That Christmas was arguably the worst of my life. I was back to smoking with a vengeance, and drinking too. I also would cry for no apparent reason at odd times. This was also the time that I chose to start a new job.
The only thing that got me through was my gummy bear. I met him through work, which was an NGO that often engaged people who were marginalized. He was a native man, who exuded charisma, homeless, toothless, and had a history of violence and substance abuse. Not the kind of person who you want to meet mom and dad.
Gummy got arrested sometime in October or November, and had to stay in jail while waiting for trial. They refused to grant him bail because he had a history of not really following the conditions of his parole. Personally I believe that he just needed a roof over his head for the coldest part of the winter.
Apparently making phone calls is the best way to spend time in jail, and he called me a lot. We would talk about almost everything, from TV we were watching, books we had read, recovery and addictions, family quarrels, you name it... Gummy Bear was also the only person that I would talk to about how miserable I was. In fact, he was the first person to call me (really, he's pretty much the only person that ever calls me, as most people know by now that I despise using the phone) after McPokey and I went out separate ways. I can't tell you how many times he patiently listened to me cry.
Gummy got me through that Christmas. After Christmas things seemed to magically get better somehow. On New Years I managed to quit smoking, this time for good.
I still talk to Gummy, but since he got out (he took his case to the Supreme Court, and won) he went back to his old ways.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Merlot and e-mail really don't mix
I have always believed that the best way to test the substance of a relationship is to travel together, be it by road, or by air. My ex-husband and I, for instance, had to take time outs periodically while traveling. Once, after a delay of about 5 hours, I even refused to take the seat next to him on the plane.
McPokey and I had been seeing each other for a few months, and having some really fantastic ahem dinners together. It was about the time that couples decide to go for a little trip. We had chatted about the prospect a couple of times, and even had made quasi plans (that failed to materialize). One day, out of the blue McPokey announced that he was going on a trip. Alone.
I gritted my teeth and told him how happy I was for him to get away for a while. Of course, I was seething. I went home and decided that rather than buy a pack of cigarettes, I would consume a bottle of red wine.
The next morning I woke up in that lovely land between true drunkeness and hangover. I proceeded to put all of my feelings into an e-mail, to him. Fortunately, cooler minds prevailed. My extraordinarily wise room mate convinced me to not send the note right away. For once in my life I listened. I saved it in drafts, or just closed it, in any case I made it go away.
That day I received a note from McPokey asking if I wanted to go the trip with him. I was as happy as could be. I had been dreaming of and dreading this trip. It meant sleeping under the same roof, it meant mornings with bad breath and no make-up, it meant the likelihood of him hearing me fart. Oh yeah, I was also a bit wacky because I was trying to quit smoking (and I refused to smoke around him).
Of course, I convinced him that Jasper had to accompany us. This is the tactic that I generally employ to avoid uncomfortable situations. Jasper was also a prolific farter, so that would come in handy too.
The trip was a huge success, but something truly terrible happened. I was becoming attached to this odd little man. Ordinarily this might have been welcome, but I had just left my husband a few months before. On top of that we had a silent agreement that we were not interested in anything too serious.
About a week later I checked my e-mail and realized that the e-mail that I had made go away, went straight to McPokey! I was mortified. Call it lack of tobacky wacky, but, as usual I could not just leave it alone. I took the only option available to me and wrote him an e-mail. In it I apologized about the e-mail that should have never been sent. I also decided, for reasons that I don't quite recall, to push the relationship issue: do you want to be an us, or should we go our separate ways before the attachment becomes serious.
Perhaps it is not surprising that McPokey, the man who invented taking his time to make decisions, was a no-go on the relationship question.
To this day I wonder how things would have turned out had that e-mail just went away like it was supposed to. Was it destiny? Or, is it that no matter how hard the Universe tries to put me on the right path, I will always somehow manage to make a mess of it? We all need skills.
McPokey and I had been seeing each other for a few months, and having some really fantastic ahem dinners together. It was about the time that couples decide to go for a little trip. We had chatted about the prospect a couple of times, and even had made quasi plans (that failed to materialize). One day, out of the blue McPokey announced that he was going on a trip. Alone.
I gritted my teeth and told him how happy I was for him to get away for a while. Of course, I was seething. I went home and decided that rather than buy a pack of cigarettes, I would consume a bottle of red wine.
The next morning I woke up in that lovely land between true drunkeness and hangover. I proceeded to put all of my feelings into an e-mail, to him. Fortunately, cooler minds prevailed. My extraordinarily wise room mate convinced me to not send the note right away. For once in my life I listened. I saved it in drafts, or just closed it, in any case I made it go away.
That day I received a note from McPokey asking if I wanted to go the trip with him. I was as happy as could be. I had been dreaming of and dreading this trip. It meant sleeping under the same roof, it meant mornings with bad breath and no make-up, it meant the likelihood of him hearing me fart. Oh yeah, I was also a bit wacky because I was trying to quit smoking (and I refused to smoke around him).
Of course, I convinced him that Jasper had to accompany us. This is the tactic that I generally employ to avoid uncomfortable situations. Jasper was also a prolific farter, so that would come in handy too.
The trip was a huge success, but something truly terrible happened. I was becoming attached to this odd little man. Ordinarily this might have been welcome, but I had just left my husband a few months before. On top of that we had a silent agreement that we were not interested in anything too serious.
About a week later I checked my e-mail and realized that the e-mail that I had made go away, went straight to McPokey! I was mortified. Call it lack of tobacky wacky, but, as usual I could not just leave it alone. I took the only option available to me and wrote him an e-mail. In it I apologized about the e-mail that should have never been sent. I also decided, for reasons that I don't quite recall, to push the relationship issue: do you want to be an us, or should we go our separate ways before the attachment becomes serious.
Perhaps it is not surprising that McPokey, the man who invented taking his time to make decisions, was a no-go on the relationship question.
To this day I wonder how things would have turned out had that e-mail just went away like it was supposed to. Was it destiny? Or, is it that no matter how hard the Universe tries to put me on the right path, I will always somehow manage to make a mess of it? We all need skills.
on walking dogs
When I get older I will quite likely be a crazy dog lady. I'm not quite at the stage me and my dog dress up in matching outfits, but I am sure that nobody would be surprised if it came to that.
The North is also the land of the dog, most notably the muttsky (husky cross). For hundreds of years the people of the North have used dogs for transportation, companionship, and, if need be, dinner. When
It is perhaps also not surprising that I strongly believe that the best first date activity is the dog walk. Even if the date is a complete flop, you and Nanuk have got a bit of exercise. If the conversation is awkward, you can always comment on Nanuk's antics, or the all-round perfection of the canine species, Nanuk being a particularly preeminent specimen. Moreover, if your date lets Nanuk lick his face, and/or hump his leg, you know that you have got a winner. Finally, there is no need for sustained eye contact, as you have to look where you are going, well I do anyway.
My first date with McPokey was, of course, a dog walk. I have yet to discern why his adorable yellow lab, Jasper, had such a crush on my Nanuk, but poor Nookie got humped a couple of dozen times on that walk (not that he minded). McPokey claimed that darling Jasper was never much for humping. This led me to the secret conclusion that Jasper was acting out McPokey's horniness. The point being that dogs are sometimes more acutely aware of what is going on than we are.
Jasper was one in a million, and I am sad to report that he died about 6 months later. Actually he fell ill while I was taking care of him. This has earned me the reputation of being the doggie grim reaper. I don't see much of McPokey these days. I guess that in the end all we really had to talk about was dogs.
The North is also the land of the dog, most notably the muttsky (husky cross). For hundreds of years the people of the North have used dogs for transportation, companionship, and, if need be, dinner. When
It is perhaps also not surprising that I strongly believe that the best first date activity is the dog walk. Even if the date is a complete flop, you and Nanuk have got a bit of exercise. If the conversation is awkward, you can always comment on Nanuk's antics, or the all-round perfection of the canine species, Nanuk being a particularly preeminent specimen. Moreover, if your date lets Nanuk lick his face, and/or hump his leg, you know that you have got a winner. Finally, there is no need for sustained eye contact, as you have to look where you are going, well I do anyway.
My first date with McPokey was, of course, a dog walk. I have yet to discern why his adorable yellow lab, Jasper, had such a crush on my Nanuk, but poor Nookie got humped a couple of dozen times on that walk (not that he minded). McPokey claimed that darling Jasper was never much for humping. This led me to the secret conclusion that Jasper was acting out McPokey's horniness. The point being that dogs are sometimes more acutely aware of what is going on than we are.
Jasper was one in a million, and I am sad to report that he died about 6 months later. Actually he fell ill while I was taking care of him. This has earned me the reputation of being the doggie grim reaper. I don't see much of McPokey these days. I guess that in the end all we really had to talk about was dogs.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
ahem... dinner.
Perhaps one of the reasons why my marriage failed was that after we moved, I was surrounded by men who I had never dated before. Moreover, my friends hadn't even dated them. I wasn't even related to them, not even by marriage. I had found my own personal version of Mecca. A whole community full of Northerners that I could date!
It was with an almost terrifying zeal that I jumped back into the dating game. I do love boys, which I believe explains why I have always had gay male friends. Nobody is as boy crazy as a Northern woman in a far-flung community, except for gay men. Internet dating was and still is my drug of choice.
Right off the bat I met an odd little fellow. I have always hung out with massive, burly men of questionable character (and even more questionable criminal pasts), so interacting with a functional member of society was an experience for me, to say the least. I have never followed the "life map" as I call it. There are people on this planet who graduate from high school, then they go to University, get their degree(s), build up their careers, get married, breed, raise their offspring and acquire expensive toys to compensate for the lack of excitement in their day-to-day lives. McPokey was clearly one of these people, and I could not for the life of me understand why he kept on setting up more dates. However, for the sake of science, and my feline ego, I continued along with this experiment.
At a certain point I decided that I had to kiss him. We had been on half a dozen dates, the kind with food, activities and conversation, without so much as a hand-hold. I was perplexed. My usual mating ritual involved wearing a booty top to the local bar and consuming shooters. Conversation was generally stupid, and thankfully soon forgotten. Fortunately my lack of coordination and low-end winter footwear came to the rescue. We had gone on a challenging dog walk one night (more on the primacy on dog walking on dates to follow) and I was in my full geek glory. I had misjudged the temperature entirely and overdressed. Finally, I was still closet smoking at the time and was gasping for air the whole time. Because my contacts had been bothering me that day I had decided to wear my glasses, which were fogging up every 30 seconds because I was sweating so profusely, and gasping for air. On top of all of that I had decided to wear my beloved pink and brown Columbia winter hikers, which had super-skookum grips, however, unfortunately, were not so very functional. The result was a tendency to fall, and a general inability to climb anything with an incline of more than 135 degrees or so. This resulted in a hand-hold of sorts, because I was falling all over the place. I do believe that I was so embarrassed that I actually apologized for my company that night. Skin-on-skin contact was small consolation.
Yet this odd gentleman persisted and asked me out again, and again. This was way beyond my scope of experience, and I was beginning to get uncomfortably, shall we say anxious, to move the game along. The gloves were off, I e-mailed the poor man and told him that it was okay for him to kiss me.
That weekend he invited me over for dinner. That night we finally kissed. The following Monday I received a note from him in which he thanked me for ahem, dinner.
It was with an almost terrifying zeal that I jumped back into the dating game. I do love boys, which I believe explains why I have always had gay male friends. Nobody is as boy crazy as a Northern woman in a far-flung community, except for gay men. Internet dating was and still is my drug of choice.
Right off the bat I met an odd little fellow. I have always hung out with massive, burly men of questionable character (and even more questionable criminal pasts), so interacting with a functional member of society was an experience for me, to say the least. I have never followed the "life map" as I call it. There are people on this planet who graduate from high school, then they go to University, get their degree(s), build up their careers, get married, breed, raise their offspring and acquire expensive toys to compensate for the lack of excitement in their day-to-day lives. McPokey was clearly one of these people, and I could not for the life of me understand why he kept on setting up more dates. However, for the sake of science, and my feline ego, I continued along with this experiment.
At a certain point I decided that I had to kiss him. We had been on half a dozen dates, the kind with food, activities and conversation, without so much as a hand-hold. I was perplexed. My usual mating ritual involved wearing a booty top to the local bar and consuming shooters. Conversation was generally stupid, and thankfully soon forgotten. Fortunately my lack of coordination and low-end winter footwear came to the rescue. We had gone on a challenging dog walk one night (more on the primacy on dog walking on dates to follow) and I was in my full geek glory. I had misjudged the temperature entirely and overdressed. Finally, I was still closet smoking at the time and was gasping for air the whole time. Because my contacts had been bothering me that day I had decided to wear my glasses, which were fogging up every 30 seconds because I was sweating so profusely, and gasping for air. On top of all of that I had decided to wear my beloved pink and brown Columbia winter hikers, which had super-skookum grips, however, unfortunately, were not so very functional. The result was a tendency to fall, and a general inability to climb anything with an incline of more than 135 degrees or so. This resulted in a hand-hold of sorts, because I was falling all over the place. I do believe that I was so embarrassed that I actually apologized for my company that night. Skin-on-skin contact was small consolation.
Yet this odd gentleman persisted and asked me out again, and again. This was way beyond my scope of experience, and I was beginning to get uncomfortably, shall we say anxious, to move the game along. The gloves were off, I e-mailed the poor man and told him that it was okay for him to kiss me.
That weekend he invited me over for dinner. That night we finally kissed. The following Monday I received a note from him in which he thanked me for ahem, dinner.
Marriage North of 60
I have always believed that human beings are not designed to pair bond. That being said, when one turns 30, and all of your friends start to pair bond, breed or both, one has a way of setting common sense theories to the side. This is, of course, compounded by the fact that you have 4 same-sex friends, and there are exactly 5 single, straight men left in your community, and you have dated 4 of them already.
It was time. I was sick of dating boys, and I convinced myself that although this one didn't send me over the moon, he treated me like a queen, and goshdarnit, I was going to learn to love him, like Muslims or pioneers.
Of course, the problem with this new, improved theory was primarily that I had more to do than survive and breed. The North is government and I worked for the local government. I had more time on my hands than I could shake a oosuk at. This was generally spent dreaming up flawed theories and shopping on ebay.
My marriage never made it to its third birthday. I have nothing but respect, appreciation and compassion for my former husband. He did, after all, have the balls to marry me, and when it all ended, remain a better friend to me than my own family.
It was time. I was sick of dating boys, and I convinced myself that although this one didn't send me over the moon, he treated me like a queen, and goshdarnit, I was going to learn to love him, like Muslims or pioneers.
Of course, the problem with this new, improved theory was primarily that I had more to do than survive and breed. The North is government and I worked for the local government. I had more time on my hands than I could shake a oosuk at. This was generally spent dreaming up flawed theories and shopping on ebay.
My marriage never made it to its third birthday. I have nothing but respect, appreciation and compassion for my former husband. He did, after all, have the balls to marry me, and when it all ended, remain a better friend to me than my own family.
Small towns
One feature of living in the North is that chances are: you live in a very small town. That means that when you tell your friends about this guy who you are over the moon about, the chances are that at least one of them can give you all of the intel that you could ever need.
Despite that fact that I live in a small town, I regularly get lost. Much of this stems from the refusal to waste brain cells on the concept of left and right (much better to save them for destruction by alcohol). So, I often find myself on the phone while driving and being told where to turn. Last week I was doing just that when I located the guy that I had been chatting up online was standing in front of his building waving to me. What was remarkable was that there was a rainbow right over him (and his building). Better put: he was standing at the end of the rainbow.
Now, I'm much given to new-age flakiness, but certainly some of the more grounded amoung you may recognize this as a good omen. I was not surprised when I had a great conversation with this Leprachun. That night I got home giddy and filled with hope. Certainly my luck had turned. I texted him, completely comfortable to not have to play the hard to get game. "I think ur cute" to which he replied "your not hard on the eyes yourself".
I barely slept. The next day I checked my e-mail, and found a note from him. the night before I asked why his profile said that he was a civil engineer, but he told me that he was a mechanic. His e-mail said that someone had hacked into his account and changed his profile. As it turned out he had two children. I sent him a note saying that I generally don't date men who have kids. He replied that they were his world, and that he understood and respected that choice.
can't be left alone. Not only did I find him under a rainbow, but his profile has been changed to that when I ran a search he wouldn't be excluded. There are coincidences and there are Coincidences, and this had to be a Coincidence.
That evening we spoke on the phone (please note that I hate talking on the phone). He explained to me that the mom was way out of the picture. Check one. And that there were already little house trained humans and not delicate, leaky tadpoles. Check two. This show was back on track. A second night was spent restlessly contemplating first kisses, first ahem, dinners, and happily ever after.
We met for coffee the next morning and had another super-fantastic date. All lights were green: my friends were telling me that they had a "feeling" about this one. As I was giddily babbling to my room mate about his childhood adventures she froze. She asked what his last name was. I said didn't know. She said that if this was the guy that she thought it was I had better run.
She was right. Two years in the federal penitentiary for spousal assault. Do I know how to pick 'em or what?
Despite that fact that I live in a small town, I regularly get lost. Much of this stems from the refusal to waste brain cells on the concept of left and right (much better to save them for destruction by alcohol). So, I often find myself on the phone while driving and being told where to turn. Last week I was doing just that when I located the guy that I had been chatting up online was standing in front of his building waving to me. What was remarkable was that there was a rainbow right over him (and his building). Better put: he was standing at the end of the rainbow.
Now, I'm much given to new-age flakiness, but certainly some of the more grounded amoung you may recognize this as a good omen. I was not surprised when I had a great conversation with this Leprachun. That night I got home giddy and filled with hope. Certainly my luck had turned. I texted him, completely comfortable to not have to play the hard to get game. "I think ur cute" to which he replied "your not hard on the eyes yourself".
I barely slept. The next day I checked my e-mail, and found a note from him. the night before I asked why his profile said that he was a civil engineer, but he told me that he was a mechanic. His e-mail said that someone had hacked into his account and changed his profile. As it turned out he had two children. I sent him a note saying that I generally don't date men who have kids. He replied that they were his world, and that he understood and respected that choice.
can't be left alone. Not only did I find him under a rainbow, but his profile has been changed to that when I ran a search he wouldn't be excluded. There are coincidences and there are Coincidences, and this had to be a Coincidence.
That evening we spoke on the phone (please note that I hate talking on the phone). He explained to me that the mom was way out of the picture. Check one. And that there were already little house trained humans and not delicate, leaky tadpoles. Check two. This show was back on track. A second night was spent restlessly contemplating first kisses, first ahem, dinners, and happily ever after.
We met for coffee the next morning and had another super-fantastic date. All lights were green: my friends were telling me that they had a "feeling" about this one. As I was giddily babbling to my room mate about his childhood adventures she froze. She asked what his last name was. I said didn't know. She said that if this was the guy that she thought it was I had better run.
She was right. Two years in the federal penitentiary for spousal assault. Do I know how to pick 'em or what?
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