Day 89: How You Doin?

There are those days in each of our lives that we look back on and think wow, so that was reality. It seems fairly quaint and desirable in a way, until that day is our today. My today ended with a trip to the local pub and an acknowledgement I could happily live without. Even as I write this, I am drunk and each word is a struggle to spell correctly or precede with correct grammar. I hate that I am writing this now, instead of blissfully and irresponsibly fading off to sleep or rapturously losing myself in the arms of a nameless, faceless, hard body. Adulthood sucks and its reality comes even when you don’t want it to.

After a night with the girls, I should have been happy to drift off to sleep in my happy, comfortable bed, but instead I was jonesing to go out. Off I went, heading to my local pup at 12:30am with 90 minutes to spare before bar time closed me down. I did not have an agenda, beyond wanting to be social and among people. My bar has my favorite game so I got a drink and started to play. Within minutes random number one started talking to me and I must admit he was amusing in a totally unobtrusive way. I told Random Guy that I was married and my husband was currently in Iraq.

The reaction this has on potential dirtbags is always worth it. They suddenly back off, express their support of the armed services, tell me about their cousin/uncle/brother who is currently serving and how much they admire the military, etc. Then they inevitably ask for my number or try to make a move. So here I am, at a bar, lonely, buzzed, toenail throbbing and wanting to fall off (see side effect of hypothyroidism) and just needing a little human contact. Why is it that you think it’s okay to hit on me regardless of my repeated assertions that my husband will not look kindly on your advances, nor do I?

Granted, I am a big girl in the real world and shit happens. Even so, let me assure you that no, I do not want to just hang with you while you do coke in your car. Also, I am going to have to say no to calling your parents and telling them that you are great and I’ll be there for Thanksgiving. I am sure that my desire to play Buck Hunter African Safari somehow fueled your soulmate barometer, but maybe you’re just another drunk asshole and I am really just that cool. So no, I don’t want to do coke with you, no, I don’t want to share my five dollar Buck Hunter buy in with you, and fuck no, I’m pretty cool without you hugging me.

Thanks for wishing my husband well. Thanks, for wishing me well. Thanks awfully, for wishing everything we ever do together well, but I’m going to have to take my chances on just not being a fucking idiot and hanging out with you any longer. In the north, when you aren’t interested it’s a fairly simple procedure, but here in the south wanting someone to just shut the fuck up and leave you alone is pretty much a process. Sadly, between my drunkenness, my sadness at missing my husband, and my toenail which feels a lot like someone might be standing on it or prying it up with pliers, the only thing I’ve been able to concentrate on is how much I miss being part or a twosome.

Yes, I am good at being alone. Yes, I am cool with being independent. Yes, I can handle just about anything, but I’d much rather have my husband or a friend back me up. Maybe it’s age or maybe just tiredness, but I no longer care enough to keep you on your toes. I just want to be real and for you to leave me be. Is it complicated, sure it is, but that’s life baby, welcome to it. I won’t do coke, I won’t flirt, I won’t sacrifice anything to know you. I’m just here and if you want to talk to me, you’ll figure out how to be a part of that reality.

Day 88: "So What Have You Read Lately?"

Once upon a time, I fell hard for a married man. I’m not proud of this fact, but it’s been a while since I got back to the true spirit of my blog and divulged one of my secrets, so tonight you get my moral decay. I never expected to be one of those women, in fact, up until the very moment I met him I was hyper aware of keeping my distance from anyone who even smelled vaguely of another woman’s perfume. Before “Married Guy,” I refused to even flirt with a guy who kind of had a girl he was sort of seeing. I was strict and held tight to my ethics.

Down the morally bankrupt road I tumbled and how did it happen? Well, pretty easily actually. He asked me a question and it was the best, most refreshing opening line I’ve ever heard. I imagine you’re wondering what he said, aren’t you? But I’m not going to tell you, not yet, because that’s not the point. The point, is that all of us at one time or another, can find ourselves walking a road we never expected to be on – let alone pursuing. I think for a while I justified my foray into the off limits dating pool because I knew I was never truly in danger of “Married Guy” leaving his wife for me. I was just a distraction for him, his marital problems began long before me and I always knew I wasn’t even second choice, but far below that.

Does this make it right? Hell no, I’m aware I was a dirtbag. To atone for my jerkiness, I did my best to push him away. I told him he was a deadbeat, encouraged him to go to marital counseling, lectured him at every turn and I did all of this because I knew I was falling in love and was simultaneously terrified that he’d realize it too. Bad enough to be a home-wrecker, but there was no way I was going to bleed all over this unavailable guy and let him know how truly vulnerable I was. So in true Ame fashion, I acted out in all my self-destructiveness and alienated him. I still don’t believe he’d have ever really loved me or wanted to be with me, but I never gave him the chance and worse, I didn’t give myself the chance.

It took years to learn to give myself the chance to be loved and now that I have a great guy of my own, I am starting to wonder if there aren’t some women out there who are willing to compromise their ethics for my husband. He’s a fairly nice piece of manliness. He’s brilliant, attractive, sexy, successful, considerate . . . damn, sounds pretty good, I can’t believe I finally made a smart decision in my life. So this begs the question, that if I am smart enough to realize how great he is, other women surely are as well. Hmm . . . “Married Guy” had that soulful, emotionally wounded, I know I’m going to hell so let’s have a good time vibe about him and he was also incredibly smart, but he wasn’t the best looking guy I’d ever dated, so seriously, what was it?

Can a one liner or a particular mood or look really be enough to connect two people to the point that you forget your ethical path and sacrifice it for an emotional need? Maybe not individually, but when all those things meet it is the culmination of an emotionally needy hurricane and I got wrapped up in its sheer force. This is not to say that should some other doe eyed young thing look upon my own married guy and think perhaps his wife isn’t doing enough to keep him happy, that I won’t unleash the fury of all those unrequited loves of my youth on her ethically challenged tight ass. Every now and again, however, you meet someone in the typical place and they turn to you in the typical boy-girl way, and they say the least typical and most unexpected thing. In that moment you are swept off your feet and you leave your morals on the ground.

I’m all grown up now and married and my ethics are . . . well, they’re a work in progress, but the only “Married Guy” in my life is the one who’s name is beside mine on that Nevada marriage license. Follies of our youth do not always mean we cannot recover and find our true road. And let this be a warning, the husband may be the most moral person I know, but I don’t trust anyone else, so hands off be-yatches, that married guy is mine.

Day 87: Ah, the Single Malt, I Knew it Would Wait for Me

I knew this day would come. I have been dancing around it for years, purposely keeping myself busy with other things so as to delay the inevitable. I don’t know what it is, but I have always known certain things about myself and this truth, this inescapable reality of who I am has been a long time coming. Tonight, I finally stopped running and stood, facing my personal destiny. I am a single malt scotch drinker.

Single malts are complicated. They are like a woman with baggage, but an older, more experienced woman. They exude stories and experiences, giving them layers of flavor and complexity. I am a single malt, but until recently was too young to fully embrace the years and seasoning experience has given me. I’ve danced with Dewars, sashayed with Chivas, I’ve even had a one night threesome with Johnny Walker’s Black and Red. But it has been a long time coming for me and the single malt.

I guess I knew that it I was destined for the expensive, exclusive road of Talisker, Oban, Glenfiddich, and Dalmore, etc., but my bank balance was not ready. I instinctively put it off, turning away from the siren song of the aged single malt in favor of the more economically palatable bourbons. For years, Jack has been my companion. He lifts my spirits for a fun night out and soothes me when I turn to him in the quiet hours of early morning when I cannot sleep or still my emotions. Yes, Jack has been a good friend, but our relationship is rooted in a mutually stagnant companionship. We do not grow, we simply console one another in our time of need.

Single malts, on the other hand, are organic. They live and breathe and change with every day, every wisp of air, every vessel in which it is contained. A single malt expects more of you, or rather, demands more of you as a companion. You do not simply switch from drinking Yuengling specials one day to Dalmore the next. A truly aged and full flavored single malt is patient, waiting on you to reach the level at which you can fully appreciate it’s complexity, but it will not tolerate imposters. You either understand its path to you, reveling in the journey that has bestowed such layers of flavor or you don’t. There is no in between, there is no sometimes.

I still do not posess the financial freedom to enjoy single malts comprehensively, but the day has come that I crave the smooth, smoky, sweet, salty goodness that a well aged single malt can impart. For now, I will indulge in a limited capacity, lingering over one or two lovingly poured glasses of a mid-priced Glenfiddich or Talisker 10 to 15 year. I will not go home drunk like the masses who consume ten or more PBR can specials, but I will go home richer and less alone for the experience of savoring the single malt. For the single malt remains with you, massaging your spirit with its richness and every developing flavor.

Day 86: Collections Are Just Another Way to Display Your Greed

I don’t get collections. That is to say, I do not understand the motivation behind why people collect things. While I am a bit of a packrat, I’ve never been the type to collect any particular item. As a child I tried in vain to become a collector. For a while it was TV Guides, later it was bottle caps, I even tried rubber bands, but nothing really stuck. I know, hard to believe a girl couldn’t get enthused about rubber bands and bottle caps. It’s not that I really ever wanted to be a collector, it just seemed that everyone else enjoyed it and I felt like I must be missing something. My brother collected baseball cards, a friend collected dolls, another hoarded marbles, there was a vast array of collectibles on every street of our neighborhood and yet I felt only confusion as to what the hell the fuss was about.

As an adult I’ve gotten over my need to fit in with the other collectors, but I still maintain the wonderment at why people do it. Some collections I feel are just socially irresponsible in a gluttonous way. For instance, I recently saw a video about a classic car collector in Florida who has a large warehouse full of Corvettes, Impalas, Camaros, and various other classic cars. Rarely are these vehicles ever driven, they sit instead, in this warehouse that acts like a museum for visitors to come and marvel. Keep in mind that this is one man, not an actual museum and in my opinion the sheer dollar investment in these cars is tantamount to obscene wealth and gluttony.

Of course, each person has a right to do with his or her wealth as he or she sees fit, but it you have that much money I also believe you have a responsibility to help the greater good. We all need to do our part and the idea that one person has a warehouse full of cars that no one drives while other people do not have food to eat or a place to live is horrific to me. When did we become so isolated as to not notice the needy around us? Yes, there are those who simply choose to beg rather than work, but for every one of those people there are scores of working poor who, despite full time jobs still cannot afford rent or childcare. When one has so much, shouldn’t we be ethically bound to give to the needy?

Call me a socialist, I’m okay with that. The world is no longer an us against them venture, we live in a global society and as such it is each of our duties to do what we can to help. If you collect TV Guides, no biggie, but if you have a half million dollars worth of collectibles that sit on shelves or are parked in a warehouse maybe you should reexamine your priorities. Even if your collection is a bit more low-brow the money invested could likely find a better target. My brother, for instance, collects DVD’s. He used to rent, but because he is a procrastinator, his late fees to Blockbuster reached rather ridiculous levels and so he just started to buy any movie he wanted to watch.

Today, he has several hundred DVD’s and since he rarely goes to a movie, it means if he wants to see it, he will buy it. In some ways this is fine, but when you consider that there have been months when funds weren’t exactly plentiful you have to ask if perhaps instead of buying five movies, a bill could have been paid? Then again, it’s none of my business right? True. I admit I am judging the rich and poor alike for their shared habit, but even so, I just don’t get it. The closest I’ve come is in my Steelers gear, but even that is relegated to used items. I have a couple of license plates which are used, a mug, a Terrible Towel, a few hats, shirts, and a jersey – all items that see regular use. I stop at having an entire room filled with thousands of dollars worth of memorabilia that simply line the walls or sit on shelves.

For me, collecting is just a waste. If classic cars are your hobby, why not buy one, fix it up, then sell it and buy another. Why the need to keep a stable full of them? Do you really need an entire room devoted to your favorite team when your kids might not have a single dollar in their college fund? And what’s wrong with sacrificing a little of your disposable income to helping someone in need? I regularly give to the needy as does my husband and we have a rather limited income (blame me, I’m still jobless), so for those with lots of extra cash and lots more sitting around your house in the name of collectibles I say shame on you. Ante-up, times are changing and greed is no longer good, Gordon Gekko.

Day 85: Day Tripper . . . Well, Early Morning Tripper at Least

I’m starting to forget things. The last two days I almost forgot to write this blog. Some days I forget mid-shower if I’m already washed my hair, so then I wash it again just in case. There are mornings when I forget my Mother is dead despite it being nine years and nine days since she passed and others I forget what it was ever like to have a Mother. Once in a while I forget something as mundane, but habitual as to wear a bra or underwear, and now and again I’m able to forget myself entirely and believe an alternate reality my subconscious creates.

Often, because of my issues with insomnia, I will not be able to distinguish what was dream and what is reality. Did I really get up and feed the cat already? Have I had that discussion with the husband? Could I possibly have said that out loud to her? This leads me to approach life and certain situations with some trepidation. Given my natural inclination to not commit things to memory, complicating it with seemingly real dreams that take place in a semi-lucid sleep state can really mix things up.

I often know when I am dreaming, though this is not to say that I have actual lucid dreams. I am not so much able to control what happens in my dreams, but instead, I have what I refer to as waking dreams. These take place not in deep REM sleep, but on the surface of sleep when my insomnia, fighting to keep me awake loses a battle with exhaustion and I am able to enter a light, dozing sleep. This types of dreams are not the wildly extravagant dreams we all have rife with symbolism and colorful characters. Instead, these are very lifelike and extremely possible scenarios in which I often delay full consciousness in order to see where they lead.

The problem, is that they are so real and almost ordinary that they cause me to confuse dream with reality. That coupled with my oft inability to reach deep sleep means that I have trouble fully resting my mind and committing actual facts of my life to memory, whereas my waking dreams often take their place and become my reality. I’ve had arguments with friends, discussions with the husband, ordeals with my cat, excursions to the gym, and just about any other ordinary task you can think of while in this semi-lucid sleep state. It can be interesting, but quite often it is frustrating because I do not know what telephone calls I’ve made, or what bills I actually paid.

I forget things I should know and know things that never happened. It’s almost as if someone else is writing the story of my life and haphazardly erasing some details and adding others that never came to pass. It’s a bit surreal, but also entertaining at times. My issues with sleeping interfere with my memory so that I do not remember things that are expected to be unforgettable. My wedding anniversary, my own age, where I put that $400 in cash I took out of the bank . . . the information comes and goes, but in its place I have stories unfolding almost on a nightly basis that I am able to follow along fairly well because I’m not quite asleep.

I guess I do not mind forgetting some things as long as my brain replaces the facts with something interesting, though I’d prefer for it not to mess with things like my undergarments or remembering to use deodorant. The hours I toss and turn, sleep eluding me until total exhaustion seeps in are sometimes worth it, because in those couple of hours that I finally am able to doze off I sometimes learn about myself. I get to see me living my life in a different way than it’s actually unfolding at times, and it’s pretty cool except that I think those semi-conscious dreams are taking up the space where my actual memories are supposed to be stored. So what if I don’t remember to stop at all the red lights, I can tell you word for word about the fight I had with my friend that didn’t actually happen. Who’s to say memory is objective anyway? Maybe all memories are mostly fiction.

Day 84: Screw the Aspirin, Get Me Some Acid

Today is my fifth day of this on again, off again headache that has now been steadily “on” for over 24 hours. The delirium is starting to set in and I find I have great difficulty focusing on any one task or thought for an extending period of time. Apparently my spelling skills are also being affected because I just counted eight misspells in the first two sentences (all will hopefully be edited before you read this).

My thoughts are jumping around, as is my emotional stability. I am alternately wanting to pull my furball of a cat closer in the bed to cuddle and make me feel better somehow, then fighting the urge to scream at her and fling her across the room for meowing loudly in my face. I have had many headaches in my life and it is in these times that I am closest to both a break-down and a revelation. It’s kind of like a drug trip (I assume), my normal abilities to process information and emotions are hindered so I am operating at a more basic, instinctual level. I want what I want and feel what I feel without filters.

Yesterday, for instance, the husband called when I had a headache and it was everything I could do not to scream at him. He is usually the one to get me fresh icepacks, to rub my shoulders, to make me tea. When he is not here, I feel abandoned and fully within my rights to be mean to him. Luckily the phone lines went down shortly into our call and when he called back I was subdued and just so grateful to have a partner who loved me that I was anxious to talk to him. No filter, just all base instinct.

When I get this far gone, I find I cannot lie to myself anymore. Certain things simply do not matter and others take on primary importance. What you hold true value in becomes more clear. It turns out that the gym is not a priority as I have not gone once in the five days since my head began to hurt, but my love of bad food has escalated and I have sought out mashed potatoes, a donut, a delightful peanut butter and chocolate concoction, Doritos, Diet Coke and cheese. Hmmm. I’m now wondering if my headache might be perpetuated by my recently poor diet. Nah. That’s ridiculous.

All I do know for sure is that I’m still hoping that at some point the pain will cause me to tear down my last remaining mental blockages and I will finally see and comprehend my true path to happiness. Although if it doesn’t happen soon I’d really rather just drop acid or something and move on from the everlasting headache. Mental and emotional understanding just aren’t as important to me as not wanting to lobotomize myself.