. Still, I tolerated it because I worked long hours at the campus catering operation and so was rarely home.

Also, he had grown up without a mother — raised by a single father who was a three-star general and a former member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Despite being an Army brat with his own military training, he had zero self-discipline when it came to anything for which he wasn’t passionate. Music and film? Sure. Chores? Forget it. The bachelor existence with which he’d grown up didn’t lend itself to a clean house either. His father was a dear man — sweet and gentle like his son — both of them a little broken from losing their wife and mother and not sure what to do or how to act around one another. When Dad came to visit, I was always included in their plans as an ad hoc sister of sorts — once again that warm, soft female buffer body in the middle that made it ok for men to be in a close space together without really having to be together. I greased the skids and did a little mothering of both quiet, lonely men.

Then came the night I rolled in the door from work around two a.m. and found my roommate in my bed. His shit had finally taken over the living room to the point where it was no longer habitable, and he had retreated to the last clean refuge in the house — my room. I was so exhausted from my day that I didn’t even turn on the lights, just peeled down to my panties and crawled into my bed to find that there was already a body warming it. I shrieked and hit the lights, sitting up in bed with the sheets clutched around me looking down at his drowsy, heavy lidded face struggling to the surface of consciousness.

“What the hell are you doing in my bed?!”

“I needed a place to sleep. The living room’s too dirty.”

“And who’s fault is that? Out. Get out.”

“Aw, come on. You have this big queen bed. There’s plenty of room for both of us. Come on. I’m tired. Let’s just go to sleep. I won’t bug you. I promise.”

“You snore.”

“Not too much.”

“*sigh* Fine. You can stay. But just for tonight. And I’m putting on a shirt. But tomorrow you’re cleaning up and starting to move back into your own bedroom — starting with the living room. Got it? This is ridiculous.”

“Sure, sure. *yawn* Sorry. I’m just…so…zzzzzzzz”

“Christ.”

I turned out the light and went to sleep. He was good on his word. He didn’t bug me and barely snored. He did not, however, start cleaning the house the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. A week went by, and the place was still a wreck. And he was still sharing my bed. I just didn’t have the heart to refuse him anything, and really, I couldn’t see the harm. The longer he slept there, the more normal it felt.

And then, about a week into this weird little arrangement of ours, I was out at the bar down the street with a couple of girlfriends, including my former roommate. It was an ok enough time. We were watching basketball and having some laughs, but I didn’t really have my heart in it. I was tired, and everyone was drunk, and I was getting sleepy. Sitting at the bar staring into my beer, I felt a presence sidle up next to me. I turned and found my roommate on the next bar stool smiling his little knowing, lopsided smile at me.

“You look beat.”

“I am.”

“Come on. Let’s go home and go to bed.”

He reached out his hand, and I took it. Held it the whole walk home, neither of us talking. Just enjoying being quiet together. When we got there, we both made for my bedroom like it was ours. Like that was the most natural thing in the world. We both stripped down — him to his cotton, blue-striped boxers that sat low on his hips below his ever-so-slightly soft belly accentuated by his meek little slouch, and me to my panties…no shirt. We crawled in under the covers, each taking our sides — his close to the window and mine close to the door — and turned onto our sides. He pulled up against my back and wrapped his arms around my waist, pressing his warm, hairless body the length of mine, heating up my chilled skin as he spooned me. I tucked the back of my head under his chin on the pillow. He kissed my hair, and we both drifted off into a peaceful slumber feeling very at ease. And that’s how we slept for the next few months — cuddling and clinging to each other like two survivors in a drifting lifeboat. There were no promises, no expectations. Sometimes one of us (usually me) didn’t come home at night. There would be no problems, no questions asked. We’d pass through my bed wordlessly like ships in the night, me often coming home in the middle of the night from work and crawling quietly under the covers, him silently up with the sun for ROTC without disturbing me, but we’d spend the few hours between midnight and dawn there together in a sort of suspended state that was separated from the world and the rest of our lives in it. As with my friend upstairs, we never talked about it. It was just who we were, what we did.

There were several reasons for what we were doing, why we each craved the comfort of warmth and physical contact — or even just someone else’s slow and steady breathing on the same mattress. He was a senior preparing to graduate and accept his commission into the Army — a commission he didn’t want and a career path he didn’t choose. He was looking at shipping off to Fort Gordon to join the Signal Corps and, like most kids that age, had no clue what he was doing or why. He was living his life to make his father happy, because so much about their lives together without his mother made his brokenhearted father unhappy. He wasn’t cut out for the military, and they both knew it, but it was something they could have in common. The only way those two lost souls could relate. He was terrified of his uncertain future, unsure of who he was, feeling bullied and alone, and, in the end, unmothered. As twisted as it sounds, sleeping with me was probably more out of desire for a maternal experience than anything else and the basis for our chaste cuddling.

For me, it was a form of recovery from what had happened in my last living situation. There was nothing aggressive about my roommate or his relationship with me. His affection was consistent, gentle, and dependable. It helped me heal from the feelings of betrayal and rejection I’d suffered and, along with my friend upstairs, let me regain some lost trust in men and physical contact with them. The wordless therapy of his soft, pink, unmarred youth made me feel loved and valued again — like I was worthy of safety and affection that didn’t make demands of me. It just gave without taking while welcoming whatever I could offer in return and never told me it wasn’t good enough. Never asked for more. It saw me and accepted me for who I was and loved me for it anyway. It also offered me a form of shelter in my own uncertain time, as I adjusted to the disorienting experience of being a graduate student at my undergraduate institution. While I considered leaving graduate school for law school. While I considered doing just that for another man I loved. While I weighed the possibility of losing myself in his needs against losing that man and choosing to live for myself without him. I faced my own turning point, and it terrified me. The moment of decision was coming fast, and it felt huge and unbearable. I didn’t have to think about it in bed with my roommate, though. I could curl up in his arms and nestle against his soft, smooth skin and hide in his body. We could both ignore the fact that we were both entertaining the possibility of living our lives for other people. We could both shut out the demands and pending commitments of adulthood and stay innocent children just a little longer wrapped around each other like that — a couple of needy, terrified 21 year-olds on the brink of their beginning lives alone at an age where relationships were so intense and the world felt ready to end at any moment. At an age filled with people and fears you outgrow and move on from and forget with age, but mean everything to you and define you at the time. At an age when you feel everything too damn much.

And then, one day at the end of the semester, I snapped. The pressures in my life came to a head for me, and I suddenly felt the need to exert some control. I needed breathing room and a clean psychic space — and so I turned my anger and frustration on my roommate’s mess in the apartment, some of which was edging its way into my room mainly in the form of shorts and boxers that he would strip out of to crawl into bed and leave wherever they dropped on the carpet. And that was part of the last straw. Either Lenny or Squiggy downstairs called him in his edit bay on campus and told him he needed to come home. He pulled into the parking lot and found me flinging his stuff out of the living room onto (and over) our little patio while yelling and muttering to myself. I must have made quite the sight for all of our neighbors with my little domestic scene. He came upstairs and tried to calm me, but the confrontation only escalated into a fight. I’d had enough — I needed my space in every way. I burned our unspoken sleeping arrangement to the ground, packed up and stormed out the door to work. I spent the night on the sofa in the office and didn’t go home until the next evening when I walked through the door to the shock of my life. My roommate had spent the entire weekend cleaning the apartment from top to bottom. Not only were all of his things cleared out of my room and the joint living space, but he’d cleaned up his room and bathroom, too. He’d scrubbed everything down and had a homemade meal and flowers waiting for me. I walked in the door late from a long two days of work — exhausted and sweaty and greasy in my smelly purple polo shirt and filthy khakis — and burst into tears when greeted with that scene. He came over to me at the door, took my bag from my shoulder, hugged me and led me over to the dining room table where he pulled out a chair in front of a plate and guided me into it. Neither of us ever said we were sorry. We didn’t have to. As always, we communicated without speaking. All was fixed. All was forgiven.

That night, he went to sleep in his room, and I went to sleep alone in mine. We never shared a bed again and we never discussed it. We were over. Cold turkey. I was a little sad about it, but mostly I felt liberated, free to move forward. It was time to quit hiding and delaying. As queer and counter-intuitive as it sounds, my relationship with him was probably the healthiest, most nurturing and honest I’ve ever had. Sad, huh? Nonetheless, it was time to put the comfort of my roommate’s body, his presence in bed next to me, behind me and take action — time to step out and do what was scary. I was ready to face adulthood and all its rewards and disappointments on my own. And he had to do the same. It was time for us both to grow up.

I tell this story now, because I’m going through something similar. Only this time, I’m alone, and I’m the slob. For the past several weeks, I have done a terrible job of coping with what is happening with my Mom. The news that she’s in heart failure has completely thrown me for a loop. I’m not dealing. My house is a mess. Not as bad as anything my college roommate created, but the worst I’ve ever let it get. The disorder is epic by my standards. I’ve shut myself in and shut myself away from my friends. I’ve been completely anti-social. My diet is crap. If I eat at all — and I often go days without doing so, mostly because my gut rejects everything I put in it — it’s nothing good. My fridge is empty. I ran out of toilet paper and dog food earlier this week. It’s unsurprising for me to wear the same dress two or three days in a row. When I run out of clean underpants, I just don’t wear any. I’m not getting any work done, which only increases my stress and anxiety, because deadlines don’t move, and the work only piles up. Balls are getting dropped, and payment is going to come due soon.

The strangest part of all of this is how my sleeping habits have changed. For some reason, I moved out of my bed and started sleeping in the guest room a few weeks ago. I thought it was just that I decided to sleep in the sheets my brother spent one night on in a good faith effort to make them really worth washing in advance of my next guest. At least, that’s what I told myself at first. But little by little, I completely abandoned my bedroom. I moved my water bottle and the two prescriptions I need in the mornings over to the desk next to the guest room bed. I started moving some clothes over to the dresser in there, too. I let my pets take over the big queen bed in the master bedroom while baskets and piles of clean and dirty laundry took over the floor. The dog freaked out during a thunderstorm and broke the blinds in my room two weeks ago.  I just retracted them up halfway to disguise the damage from passersby on my street and pulled the curtains shut to hide it a little from the inside of the house. I have made no move to replace the blinds…or the torn curtains. He crushed the little wicker wastepaper basket in there, too. I let it lay there in pieces for a few days before I took it to the dumpster. There are still balled up pieces of Kleenex from the destroyed basket scattered in the corner in there. I haven’t bought a new basket. A cat threw up on the carpet a week ago, and I only cleaned it up yesterday. You would think the room belonged to Miss Havisham or was part of an abandoned house, falling further and further into chaos every day. No longer resembling the sunny, well-decorated, cherished sanctuary and refuge of rest it once was to me.

Instead, I’ve moved into my smaller, darker, but very comfortable guest room that, while warm and welcoming with its rich green walls, touches of bright red and yellow, shelves of books, and a definite decor theme, is largely devoid of personal touches. It’s not lived-in by design. It’s made to be a cleaner slate for my guests. Perhaps that’s what I like about it. Or the fact that its western exposure means the sun doesn’t reach it until well after noon, and even then, the heavy curtains shut out the light. Or the fact that it faces my quiet backyard, so the only in there to disturb me is the muffled white noise of the ceiling fan. Or the fact that it doesn’t have an alarm clock. Or the fact that the very comfortable pillow-top mattress is only a full, rather than a queen, and thus the smaller bed feels snugger and less empty. While I do not have another body in it to wrap around and comfort me, I take comfort in the fact that the edges are never too far. I’m not lost in the open expanse. I can hunker down, sink in, and let the layers of cozy covers hug around me. Being in my guest room is like being a guest in my own house. I’m on vacation from reality in there, and I cannot wait to go there and close the door (something I never do in my own room) every night. Waking up in there means waking up in a strange place away from my routine, and I’m able to stave off the real world just a little longer. It’s bad enough that I wake up with anxiety attacks at four a.m., at least I can shut myself away from what waits beyond that door and pretend I’m somewhere else for a little longer before I get out of bed each day. I just turned 40 a week ago, and here I am acting like a scared little girl again when I’ve known how to work without a net for years now.

Something’s gotta give, though, and so something has. Just like with my roommate, I suddenly and inexplicably snapped when I woke up this morning. I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. Sick of victimizing myself over this. No one cares if I’m broken. No one has the patience for that, least of all me. It’s time for me to suck it up, get my shit together, clean up my mess, and start being myself again. I’m done being dazed and scared and a little crazy. I’m ready to be strong and powerful and organized and effective again. I used to be a badass — the height of competences and capability, but lately — everyone’s looking at me like I’m fragile, like I’m made of spun glass and might break any minute. And they might be right. I’m tired of hearing people tell me they’re worried about me. I’m good in a crisis and a force to be reckoned with — the one people wait to show up, take charge, and start fixing things — and it’s time for me to be that woman again. Time to support my family. Time to help my Mom find the way she’s going to live with her heart instead of die from it. Time to get up off the floor and fucking fight back.

And so, the fridge is again stocked with fruit and cheese and veggies. A couple of salads are made, and the chicken I’ll roast for dinner is thawing in the sink. The animals are walked and sleeping on a clean pet bed on the living room floor again. My clothes are washed and put away. I’ve got new curtains for the master bedroom just waiting to be ironed and hung. The bedding from both beds is in the laundry, and I will sleep in my own room tonight. The guest room will go back to being ready for my guests while I live in my own home. I’m throwing things away left and right — ruthlessly so — cleaning as I go. And when I’m done, I’ll run some errands, hit the pool for a mile or so of laps, and spend the evening preparing my presentation for this weekend’s conference.

I’m done fucking around. Just like I broke the spell with my roommate and chucked his mess off of the porch all those years ago, I’m chucking out my own physical and emotional clutter now. There is no one here to hug me and hold me at night and let me pretend everything’s ok. I had my last romance with that illusory safety net almost almost 20 years ago, and while those boys were lovely, I’ve long since outgrown them. The only one who can fix this is me, so I’d better get started.

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how not to get into my pants

engage: lame, whiny, inelegant, ventilating rant

hey there, guy! think you might be interested in me? want to get to know me better? think it might be cool if we spent some time together socially? think we might have the makings of a good friendship? think there’s a chance in hell we might actually have sex or even a relationship some day? well, gentlemen, here’s a sure-fire, bonafide how-to guide on to make sure that none of that will ever happen with me in a million years:

  • spend months, even years fawning over me every time you see me, flirting and even touching me, hugging me, stoking my hair, trying to massage my neck, but never doing anything more about it.
  • start non-specifically “asking me out” without presenting an actual invitation to do something planned with you or even requesting my phone number.
  • finally give your phone number to me and tell me to call you if i ever “need anything.” what the fuck does that even mean? also, do this repeatedly.
  • act all mopey that i never called you the next time you see me (protip: i don’t do the calling, particularly when you can’t man-up enough to just ask for my number). i like my men confident and assertive without being dicks. mopey is a sure non-starter, as is putting the responsibility on me to get things rolling when you are the one who was interested in the first place.
  • finally ask for my phone number and get it from me on a night when i’m not feeling well (see: how good i was not feeling) and don’t have any fight in me to put up. also, i had a moment where i figured, “what the hell?” and thought i’d be nice and give something new a try.
  • begin to text me ad nauseum within two hours of getting my phone number with messages like “how are you?” “what are you doing?” “feeling better?” no, i’m not feeling better — you just saw me three hours ago and i was sick as a dog. do you think i ran into jesus giving out free miracles on a street corner on my way home or something? and this despite me telling you that i was busy with plans that night and into the weekend. why the hell would you listen to me and choose to respect my stated boundaries rather than just start sending me messages anyway, even though i had made it clear that i was otherwise engaged for the rest of the evening?
  • text to ask me if i “need anything” at midnight that night.
    a.) don’t be texting me at midnight. you don’t know me that well yet.
    b.) that’s a lame booty call, and i’m not amused.
    c.) i’m freaking sick, and you know it. don’t booty text someone who is sick.
    d.) just don’t ever booty text someone. get some game already.
    e.) even if you are legit offering to bring me something like medicine or food, i’m not going to have some dude i barely know come over to my house in the middle of the night to do that. we haven’t even met for coffee or drinks yet. you’re sure as shit not coming to my inner sanctum when i’m sick in my pjs to bring me gatorade. come on. this is just 100% disrespectful and bordering on invasive.
  • have me wake up the next morning to find that you started blowing up my phone before sunrise with several more text messages like “good morning?” “sleep well?” “feeling better?” and even “what are you doing?” what the hell do you think i’m doing at 6am?
  • never actually pick up the phone and call me. just keep texting me for days and days like you’re 14 asking me if i’m better yet. like i need that. and this in spite of the fact that i have responded more than once to tell you that:
    a.) i just came down with my viral infection, i’m not on the back end of it, and
    b.) it will probably take the better part of the week to feel better, so please stop asking me if i’m better yet. i will tell you when i’m better.
    i don’t know how to be more honest and up front with you aside from telling you to just get lost right off the bat. i was trying to be nice and give you a small chance to redeem yourself.
  • and since you couldn’t take the hint to back off when i told you i’m sick (which was both a warning to you and the hand-to-god’s honest truth), i also told you that i was going out to town to a conference in vegas for several days and having company in town when i returned so i would be off of the map for about a week. i thanked you in advance for being patient and told you that i’d be in touch when everything settled down.what’s your response? what do i get from you as i’m boarding the plane? a text from you warning me to “be a good girl in vegas.” SERIOUSLY? “be a good girl?” i mean, FUCKING SERIOUSLY?! first of all, i’ll do whatever the hell i want. we haven’t even been on a fucking date. you can’t even muster the guts to ring me up proper and use your big boy voice to ask me out, and you’re telling me to behave myself like we’re committed somehow? why the hell do guys do this? you are by no means the first to pull this shit on me, and it pisses me off to no end. fuck you. i’m not your “girl.” i don’t have to “be good.” get over your lame penis insecurity and back the hell up off of the possessive vibe, dad. you don’t have me marked as yours. telling me what to do is a sure way to burn any bridge with me, especially when you don’t even have a place in my life yet.
    moreover, this is what you send me when you know that a.) i’m sick and b.) i’m going away on business. fucking insulting on every damn level. way to treat me like some dumb hoochie and neither see nor acknowledge that i’m a grown adult professional woman with a lot of balls in the air — none of which are yours, i might add. you’re not even on the list and slip-sliding further from the edge of it with each passing text. it also doesn’t help your case that you never bothered to ask why i was going to vegas, what i would be doing there, and what my work was about. no interest in my brains or academic passions. all you were worried about was that some girl whose ten digits you just got might fuck some stranger in her sickened state because she’s a just a woman and therefore so hysterically cock crazy that she can’t be trusted not to jump on the first stiff one she sees once shes get a couple appletinis or some other fruity designer non-drink in her. none of which is the case with me — especially the part where i’d drink anything in a martini glass that wasn’t three olives in ice-cold gin with a bottle of vermouth passed over it (or maybe a manhattan…up).
  • proceed to spend all weekend texting me “hello?” repeatedly. no, i’m not kidding. that’s what you did.  just “hello?” several times a day all day saturday. i can’t even begin to grasp what was going on in your head there.
  • when i finally reply two days later to tell you that
    a.) i’m so sick that i’ve been in the hospital and
    b.) i would really appreciate it if you’d stop texting me because it’s annoying me and not something i want to deal with sick or well, but especially not sick, you fly off the handle wanting to know why i didn’t call you to take me to the hospital (WHAT?!) and then follow up with a day’s worth of passive-aggressive texts that slowly escalate to accusing me of using the sick excuse to push you away. really? i mean, seriously? what? you even SAW me sick, but that’s neither here nor there, just…WHAT?!

first of all, there is probably no behavior in the world that will make me angrier or want to be rid of you (after punching you in the face) faster than passive-aggression. i have to time or patience for childish behavior. got a problem? pony up and say so. if i wanted to be around people who pout, i’d work in day care. spill it, let’s fix it, move on with or without me. i don’t care. but if you want to bitch out and completely fail at communicating your feelings in a forthcoming, productive adult manner, fine. just do it far away from me and not involving me in any way. and this goes for everyone. and i most definitely will not tolerate this from someone who is just trying to get to know me. how is that a way to get off the ground with a new interest? explain that one to me.

i’ve got a couple other people pulling this cop-out crap with me lately, and they’re fools if the think i’m not noticing it. i’ve addressed the vibes they’re sending out directly with each of them at least once only to get denials and more of the continued passive aggression, and i’m kind of fed up. it’s more aggressive than passive, and i’m losing patience fast. i’m torn between calling them out on it once and for all or just deciding that anyone who behaves that way isn’t worth my time and just walking away. i’m every bit as over-scheduled and overwhelmed as they are, so that excuse does not fly as a reason to be rude to a friend. i’ve worked too hard to hoist myself through hell and be in the happy and healthy (well, emotionally, at least) place i’m in now to waste energy playing people’s mental guessing games. that’s not a good use of my time. passive-aggressive i can do without from everyone, but if they’re friends of mine, i love them, so i’m willing to give a little and see if their sudden mood swings pass and we work things out.

you, however, don’t get a pass. i barely know you, and  i’m thinking i don’t want to. if this is how you behave when you’re trying to start some kind of relationship with me even though you can’t manage to even begin with a simple date when i’m totally worth a decent meal and an evening’s conversation, then i’ll just thank you for showing me the crazy right up front so i don’t have to waste any time on you before i shut this down and move on. the fact that i’m taking the time to sit up and write this while i’m as sick and falling over tired as i am right now should tell you how angry i am. i just have to get this off of my chest so i can get some good sleep. something in my gut told me all along that i shouldn’t have bothered giving you a chance. once again, my intuition was spot on. note to self: must remember that.

finally, i’m a big girl who can take care of herself. i do it all the time — and i like it. a little credit, please. i’m happy to be vulnerable with those i trust. i love to let my guard down and let those i love take care of me from time to time. however, do NOT ever treat me like i’m somehow helpless. if the fact that i’m self-assured and able to handle my business is what attracted you to me in the first place, recognize that and stop trying to treat me like a damsel in distress, and don’t get hostile with me for not acting like you’re god’s gift and that i have nothing better to do than drop everything and come running because you sent me some puss-out 160-character text. i’m not going to come slobbering for the answer to all my problems you think you have in your pants. let me let you in on a little secret: you don’t.

you know what the worst part is? you’re not the first to try playing this exact game with me. it’s pathetic. gentlemen, here’s the deal: step up your game or don’t even bother. the least you can do is CALL a girl and ask her out to drinks or the movies if you think you like her. get to know a girl, for the love of mike. no one wants a text relationship. no one wants to be smothered before they even spend an evening with you (or after, for that matter). nothing about a bright, independent professional woman should give you the impression that i will go for that amateur hour crap. i would block your texts if only my phone would let me. as it is, i’m just ignoring you and hoping you’ll get the message and go away. i feel like shit right now, and your nonsense is not helping.

note: i’m no helen of troy, but i have other options. i don’t need this bullshit. and, the truth of the matter is, that i am very, very happy with my own company. thank you for doing your part to make me prefer it even more than i already did.

no. seriously. stop texting me.

end: lame, whiny, inelegant, ventilating rant 

101.5

and have you set me free, or will i wake up in the morning to find out it’s been a bad dream?

i’m sick. i ache head to toe. i’m weak and exhausted. i was hoping it was just a cold, but it’s seeming more sinister. glands are all swollen. i barely made it through my day today. fought to stay awake on the drive home, my body wracked with chills.  coughed and sneezed. nose bled. got through the door. struggled to kick off my boots without bothering to bang the snow from them. stripped my layers of wool and down and denim leaving them to drop in a trail across the floor through the house until i made it to my bed in my tank and panties. cranked up the heated mattress pad. crawled under the covers as the winter twilight darkened the room and slept for four hours.

i woke with my lower body on fire. my hips and legs throbbed and burned. even the soft flannel sheets brushing against them as i shifted under the covers made my nerves stand on end and scream. my throat burned. my head throbbed. thirst consumed me, but the bottle on my bedside table was empty, and I was too chilled, hurting, and tired to move out of the bed and do anything about it. i rolled over and dialed up my brother to complain about my predicament good-naturedly, hoping that my silly whining would wake me. it didn’t.

i managed to crawl out of bed to get some water and a thermometer. took my temperature. 101.5 degrees. no wonder i felt like shit. i had a million and two things to do, but decided “fuck it” and crawled back under the covers and fell immediately back to sleep.

you came to me in my fever dream. it wasn’t a dream so much, as a memory. a memory of the time i got the flu when we were together. i had a fever then, too, only it was higher. you were worried because i was too sick to worry. i was burning up. made no sense. the semester hadn’t started yet, and so i had nowhere to be except in bed, and that’s where you found me. i complained that morning that i wasn’t feeling well. i didn’t answer your texts in the afternoon. you came home early from your shift and called my name as you came through the front door. i heard you, but didn’t have the strength to respond. you looked through the apartment until your eyes fell on me curled up in a ball in bed, covers all kicked off onto the floor. one touch of my skin made you want to take me to the emergency room. i fought you. refused. you promised you’d be able to get me seen quickly — no sitting in hard chairs under the bright fluorescents in the waiting room. still. no. no way. not leaving this bed. you threatened. reminded me that you were easily twice my size. that you’d pick me up and put me in the truck and take me and i wouldn’t have anything to say about it. i didn’t stand a chance against your strength on my best day. what was i going to do to stop you in my weakened state? i begged you. i cried. you relented. shushed me softly as you ran your hands through my sweaty, tangled hair. comforting me, but looking helpless. deep brown eyes filled with concern as you stared intently at my flushed face and glassed-over eyes in the late day sun that streamed in from the patio through the curtains over the sliding glass door. i couldn’t focus on anything. i passed out.

you left me to sleep. went and got soup. made it and a sandwich. brought it to me in bed. i struggled to come to surface to consciousness. wouldn’t sit up. wouldn’t eat. couldn’t keep down water. my fever reached 102. your medical training made you pack me with ice under my arms and behind my neck. it felt like murder and didn’t touch the fever. you called your mother. she was a pediatrician and saw kids with raging temperatures all the time. she told you to get me up and in a cold shower immediately, which you did. you propped me up against the bathroom wall and tugged my clothes off under the bright, unforgiving lights. held my arms out away from my sides and let your gaze travel over my body, taking its time over my breasts, neck, throat. eyes mixed with worry and a tinge of lust took in the fever’s rash on my flesh. my own eyes caught our reflections in the mirror over your shoulder. my head lolled limply on my neck as i stood under your inspection. my knees buckled slightly. you paused for a moment. took in the situation, considered the options, then stripped yourself down and stood in the tub with me. holding me under the icy cold water with your arms around my waist as i moaned and cursed your name the best i could with sounds that were largely indecipherable. the water was so cold. my skin shrieked as it hit me. shrieked as you toweled me dry and combed out my hair. god, it hurt. every part of me was sensitive and on fire. you dressed me tenderly, like you were dressing a little girl. put your scrubs shirt on me, still warm from being on your body all day and filled with the smell of you. pulled some clean underpants out of the dryer and knelt in front of me and held them out so i could steady myself with my hands on your shoulders and step carefully into them. wrapped my hair in a dry towel and put me back into bed still slightly damp.  i immediately succumbed to sleep in the dark, my teeth chattering.

i woke some time later to find you kneeling next to my bed under the light on the dresser working the IV you had gone to the hospital and borrowed? stolen? from your friends in emergency into the back of my left hand. i didn’t ask. didn’t say anything. i just looked at you. fought to keep my eyes open and looking into yours. you taped down the IV, started the drip, and the cool saline flooded my veins, making me feel like ice from the inside out. i winced. you kissed me. i protested, said you’d catch it. you told me you didn’t care. told me you loved me. cursed my stubborn streak and the fact that you gave into it. turned off the light and crawled into the bed next to me. i was sprawled sideways across the mattress, leaving no room for your giant frame. you didn’t move me. just curled up into the curves of my body on top of the covers and laid your head against my stomach. burrowed under my breasts like you liked to do. sighed into the heat coming off of my limp body. rising and falling with my ragged breaths and coughs. i fell asleep with my IV hand hanging off the edge of my bed and my other hand resting deep in your thick, black head of soft hair, still slightly damp from the shower. drifted off into fevered oblivion mumbling delirium as you held me tight. let the healing saline course through me.

i woke tonight in my bed alone. midnight on the clock. exhausted, weak, and dry. head still on fire, but the rest of me cool, the bed soaked with the sweat from my fever break. i struggled upright and assessed the damage. stripped the bed. pushed everything into the washing machine. rinsed away the dream with a shower and three advil. made a sandwich and a glass of juice. wished i had you here to do it all for me. i don’t know if your memory helped me break the fever or not, but i swear i can feel a bruise on the back of my hand where the IV was.

sour girl

She was a happy girl when she left me.

I dream vividly. It runs in the family. My paternal grandmother was an avid dream journaler her entire adult life. She always kept a notebook next to her bed, and she would wake from her dreams and roll over in the night and immediately write them down when they ended. I used to love to read her scribbles. I wish I’d pocketed one of her notebooks when we packed up her place in Chicago. I found similar notes in my Dad’s papers after he died, too. Scraps of paper mixed in with his bills and other effects. He’d journal in prose. It was amazing.

Grandma was also a lucid dreamer, a skill she taught both my father and me. I havent been using it for the past year or so, though, either out of sudden onset impotence or choice. I think I am electing to check my free will at the door when I punch my card at night lately. My brain works all day. Why work while I slumber, too? Then again, I seem to be the Sandman’s bitch these days, so the illusion of any control would be a laughable prospect anyway. When I do dream, though, they’re doozies, and the dreams that stay with me all day are truly annoying.

Last night’s was a winner. It seemed to last all night. I was attending a friend’s wedding, only it wasn’t her as I know her now, it was the college version of her. Or as I would imagine her in college, as we didn’t go to school together, and I didn’t know her then. The odd thing is that the action took place in the early 90s — my college years, not hers. She’s younger than I am. I pulled her into my timeline. So, really, it was the college version of me. Or the early grad school version, to be more specific. If you really want to split hairs, it was 1994. The year I lived in that apartment on the second floor on the corner of Main and Port Republic with Mike. The year we went to the bars every night and hustled pool to pay our rent and had music playing in the background constantly. The year that he was still there. The year I didn’t get on the plane to meet him in Greece.

The dream was beautifully lit. Sunset cinematography that gave it a mood of magical realism. Gabriel Garcia Marquez in deep golds, bronzes, and purples. Seemed fitting to me for many reasons, all of them my own. My friend’s wedding was elaborate. We’re talking Kardashian expensive, only classy. The ceremony itself was religious and someplace huge that was most definitely not a church. I never saw that part. I was there. I looked right at it. I just didn’t see it. None of this fit my friend. Her family is not wealthy. She is not religious, and certainly not Christian. And even if she could afford a big, elaborate wedding, it would be the last thing she would ever want. In fact, she had a very simple civil ceremony when she did marry in real life. A marriage I either admire tremendously or that makes me utterly sad. I haven’t decided which. I haven’t given it much thought, to be honest.

After the ceremony, I noticed a huge sign on the wall reminding the guests that they were to have RSVP’d separately to the reception at her parents’ stately mansion by a specific date. As I stood there reading it, I realized I had failed to follow those instructions because I never received them. The bride walked by and asked me what was wrong. I told her. She smiled and said, “No worries. What’s another $100 plate of food for my parents? Come on.” And then she took my hand, which is weird, because we never touch. This stands out, because my friends and I are usually very physically affectionate with one another, but when she touched me in the dream, I realized tht I couldn’t remember a single instance of her flesh ever touching mine. It didn’t feel comfortable in the dream. It was cold and hard and threatening, and I wanted to flinch and pull my hand out of hers immediately, but she held me tight, her silvery wedding gown shining in the sunset. The sun reflected from her dress into my eyes, blinding me. At that same moment, another friend appeared — this one definitely too young to be at university with me in 1994. Oddly enough, both of them are related to the same place and period in my life, but have never met. Friend #2 lurched up out of the darkeness of the pew behind me, and grabbed my other hand. She begged me not to go, tried to pull me down into the pew with her. This friend has never been married — never had a relationship of any kind — and seemed desperate to keep me from following the bride. I remember thinking that neither woman belonged there in 1994 with me. I remember thinking that it was a bad sign. I remember wondering how I knew what year it was. I remember thinking that neither woman had an agenda in my best interest.

I don’t know if I let go of my second friend’s hand or if the bride won the tug-of-war, but the next thing I know, I’m climbing up a long, wide, winding stone staircase with her. When we reached the top, the reception was spread out over a huge, sweeping terrace on a mountainside in front of a large, modern glass house overlooking the Tuscan countryside below. The bride handed me a flute of champagne but never let go of my hand. She was no longer my friend. She was The Bride, and she had me in a vice grip. It was sinister. We stood there watching the sun set. At that point, I looked down and realized I wasn’t wearing anything, which didn’t bother me so much as confused me. It was at that point, that The Bride said, “so glad you could come,” and violently pushed me over the terrace railing and off the cliff below.

When I landed, I was on a city street in front of a theater box office at night. My left side was killing me, but I didn’t seem to be injured or bleeding. The girl in the booth was glad to see me and said that “they” were all waiting for me inside. She printed out a discounted ticket and explained that she wasn’t charging me full price because the show had already started without me. I walked through the doors to an enormous red theater with the seats filled to sold-out capacity with people I know. Hundreds of people from all parts of my life. Stone Temple Pilot’s “Sour Girl” blared overhead. I couldn’t tell where the music was coming from. It was just everywhere. I looked down and found myself wrapped in a white cotton bed sheet. It was wound around me tight like a shroud and tucked under my arms. I was still naked beneath it. Halfway down the aisle, there he stood in a tuxedo with a red rose in his lapel. His dark hair slicked back from his handsome face. He hadn’t aged a day, and neither had I. At that moment, I realized that I was at my own wedding. That had been the point of the whole dream. The tug-of-war, the climb, the push from the cliff. He smiled at me and reached his hand out for mine. I was wrapped too tight in the sheet and couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. Was too terrified.

And then I woke up.

I haven’t been able to shake the images and the feeling of the dream all day. Haven’t been able to shake “Sour Girl” from my head, either. In an effort to exorcise it from my brain, I logged onto Spotify to listen to it and found, to my surprise, that I’d already done so in the night. I had added it and a plethora of other favorite Grunge hits to my playlist somwhere around 4am. I had been busy building a 90s nostalgia soundtrack in my sleep. I have no idea why. I have no idea where any of this comes from. I have no idea what this means. Probably nothing. I have no point. No punchy ending. This is just a dream journal. I just want to wake up.

meet my double standard

Objects in the mirror are not as crazy as they appear.

One morning a couple of Sundays ago, I rolled over, fumbled for the cell on the bedside table, and dialed my brother before I even sat up in bed.

“I want a knife,” I told him.

“What?” he asked.

“You heard me. I said I want a knife. Like to carry with me.”

“Whatever for?”

“You know, because they’re useful. Men have them. Not all men, but lots of men have them. You always have some kind of knife or your Leatherman tool on you to whip out of your pocket and poke or slice or cut open something that needs poking or slicing or cutting. It’s very helpful. I don’t always have you or another man with a knife around, and I think it would be useful. I want one. I’m sick of trying to use my keys or some such crap to open things or whatever.”

“Ok…so why are you telling me?”

“Because I was wondering where to get one. REI? Is that a good place to get a knife? Should I go to REI?”

“Sure, uh,  yeah, I guess. REI would be fine, I suppose. It depends on what kind of tool you want. Do you want a flip blade? A Swiss Army knife? A Leatherman like mine?”

“Yeah, well…I don’t really know.”

“Can’t help you if you don’t know.”

“Ok, here’s the deal: I want a knife and I want you to buy it for me. That’s how it works. The man buys the knife, so you buy it, ok? You buy a knife for me. It has to come from you.”

“Uh…what?”

I went on to explain that I was pretty sure that Dad gave me a little Swiss Army knife at some point when I was a kid. Probably a gift as a teenager. I seem to remember that and recall him making a bit of a big deal out of it at the time. Dad wasn’t macho. He was an ex-academic who worked in retail. He came from a generation of men who were moderately handy at a minimum, however, and he knew how to do stuff. He changed the oil and tuned up the fleet of old cars we owned himself — and taught me how to do it, too. Didn’t matter that I was his daughter. He was a feminist who believed that any child of his needed to be capable. From a very young age, he would pull a Black Label beer out of the fridge for the two of us to share and sit me down next to him out on the sidewalk to watch him as he tinkered and fixed. He’d spread out newspaper on the floor every Sunday night and commence the weekly ritual of shining his shoes for the week.  I used to love to watch him work on the leather and set the polish with his lighter. I enjoyed bearing witness to how he performed a similar regular cleaning on his pipe collection. And, of course, I’d sit at his knee and watch him work his pocket knife rhythmically over a whetstone to sharpen it every month or so. Dad had all the accouterments of manhood, and he took care of them. So, it came as no surprise that he eventually gave me a knife of my own and tried to teach me to do the same. Being a snot-nosed punk teenager on the post-divorce outs with him and his alcoholism at the time, however, I paid no heed. I have no clue what eventually happened to the knife. Looking back now, I realize that I probably really hurt his feelings spurning his gift and showing no interest in what he tried to share with me. It hurts to think about it.

And that’s probably why I thought of wanting a pocket knife now. And why I thought it needed to come from my brother. Because “the man buys the knives” or some such bullshit. A pocket knife isn’t a very girlie thing for a woman to want. Then again, I’m not a girlie girl. Nonetheless, some strange gender script I had in my head kicked in and made me pick up the phone and make that request of my brother. That’s not how our family — our matriarchy, ironically enough — works. Granted, my brother’s an outdoorsy guy and so would be able to help me pick out something — it’s not as though the request was totally without merit. That’s not why I asked him, though. To be honest, it was all about asking him to be the “man of the family” for me. To ask my little brother to somehow step in and fill the father or, at the very least, big brother, role for me that I never needed filled before. While I was Daddy’s girl, I was never anyone’s princess. No shrinking violet, I. I’m a tough broad. I’m supremely capable — so much so that people tell me it’s intimidating. I can take care of myself, and I expect other women to be able to do the same.

Something has changed since Dad’s accident and death, though. Keeping everything together, holding back the Devil and his ever-rising tide of constant disaster night and day for a year just took it all out of me. I used it all up, burned through the reserve tanks. I don’t want to have to do everything myself anymore. I am ok with letting go and letting others handle things for me. I am especially ok with letting my brother step in and shoulder some of the load — he was my partner in all things he could be during The Crisis, and he did it all beautifully. I couldn’t have asked for a better sibling and other half. We were one well-oiled machine. A force to be reckoned with. Being a small family means that you need to band together to take care of business, and boy, did we ever. One of us was on research while the other beat the streets at the hospital with Dad or talking to bankers or lawyers or doctors. We took shifts. Took turns playing good cop to the other’s bad cop. He was the Mulder to my Scully. The ever-logical Spock to my emotional, take-charge Kirk. Everyone knew there was more than one of us to reckon with, and they took our unified front seriously. It helped. We were a traveling roadshow of awesome. At the end of each day we’d collapse on the couch together — out came the laptops as we put our heads together to process what medical and legal information we’d collected and map out a plan of attack for the next day. I’d fall asleep on his shoulder, and he’d put me to bed. Then, he’d get my poor, deflated corpse off the mattress to do it all again the next morning. Propped me upright and pushed me out the door for more. Kept me from curling up in a ball and just staying there. Leagally speaking, I was the one who had to do all the heavy lifting, make all the big calls, but I couldn’t have done it without him. I was, for all intents and purposes, completely out of my mind. We’re talking stark raving mad and screaming inside my head. Just going on adrenaline and automatic and a lot of Diet Coke. It was a pretty impressive pretense that I don’t think even he saw through, despite being up close and personal with it like no one else. I put on a good show. I would have gone under completely and ended up in an irretrievably dark and broken place without his help, even if it was just to be the body in the seat next to me, someone to pick me up from the airport in the in the middle of the rainy night, someone to make sure I ate breakfast, someone to drive me around so that my tired, distracted, and overwhelmed brain didn’t cause another tragic accident, someone to eat shitty, cold pizza and chicken fingers with in the hospital cafeteria at 1am, someone to keep me laughing so I didn’t go completely and forever batshit insane. He knew his job and he did well without me having to ask for anything. He was just there. Doing it.

As we’ve both aged into our 30s, the seven-year age difference has dropped away, and it’s now blissfully impossible to tell who is the older sibling. Two heads are better than one, and I am more than happy to let him take the lead and be the capable one and put his skills and life experience to good use. To let him take care of me from time to time. He does it so skillfully, and releasing control to him makes me a happier and better person and sister. It’s been healthier for both of us. Having me be the boss all the time sucked and did nothing but breed resentment on both sides. I stepped aside and made some room for him, and he stepped right on up. He seems to suddenly know my needs intuitively and how and when to be by my side and bridge the gap. He also needs no help when it comes to gift giving. He never fails to knock it out of the park when buying presents for me, and he needs no suggestions. Some of my most prized possessions are gifts from him, from my heart rate monitor to the beautiful gold earrings he gave me for standing up with him at his wedding. I wear them every day. If the house burned down, those would be the one inanimate thing I would grab on the way out the door. He amazes me. He’s not only a fantastic brother, but I can confidently say that he has grown to become The Best Man I Know. I breathe easier knowing that he’s my kin and looking out for me.

It is this confidence in my brother that made me want to ask him to play this bizarre masculine role and let me somehow be…helpless? Feminine? Is that even the right word? Why is a knife a masculine thing? Is it because it’s a tool? Is it the potential violence of the blade? Is it that women aren’t supposed to be sharp or have sharp things? In any case I suddenly developed this bizarre gendered double standard and called the male in our family to ask him to be all head of the household for me and channel his inner hunter/gatherer and buy me a knife — a gift that also goes against my superstitious nature. You don’t give a knife or a pair of scissors or anything with an edge to a loved one, lest its sharp blade sever the bonds between you. If you do receive something like that as a gift, you give the giver a penny, so it’s not totally a gift. Money exchanging hands diffuses the edge. I’ve always done this with my brother when he’s bought me good quality cutlery in the past. He knows his kitchen knives, so I let him get them for me.

In any case, I hung up the phone thinking, “Well, good, that takes care of that,” with one side of my mind and a feeling of having sold out, being a fraud with the other. A voice in my head nagged at me for days after, telling me that I was a fake. A big, fat hypocrite. That I had no business teaching and writing about feminism when I would call up my brother to ask him to buy me a knife. You’re a big girl. Buy your own goddamn knife! the voice told me. Eventually, I put it out of my mind. I even had to laugh at myself a little when I remembered the way my ex and I used to stay up late drinking and watching “The Knife Show” on the shopping network wondering who cared enough about knives to buy all that stupid shit. Who was I that I was suddenly one of those losers?

Last week I was away at an academic conference where I presented my first paper as a Ph.D. student. My work was very well received, and I even won a little award for it, which both shocked me and made me proud. It was so nice to get a plethora of encouragement and feedback from so many people in varied fields. In the end, the whole week read like a coming out party of sorts for me, and I felt empowered and encouraged by the experience. I felt really capable — almost like my old self — again for the first time since Dad’s car left the road flipped over nine times in that scarred, muddy field and came to rest a twisted wreck in a ditch on that cold January day two years ago. I ended that week finally feeling back in control of something again. And that’s who I was when I strolled into the little shop selling local handmade Native American arts and crafts on a side street in Old Town Albuquerque a week ago. That’s who I was when I saw it sitting in the glass case waiting for me.

It had a three-inch folding blade with a handle inlaid in turquoise and jasper, so it’s mostly light blue with tiles of gold and flecks of red. It fits in my hand perfectly. I haggled the price and even got the proprietor to agree to ship it to my home address because I couldn’t fly with it in my carry on bag. He was more than happy to oblige, although I think he was baffled as to why a woman was so excited about a knife. I started to explain the personal symbolic importance of the purchase — that I was buying my own knife rather than deferring to a man to do it for me, that I was being true to myself despite my recent and inexplicable lapse of reason — but I looked at his face and decided to just default to, “I’ve been looking for one of these.” He seemed happy enough with that.

And so, my knife came in the mail today. She was wrapped in a big wad of bubble wrap in a padded envelope, and she arrived in pristine condition. I love her. I’m calling her Jasper. Yes, I know that’s a man’s name. I’ll name my knife whatever I want. We’re breaking down gender barriers here, so it seems in keeping. And my brother can still buy me a knife, if he wants, but what is undeniable and unchangeable now is that I manned up and bought my own blade in the end. Just like the old me — the strong and capable and real me that’s still at the core — would have done. I feel good about that. I feel more honest with myself. And I have more respect for myself now, too. Funny what a $50 knife can do, huh?

Maybe I’m insane. I don’t know. All I know is that this mattered to me, and I came home with something significant that celebrates more than one personal victory for me. Jasper was my perfect prize in more ways than one, and I smile and feel proud every time I look at my little tool. My weapon. My shiny new toy. She’s beautiful, and I think she’s an appropriate talisman to remind me that I’m sharp and to stay sharp. I am a blade I can wield all on my own. Now, all I need is a whetstone.

the boys are back in town

Another interesting class with our undergrads today. They continue to awe and amaze me. I am endlessly impressed with them — and not just because they don’t expect the PowerPoint presentations to be posted online and to have everything else handed to them. They’re students. They take notes — really good ones — and largely on what is being SAID, not just what’s on the screen. They’re engaged in everything going on in the room. The lecture. The notes and images projected overhead. The discussion between us and their classmates. They have clearly done the readings, and they come ready to talk. And talk, they do. They’re aware of the world around them, up on current events and pop culture moments. They grasp the theory and the concepts. They apply both with acuity and aplomb and sharp insight. They’re respectful and insightful and probing and funny. Very, very funny. This class is my favorite 150 minutes of my week without a doubt.

The really welcome surprise today was how the men in the class came alive all of a sudden. The class is mostly female, but the ten or so boys really brought their A game this afternoon. Not that it’s a battle of the sexes or anything, but I find that each gender often has unique perspectives and different ways of communicating as young adults, and I appreciate the balance. I am also always kind of doing my own internal observation of the power balance between the genders in the classroom. Taking my own little mental notes. It’s fascinating.

I was really glad to finally hear from them, since they’ve been a silent minority up until now. Suddenly, they were an intellectual bloc working in concert and driving a lively discussion. I cannot account for the change — we weren’t talking about anything that was gendered in anyway. Maybe political economy just spoke to them, but they just dominated the conversation, but in an inclusive way. They just had a lot to say on the topic and many questions to ask. Several of them are repeat students for the professor, and they clearly appreciate her. They take a lot of pride in being her groupies, and make a point to tell me that they are just that. The way they humble themselves before her endears them to me. They have so much respect for a woman who really does deserve and command it. They get it. We share that trait, so I immediately relate to them. They were not afraid to speak up, but they also didn’t shut out the women. There was no ego in the room; it was one of the most productive collaborative moments I have ever had in the classroom. They brought up interesting points about corporate consolidation, globalization, and passive vs. active audiences. I walked out of there with a smile on my face and my mind stretched. I love watching the clay take shape and fire into something good and useful. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to put them all in my pocket and take them home or give them all respek knuckles on the way out. The women didn’t disappoint, either. Everyone brought it. I’m proud of them all. I just love all of their open, incisive minds and their fresh, happy faces. I love to watch them listening, thinking. It’s inspiring. It’s a rush. It’s all so very Dead Poet’s Society that I’m going to make myself puke.

And I won’t lie. These boys are pretty darling. I have a soft spot in my heart for young men. Ew. No. Not like that. Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s maternal. From about age 7 through age 22 they’re just so awkward and vulnerable and innocent. I remember I even felt that way when I was that age and they were my contemporaries. They just seemed rawer and more fragile than the girls somehow. Like they needed nurturing and protecting for some reason. And like their sense of humor was particularly funny and poignant. I realize that this is ridiculous, sexist bullshit on my part, but there it is. I just want to pass out gold stars.

I think the funniest part might be that claiming the seat at my little table in the corner seems to have become a bone of contention. My regular “seatmate” showed up a little late today, and he found another male student sitting with me. The usurper was older and bigger — a blond, All-American type who is sort of the class clown, but in an intelligent, non-disruptive way. He constantly makes me laugh, and I think he gets a charge out of that. I’m not sure why he sat with me, since there were plenty of other seats open. When my regular buddy showed up and saw blondie sitting in his seat, he got upset and was all, “Hey man, that’s my seat.” Then, he looked at me to do something about it. I told them they’d have to settle it like men, but that there was no need to fight over me. There was plenty of desk to go around. They could just sit in each other’s laps. It ended with my regular friend taking a seat nearby but telling blondie that he wanted his seat back next week. I gave him a little wink, and he seemed to feel a bit better about it. I’m sure it has more to do with the real estate than the roommate, but still it was pretty cute and a little flattering. I have no idea why a couple of kids would care about sitting with some old broad over in the corner like a dunce, but they do. I think my “otherness” fascinates them. And blondie did have me steady cracking up the whole class with his side commentary and pop culture examples. I did miss my little friend, though. I felt bad looking at the back of his head the whole class. Either way, I win, I suppose. Could be worse, the kids could quarantine me alone in the dark back there and never acknowledge my presence until I step up and lecture.

Check it out. I’m in the cool kids club! I look forward to seeing them again on Tuesday.

(ETA: It should be noted that I think my favorite part of the class is where I announced to everyone that “I’m dropping my balls all over the place today.” That so didn’t come out right.)

can’t do a thing about it

as you learned the hard way, i love my solitude. as you know, it’s rare that i have these moments of weakness. i do just fine on my own without you.

it’s been one of those days, though. i’m weary. what i wouldn’t have given to come home to you tonight. to walk in the door to find you waiting for me with the home fires burning. hooverphonic pulsing low on the stereo. orange blossom scent on the warm breeze blowing in the doors from the patio. hot take-out waiting in the kitchen. cold beer waiting in the fridge. miles and miles of you waiting on the couch, stretched out with that crooked grin on your face and that look in your eye, ready to wrap yourself around me. my tiny feet tangled in your enormous ones — your goofy little fetish. your hands and mouth all over me until i curl up into your lap and fall asleep. you carry me to bed and let me sleep it all off long and hard.

i won’t care that you’re not here in the morning. i won’t miss you then. i just care that you’re not here tonight.  or that i’m not there.

would give anything to travel into time.