Word on the street is that Asberger is supposed to be coming home from South America today. I'm to see him for the first time in eleven months at the wedding of a dear friend of ours tomorrow.
I don't really know what is appropriate or expected of me in this situation and, come to think of it, I don't know what to expect of myself but I can definitely tell you at this moment I am SCARED SHITLESS.
Wish me luck.
Here's to getting A.T.D.Effed out!
It had only been a few days since I had optimistically abandoned the conviction that my neighbor was spending hours and hours in his apartment shooting up smack when he left this note under my windshield wiper:
Hi Emily
I came by today to ask you if you might want to go to Mamba Jamba.
I need you to know that I'm not very good at meeting women who I find beautiful and you are a beautiful woman. Its taken me this long to get the courage to even go up to your apartment to talk to you. I just want to say that I would love the chance to get to know you. Everyday I look forward to just running across each other. Just so I can see your smile. I'm going to the drum circle right now 7:33 pm. if you would like to just relax tonight, give me a call.
R,
Apt 3.
What sort of rating system does one employ to evaluate on a note like this? Does the fact that it was left on my car get points for being kind of sweet? Or demerits cause this is not eleventh grade? How about the content? How about "Mamba Jamba?" Whether I did or did not want to go to Mamba Jamba, and whether that meant he was asking if I wanted to attend an energetic, tropicalicious performance by an Afro-beat/reggae/funk/bossa nova/samba/jazz/rock fusion band, or just go get a smoothie, if I thought he might be smart or funny I would have taken his use of the specific term "Mamba Jamba" to be a hilarious joke; but he isn't, and it wasn't. Also I DIDN'T want to go do that, by the way, and I have at no time looked forward to running, leaping, stampeding or otherwise traversing "across each other" so he ought not to have assumed that I would be smiling.
On the other hand, that he wanted to see me smile ain't bad, that term, "beautiful," isn't either...
Still, the drum circle is not my scene and, as it happened, if I did want to "just relax" that night, it was the kind of just relaxing that entailed dolling up in a very tight dress and a pair of very high heels, going to the Sam Weller's and Coffee Garden joint staff garden party, getting knackered on cosmopolitan granitas, making big promises with my eyes that I had no intention of keeping, and generally acting on my worst behavior. So. I'm not entirely certain that's what R, Apt 3. had in mind.
Anyhow it took me a couple of days, but I finally delivered to his door a carefully penned note stating that I was very flattered, I have a boyfriend, have a nice life, etcetera etcetera. The next day as I was out on my balcony watering the basil, R. Apt 3. passed by below, calling up to me that he had heard he got a letter from me but before he could read the letter it had mysteriously been "misplaced." I knew he was thinking that it was a good letter, maybe a letter agreeing to "relax" with him, and right then I should have yelled, "I HAVE A BOYFRIEND! GO HOME!" and poured Miracle Gro on his head, but, not wanting to have such a conversation from a thirty-foot height advantage, I indicated that I would come down and visit him, and tell him what was in the letter then, further contributing to his belief that what I had to say would be to his liking.
SUCH is my stupidity, folks. This brand of vague, self-sacrificing niceness- a relic from my Mormon upbringing- gets me into trouble more often than I care to admit.
When we eventually spoke, my fumbling account of how I'm "involved in a long-distance experiment with a Special Someone" was much less concise than my note had been, but I was still surprised last weekend when R Apt 3. caught me on my way out the door (while I was finishing up on the phone with Date Guy, "OK, Baby, talk to you tomorrow, Lover, I love you too," were the unmistakable closing phrases). The Neighbor waited while I hung up the phone, and said, "So, you know how we were talking about going out sometime?"
In fact I did NOT know! I thought we were talking about NOT going out! How did we manage to land on such distant planets, here?
Anyway in trying to just escape the conversation and get out the door I evidently gave out too much information about our bar destination (The Tremula album release party alright!) because R, Apt 3. showed up and then we couldn't get rid of him. I threw a spontaneous after-party just to keep from having to head home to Next-Door to My Neighbor alone. Inevitably the Neighbor showed up, it became clear that I would have troubs getting rid of him, I became super stressed out, and then- thanks to a couple of very "special" friends- the magic happened!
AWKWARD TEAM DESTRUCTION FORCE! To the rescue!
A.T.D.F. descended 'pon mine home in a manic whirlwind, mangling everything in their path, literally. Seriously, attire was shed, silken robes donned, a river of scotch welled up on the floor, Jim Morrison returned from the dead to join our party and jubilant cries rang out 'cross the land,
"EVERYBODY'S HAP-PY!"
It was the night that smoked a thousand cigarettes; inside my apartment.
R, Apt 3. lasted an astonishing, nay, an APPALLINGLY, PYNCHINGLY long time, considering how flagrantly we ignored him. As a testament to what a pynch he is, he even stayed after we began discussing further methods of expulsion in out-sized whispers right in front of him. At last, with Garling and I hiding in the shower, Seth performed some secret wizardry and the neighbor moved to Santa Monica, never to be heard from again. Now I know that, my whole life, I've been responsible for getting my own trouble at me, but had it not been for the daring feats of these awkward young men, Sweetheart would never have had a chance to cool out.
This is the end, fine feathered friends. There's a California King Size waiting in hell, just for you, boys.
Literally.
It's the time of the season for loving, everybody. Marriage marriage marriage! The last weekend in July marked the ceremony for my good friend J. and her partner P. (thanks for the drinks, P and J!), tomorrow is the wedding of D to the lovely W, and last weekend my stepsister married her man at the top of Hidden Peak at Snowbird. And you know what? Even though I thought I would have a hard time relating to their pagan-hippie-goth-pirate fire-spinning friends, everyone there was delightful, and we all had a wonderful time.
Since breaking up with Asberger (haven't mentioned him in a while, have we?) I have been pretty jaded about marriage (and, I suppose, love in general). In fact, marriage schmarriage! I don't think I've ever in my life thought less about my connubial future than I, um, haven't thought about it over the past ten months. So I was somewhat surprised to discover that my eyes welled up as I helped my step sister into her wedding dress, and again when she arrived on her father's arm at the top of the mountain, and, during the vows when she looked into her lover's eyes and asked him, "Will you be my husband?" it was the husband word that got me, and I experienced a peculiar, constricted sensation in my chest and my throat and the corners of my eyelids...
And that's all I'm saying about it because this is not a mental path I want to wander.
My sister was BEAUTIFUL, and so was the little song my dad wrote and played on his new ukelele for her (how often do you have a legit excuse to employ (and rhyme!) the term "geodesic dome" as a song lyric?), the in-laws were charming and we got to spend the rest of the day achieving Ultimate Relaxation in the lodge hot tub and sauna and just hanging out with each other and I thought, "I really should try to be closer to and spend more time with this side of my family," and I was right; I really, really should.
I noticed on my walk with Lucy the other night that the kids are definitely outta school for summer. The Tuesday Night Red Car Cheffers were out en force in the 'hood, maneuvering the bills of their white baseball caps out of their open car windows to whistle at me and call out such discerning and masterly hecklements as, "Ow!" and, "Walkin' the DAWG!" as though that qualifies as innuendo. I mean, come on! A little creativity please! If you're going to string more than one word together then you should at least try to make them catchy! At this point you may as well abandon language all together and stick to grunts and hand signals. I had set my sights too high in hoping that whatever mental acuity enabled you to assemble that beer bong earlier might also influence your language processing functions. This "walkin' the dawg" thing has really got to me.
Now, "Ow!" I can abide. It's monosyllabic, resonant, and surprisingly metaphorical considering the source. I'm amused by the idea that the sight of my voluptuous bod slinking along the curb to avoid patches of broken glass and the remains of an ice-cream cone mishap may actuate a certain pain in some sensitive types.
But, "walkin' the dawg?" PLEASE.
Even a rustic, "show us your tits!" would not have seemed so gauche.
I suppose, to be open-minded about it, I can try to see some reason to get excited about "walkin' the dawg." For example, you identified the action correctly! I was in fact walking a dog! Many people enjoy this sort of game; they like to play "Name That Tune," or, "Say, is that a Kazimir Malevich painting?" and delight when their guesses prove accurate. Yaaay boys! Two points for not choosing embroidery or spelunking! The dog was a clue to the answer! Cheffs win!
The cheffs may also have been enthused about the act in question because it's so complex and delightful in itself. What's not to love about a dog? And a girl! Aren't we attractive together putting on our little show! We walk! We stop! We sniff! We shit! Man, we are SMOKIN! Witness the style and dexterity with which I stoop to ply the huge dump Lucy took on the sidewalk into a tiny plastic bag, without falling over, letting the dog run into the street or getting crap on my hands! Following this we then RESUME WALKING! This is obviously a coded message! The sexual allusions are unmistakable!
--Check out that girl, dude. She's like totally walking her dog! I think she's into you! That is so freaking hot! Isn't there some kind of saying about a dog? Doesn't that mean like a handjob or something? That would be awesome. Dude- she totally wants you. Say something to her! Tell her the dog thing! It means like getting a rimjob- I mean blowjob! Fuck you Nate! Quit acting like such a queer! I said I meant blowjob dude! You should totally say that thing about the dog to her! I bet she'll like, totally go back to the dorms with us! She'll probably let you finger her dude! Yo- quit fucking puking in my Jeep, asswipe! Fucking puke on the fucking sidewalk, dude! That is so fucking gay!
Dude!
Walkin' the DAWG!
OW!
Dear Cheffers;
Seriously boys, respecting the fact that I myself am not widely known for my proficiency in the sexual patois of every plane and angle on the socio-regional-economic rhombus, it's still hard to believe I'm the one that's missing the joke when a neckless hunyock inebriate tries to pass off the term for a yo-yo trick as a common sexual inference. Dude, you are the joke.
PLEASE- TRY NOT TO GET HIT IN THE HEAD WITH ANY MORE HOCKEY PUCKS.
Thank you.
Dear Asberger,
Walking the dogs through the lower avenues this morning it was drizzly and humid out, the grey of the sky made all the spring greenery greenier, and the way the trees arced over the streets and the style of the houses reminded me of our vacation to the South last year.
I was surprised to realize that trip was only last March it seems like ages ago. And I couldn't believe that only two months ago, this March, it was impossible for me to recall the year before without being barraged with more feelings than I was able to handle; a great muddle of angst and nostalgia and confusion and loss. There were times when I was fully laid out from having Too Many Feelings.
Today, walking down that street, recalling a million aspects of our trip together, I remained in a crisp, bright, ready mentality.
I thought, "How pretty. How like Savannah this seems."
I didn't FEEL anything.
Ain't it about time?
Signed,
me
The thing about keeping a weblog wherein you like to write about your relationships is how much you CAN'T write about your relationships (namely, the grueling breakup you went through last week that left you with no energy to post for so long). It can be a pretty painful loss of material, especially when the subjects of your posts are regular readers of your posts. On the other hand, it's also a handy covert communication tool.
Like for example imagine if until recently you had been dating me, and now we weren't speaking because we agreed after trying it that texting and talking to each other post-breakup turned out to be hurtful and confusing, not to mention that it threatened to lure us back into a game one or both of us no longer wanted to play. And imagine you could remember how many days it took us to finally commit to breaking up (what with the sleeping together and all) and to get on the same page and agree that THIS WAS REALLY THE END THIS TIME and that the way to facilitate progress and recovery would be to not be in contact with one another for a while. Then imagine that I was the first one to break our deal and assume you would actually want to hear from me anyway and text you several times saying as much. Imagine how unhelpful that would have been and perhaps even pissed you off quite a bit. And say then I was very sorry for it all and wanted to show my respect for you by proving that a) I totally meant it when I said I wanted to break up, and b) I totally meant it when I said I cared deeply about you and that I wanted to strive for the method that would best enable us to know each other in the future and I was willing to follow whatever steps you dictated to ensure such an outcome. If, suppose, you told me that not being in contact for a while would be the most straightforward and effectual way of proceeding, then I would take you at your word, and agree. And it would be on my shoulders to demonstrate that I had in fact heard and agreed by honoring that agreement; even if doing so sucked and was hard. So if after that you called and texted me a number of times leaving a variety of messages, some entirely earnest and some perhaps designed to test my sincerity and my will (though all being open to my questionable abilities to interpret them and therefore potentially subject to misrepresentation on the Internet- sorry); if I failed to respond to these messages, you could infer that it was not because I was not thinking of you, it was not because I did not want to hear from you, but that I was trying to stick to my word. You could then (hypothetically, of course) read my website and freely interpret what I wrote there. And if you knew me well- which you would because in our months together you'd have learned that if we were anything we were kindred, and that breaking up with you was like breaking up with myself, in other words NOT POSSIBLE "DATE GUY" WE ARE GOING TO KNOW EACH OTHER FOREVER!- you would read in the (supremely discreet and subtle) subtext of my weblog, that by not writing to you directly, as I promised I wouldn't, I was trying to give you some of the best of myself; my sympathy, integrity and will, in a way I hadn't been able to offer you before; and I could only hope that you would know that I MEANT IT.
I spent the past week hanging out with my good Mormon friends who grew up next door to me in SLC. We took a road trip to southeastern Kansas where a few of us were roommates while we studied singing there in 1997. I was nineteen years old and as Mormon as I could be, being the daughter of a New-Age-Hippie-Biker-Jazz Musician and a Lesbian-Comedienne-Democratic Sociopolitical Activist. In other words, I struggled with the Church Thing A LOT.
The easiest I ever had it faith-wise was living in Kansas, where I didn't relate to anybody but other Mormons, all two of whom I happened to live with. During that time all my best bonding experiences with my girlfriends involved praying together, scripture-reading and being the best little missionaries we could to all the lost, football-loving souls at our esteemed academic institution, Independence Community College (aka: IndyCC), where the un-bright but athletic boys imported from North Carolina and Atlantic City would court us with such winning lines as, "I can tell you not from Kansas, 'cause Kansas girls don't got short hair." Which advances (first made me yell BE STILL MY HEART and then) sent me running to my teacher begging her to lay down the law about boys. She did, and for the rest of our stay we actually RELISHED being able to say to them, "I'm sorry- I'M NOT ALLOWED TO DATE."
My life was all girls and all church, ALL THE TIME.
So it is no surprise to me, looking back on old journals from that time, to be reminded how conservative I was (or anyway how conservative I was trying to be); but I'd forgotten how those many cloistered months affected my perspective on "good" and "evil." And I had TOTALLY forgotten how, when I moved home to Salt Lake, I felt particularly endangered and enthralled by the rowdy antics of one Stanley Asberger, whose college lifestyle included not only beer and cigarettes, but also possibly (gasp!) s-e-x. I could never have featured that a few years later I'd end up blissfully setting up house with this wild child, long after his racy ways had come to seem practically staid to me; all I knew then was that he had the inside scoop on something I knew nothing about, and I WANTED TO TRY IT.
The following is what I actually wrote about him in my diary at the time. (I highlighted some of the awesomer ways I referred to him for you- in case you haven't taken my Quiz yet and are still looking for a good name to call your lover...) .
"I have been in a great confusion all week about Stan and his Ways of Temptation."
"And who was there sittin' at a table eatin' meat and potatoes, just waiting to beguile me, but Treacherous Stan?"
"Stan the Compelling talked to me the entire time, putting all sorts of ideas into my head and generally acting as a Conduit for Satan and tempting me like crazy. Nothing too unusual."
"Stan always invites me to join in, and while my mouth and my faith say "No," my mind cries out "Yes! Yes!""
"...really fretting over the turmoil I experience at the temptations of That Angel, The Son of the Morning*, Stan."
"Stan = Satan manifested in my life."
You read it right: Stan = Satan. How's THAT for a beautiful beginning to the story of our love?
*Isaiah 14:12 - "How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning. How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations
Dear Asberger;
I just want you to know that, just because I cry every time I speak to you doesn't mean I cry all the time these days, like I used to while we were together. Really, if you could see me in life you would probably not even know me, and you might go around asking people, "Who is this new girl Emily who hardly ever cries? I don't think I've met her before." In fact, not being on birth control, and not being with you, I almost never cry at all; except when I talk to you or talk about you or write about you on my website (also occasionally after I have orgasms, but nothing like the hysterical weeping I was doing towards the end there with us when I would sob frantically while trying to draw you closer to me with all of my might).
Anyhow I know all my crying freaks you out; maybe it makes you feel guilty, but I have to say I do love talking to you and sharing Jokes in the Olden Style, even though I can only stand it for a few minutes at a time. And when we go to hang up and everything gets really awkward and you always do that thing where you sound like you're retarded*, almost all of what you're hearing (I'm telling you in case you're not able to recognize it) is laughter through my tears.
I'm glad we're going to (I think) be able to be friends, after all.
Love,
Emma
*No offense to retarded people, as they say.
Dear Asberger,
Thank you. In all the years we've known each other, while dating and in times before that when just hooking up, thank you for never, no matter what incident occurred between us, never being SO FOOLISH as to ask me, "Please don't tell your friends about this."
Dear Asberger,
Guess what? YOU don't get to call ME and tell me you don't want to deal with my crying over the phone. YOU don't get to want ANYTHING, actually; since you already had everything. You got to have the relationship. YOU got to be the one to dissolve the relationship, YOU got to be the one to skip merrily off to a foreign land... In other words YOU got to be the one to escape with pride intact, and YOU were able to blithely evade the social discomfort and the disruption of routine and the heartache and all the other shit that comes in hand with a breakup on home turf. I would say you have pretty much gotten everything you COULD want already, except for me being happier about it all, and not weeping. So let me tell you- if you wanted me to be happier, then YOU should have sucked less at it! YOU should have been more gracious and more sensitive! YOU should have been less selfish! You should have been less selfish all along, and you STILL need to learn to be less selfish, and you need to learn that you have NO FUCKING RIGHT to dictate what feelings you can or cannot abide for me to have, and that if you don't want to deal with my crying it should be because you can't handle the GUILT over what an INCREDIBLE ASSHOLE you are, and I WILL CRY AS MUCH AS I FUCKING WELL FEEL LIKE, got it?
Good.
