But I thought that post was boring so I trashed it. Aren’t you glad I didn’t post that?

Today is Tuesday, a day I jokingly call Fun Tuesday because it kind of isn’t. Tuesday is the day we have our weekly  staff conference call. All of the execs from our various centers call in and give a status on how things are going in their respective areas. I actually like the Tuesday call, I like even better the Quarterly Staff meetings, but the preparation sort of drives me insane. I usually just have a few hours to make my rounds with the staff, particularly a lovable curmudgeon of a Sales Manager who can’t use a computer to save his life, compile the reports, send them out and then prep for the meeting, which I run here in Atlanta from my laptop. I am a lowly cog in the wheel of this organization but when I am not here people act like they don’t know whether to scratch their watches or wind their butts. SIGH. Did I mention I love my job? :) My boss is pretty much the best, ever. Sometimes.

I had some random thoughts rolling through my head on the way to work, so in my “me time” before I start Fun Tuesday,  I jotted them down:

My dad leaves town tomorrow. It hasn’t been the hell I thought it would be, but I am ready for him to go. He called on Sunday with some nonense and ruined my good vibes. Sometimes he makes me want to throw things but the only items I have of value are my electronics and nooooo, not my babies!

I am glad I reconnected with my cousins and I am going to be spending some time with them in the near future. And my aunt is not doing well anyway so it’s important to be close and help out where needed. And my lil 2nd cousins are 16 yr old twins and oh so cute.

Is Daylight Savings this weekend? I thought I heard that. I’m sad about losing an hour of sleep (I freaking love sleeping) but I am so happy to be one step closer to my favorite time of year. Perhaps I will celebrate by brunching outdoors… after it stops raining.

Got some great news over the weekend! My sister-in-law (Big Mike’s wife) is pregnant and they found out on Friday that they are having a girl! I have two nephews, 8 and 2 (2 is Joe’s son, born a few months before he died. Except for the skin color, 2 looks exactly like him!). This is the first girl. I am so. excited. I now have to plan a strategory trip home so I can be there to meet my niece!

Got to get my hair done this weekend. And I want to shop, but I have tons of cute clothing in this size in my closet. So, no. But me and my pink trench? 2 Peas 1Pod. I’m just saying. It’s uber cute and it’s getting me lots of compliments. Some days in the office, I never take it off.

On March 15th I am going to try to get back into my New Life Friday groove. I want to be social and such this summer. I can’t do that when I feel like… meh I am not even going to go there. You know? Tired of saying bad things about myself.

This weekend on the way back to the south side, my dad and I passed the Hooters on Cobb Pkwy. I randomly laugh because he suggested we go there. Did I mention my dad is a Minister? I do so hope he was joking. Though, it reminds me of being back in Podunk– there is a store called Erotique Boutique across from the mall near our house. My mom drives by one day and says “That store has a drive thru window and it’s open 24 hours. What kind of erotic emergency could a person be having a 4am and need to go through the drive thru? What do you order there? A McVibrator and a Side of Lube?”

My mom, Ladies and Gentlemen.

With that, I have to get to work. Sales Dude will be calling in a few minutes and I need about 30 seconds of deep breathing to deal with him.

Mine actually went okay. The Tour went fine, took all of ten minutes. Dad liked my place, said it was very nice. I don’t believe I cleaned and scrubbed and fluffed and shined and worried and shopped for a ten minute cursory overview. I am going to appoint myself the Queen of Overreacting. If ever you need someone to overreact to something, please consider my services. I overreact for cheap!

For the first time in my life, he had no criticism or ‘helpful ideas’, but then again that’s kind of my mom’s department. She’s nosy (where I get it from) and will scan a room and go ‘mmmhhhmmm…’ which means something but she won’t come right out and say she doesn’t like something. But nope, not dad. No offers to fix anything or paint anything or arrange anything, which was great. I didn’t want to go through the discomfort of declining and then later him holding it over my head when he wants something… ‘remember that time I did that thing for you? I need you to do something for me now.’ Nope. Leave it alone. I’ll do it myself.

We did have a slight snag. I arrived at my Aunt’s house on Saturday at 11:30am, which would have been perfect timing to drive 45 minutes north back to my place, have lunch, and then drive back down south for his nephew’s basketball game at 3pm.

Except no one was at the house. I rang the doorbell and knocked and rang the doorbell and knocked and nothing. So I get back in the car and call my dad. He answers. “What are you doing?,” I say, sounding irritated. “I’m outside the house, no one is answering the door.” I get a curt, surly, “Well if you would have been answering your phone, you’d know we took your Aunt D to the hospital this morning.”

Color me shocked, confused, and a little pissed off, because my phone has not rung all morning. I have no voicemail and no missed calls. “Just say right there,” he snapped. “Roz will drive me to the house.” And hangs up. I am left to fume inside my car at my Aunt’s house, thinking of the things I am going to do to his cell phone when he gets in the car. Dreams of snatching it from his hands and throwing it into the street and then running it over dance through my head. I already know what has happened. He is dialing the wrong number, again.

Cousin shows up, they both get out of her car and my dad has this stony expression on his face, his lip curled in irritation. This look used to send ice through my veins and make my butt go numb.  It almost has this effect on me as I watch him stomp toward my car, before I remember that I am just a few weeks shy of 36 and he can’t really hurt me anymore.

He opens my door and yells, “Girl, what is wrong with your phone?!?!” I reply, “Nothing’s wrong with my phone, I haven’t received any calls today!”  I show him the call log on Berry. NOTHING. He whips out his phone and dials my number and hands his phone to me and says, “The message says you’re not taking calls. I couldn’t reach you!”

I grab the phone, wishing I had the nerve to do what I really wanted to do with it, and glared at him over the display. “That’s not my phone number,” I growled at him. He blinks. Then his eyes close and he sighs and he knows, now, that he’s done it again. Dialed the wrong number. I punch up my actual number, saved in his phone with no name. “THIS is my phone number! If you’d called THIS number you would have reached me!”

I’ve never seen my dad look sheepish in all of his life. The look on his face as he ducked into the car and put on his seatbelt was priceless. Not that I enjoyed making a fool of him at all, but I felt good for not just cowering in his presence like I am 15 yrs old, which is what I normally do when he gets mad.  Growing up, I could get hit for just looking at him wrong. He demanded contrite obedience. We weren’t allowed to argue or talk back.

He apologized as I backed out of the driveway, and I accepted his apology and then said, “don’t let me near that phone, I might toss it out the window and run it over.” At which he laughed, and said he didn’t know I could go ghetto. I can’t, really, but I like for people to think I can.

I had planned to take Dad to lunch at Houston’s, one of my favorite places that was quick and close. Before I could open my mouth to tell him so, he declared that he wanted to eat lunch at Popeyes Chicken. I rarely, if ever, eat at Popeyes. In fact, when we went to dinner on Tuesday, I was all happy to take him to this cool place in Midtown but he seemed uncomfortable, like he would have been happier at Red Lobster. Except I don’t eat at Red Lobster. I may be becoming one of those Atlanta snobs that I hate so much. Damn!

So, because they don’t have Popeyes in Podunk, WA and he wanted some Popeyes Chicken,  I shrugged and directed the car north. There happens to be a restaurant mere minutes from my apartment.

Popeyes it is.

Joe's Tree

We love you and miss you everyday.

September 8, 1985 to March 8, 2008

Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened. – Dr. Seuss

One afternoon, I was sitting in my apartment, watching movies I’d rented from Blockbuster. I was bored, since I didn’t have cable (hence the movies, because otherwise my attention span is way too short for them). I wanted to go for a drive so I got up, slipped on a pair of shoes and got in the car.

I always went to the same place, a construction site a few minutes away. I would park and sit back and watch as building after building, balcony after balcony, terrace after terrace were built, brand new, from the ground up. After the complex was built, I’d sit and watch moving trucks pull in and out, imagining the people settling in and enjoying their wood floors and ceramic tile and new appliances and their pool and clubhouse. After I stopped acting creepy, I’d start the car and drive back to my craptastic apartment and sulk. I thought I’d never be able to afford to live there.

Years passed. I got another job. And then I got a raise. And then I switched to a different company in the same family of companies and got a 20% raise. Every day– or at least every few days, I’d drive past that complex and glance over at those apartments and *sigh*

My lease was expiring in yet another apartment of craptasticness, the apartment with the neighbors that worked in a bar or something because they came home in the middle of the night, every night and shook my walls with their sexcapades. Or their arguments. Or their socializing.  Not really impressive, because the walls were made of Kleenex and dust. I could hear my neighbor peeing.

Understandably, I wasn’t renewing my lease. I hate to move but I love a new apartment, and a review of my finances revealed that I could, in fact, afford to live where I really wanted to live.

In May of  2009, I finally bit the bullet and moved to the new complex down the road, the one I watched being built, the one I drove past and *sighed* at and dreamt about. And it was everything I ever dreamt it would be.

Well, except for the part where they gave me the wrong apartment first.  I took my tour in March. Picked out what I wanted. Waited and waited and waited for May to arrive. I was so excited about my hardwood floors! I am ridiculous about hardwoods– I never want wall to wall carpeting again, ever. I check in and get my keys and……….wall to wall carpeting.

It also wasn’t awesome when they didn’t have the apartment I wanted available, so I had to move my cable and utilities and belongings (still wrapped from the movers) into a temporary apartment, try not to get settled, and then move everything again six weeks later.  Did I mention that this apartment was one flight up, and this was just a few weeks after I fell down a flight of stairs and sprained my ankle? Good times.

But when I finally got into my new apartment, it was bliss. It has been bliss from day one.

I ended up at Target, last night. I hit a couple of stores, nothing was really inspiring, I had to get toilet tissue anyway and the bath dept at Walmart completely sucks, so I just went to Target. Spent exactly $101.24. See?  $100 Store!

I got most of my cleaning taken care of in a few hours, and  I realized, again, that I love my apartment, in it’s halfway-decorated-but-now-the guest-bath-has-a-rug-and-a towel-and-a-soap-dispenser-and-the-master-bath-has-a-new-shower-curtain loveliness.  Since things are sparkling and glittering and all in order, I was reminded of the things I coveted about this apartment, the things I would dream about when I sat in the parking lot and watched them being built– the gleaming wood floors, the garden tub, the spacious floor plan, the ginourmous patio, the new appliances (including Washer/Dryer) the Valet Trash service. The way I get SO much sun in every room, which is great for someone who needs sunshine to be happy, my full view of the pretty courtyard and the lush, green trees behind the complex.

Some refinement is needed tonight, but I’m not cleaning like the military is coming to inspect( even though my dad IS ex military, and our house was always spit-shine clean). I don’t need to impress him– I moved down here by myself and 7 years later, I am thriving. I’m going to show him my life as I live it, in a city that I love, in a place that I love and am proud to live in.

At least that is what I am going to be telling myself as I give my dad the tour of my place and tell him not to look in the closets.

Have a super Friday and a great weekend everybody! What are your weekend plans???

You’ll see a new banner over in my sidebar there—-> about the Red Pump Project. It is a movement to bring awareness to HIV/AIDS among women and young girls.  The Red Pump Project recently launched 500 in 50, a campaign to get 500 blogs to rock the red pump badge, so I joined in the effort and I invite my readers to do it too!

How? Visit this page and copy the embed link and read about how you can promote awareness on March 10, 2010! And spread the word!

On the way home from the restaurant, my dad called my mom. I guess to gloat, or whatever. Then he said something about having not seen my apartment yet and asked my mom to talk to me. What am I, five? She says, ‘do what you have to do so your dad can see your apartment.’ She says this in a tone that is not to be argued with. I tried to say no. In fact, I said no several times. Why doesn’t no work on them?

It’s not that my apartment is… well it’s just that… I mean, no one ever comes over. It’s very comfy and now I have to clean for company. I have a bedroom and a guest bathroom that have never been used, let alone furnished or decorated. I don’t have a table. And the entire time I lived in Podunk WA, my parents never cared about my damn apartment. GAH. So I guess on Saturday I have to drive out to get him, and bring him up to this side of the world so he can see my apartment.

I am trying not to roll my eyes, because frankly my parents love the crap out of me and they are proud of me and they want to be close to me. SO. Hence the trying not to be an asshole about it. It’s hard and kind of pitiful when you have to scold yourself.

So today I get to go shopping for a little bit of house stuff. I was thinking of Marshall’s or Tuesday morning. I hate shopping for clothes. LOVE shopping for housewares! And I think I am going to have someone come in and give me a good, thorough clean.  For spring. Yeah, that’s the ticket!

Dinner went fine, by the way. A few awkward pauses. I am kind of a weird person anyway, off in my own world. Several times, he was like, ‘why didn’t you just…..?’ I just shrug and go on my merry way. Don’t like the way I do things? Don’t be with me when I do them. I am me, get used to it.

We talked a lot about my mom. She is not doing too well– not dying or anything, just not living well. Back in 2001, she had the RNY Gastric Bypass. A year or two later, she was in the hospital with complications. And now she is having the same issues she was having in 2003. Her stomach is protesting anything solid. I guess she is down to just over 100 lbs right now, which blows my mind because she used to be pretty heavy. In addition to the weight loss issue, she is not dealing well with Joe’s death at all. My dad says she has been on sleeping pills since his death and she’s having a lot more bad days than good ones. She has an injury from a car accident years back and her job is a bit physical, so that makes working hard.

We also talked a bit about depression. Mine specifically, and then he asked some questions about one of my friends that was diagnosed BiPolar 2. He acts like I never told him about my bouts with depression, but I did. I sat right at that kitchen table and told both of my parents about that. He doesn’t remember. He also doesn’t remember telling me that we had a family member that was institutionalized for Schizophrenia and other mental disorders. He was all shocked that I knew. ‘You told me!’ I said. He just shrugged.

He tried to go in on me, all about calling more often. Excuse me, I talk to you people frequently and you don’t tell me these things, so come on off of beating that dead horse.

In all, I was pretty proud of myself, had a good meal, he ended up paying for dinner (woop!) and I didn’t go straight home from work and get in the bed, so yay!

Tuesday meeting on Thursday today. Reports. Oy.

Actually. Back up. That is a lie. I went looking for it. I knew all along I still had a copy and where I could find it. I didn’t destroy it, when I found it again, either.

I hardly ever watched Sex& The City because I didn’t have HBO, but then TBS started running it and I would watch it if my remote found it during my constant quest for weird stuff  to watch (documentary whore, I tell you). Recall the episode in which Carrie is dumped via Post It Note: “I’m sorry. I can’t.” I totally, totally have been there. Except it wasn’t a post it. He at least had the courtesy to type and send an email.

All of this past rehash is stirring up old memories. As I take myself on a journey from my past to my present, sometimes I feel a longing to see old things again. I was typing up the previous chapter and thinking about the chapter ahead and remembering beginnings and endings. The letter popped up in my mind. I actually dug for it, found it, and read it.

And then I read it again. I was angry again. I didn’t understand again. And five years later, I still don’t know that I could have done anything to avoid getting that breakup email. The Dear Jane letter.

I keep trying to tell this story in words that are succinct and make sense, but it’s long and convoluted, full of good and bad times and maybe I’m being lazy but I just don’t feel like telling it.  Not the whole thing, anyway. I’m sure parts will come out here and there, through time, but I can’t relive that relationship right now.

This is the hard part of my journey;  the part where I look back and think about the life I have led and the love I (thought I) had and imagine where I could be if only I had done this or said that, or if I was this way or that way or thought differently or acted differently. What if I had been willing to be in a non-exclusive relationship, what if I had lowered my standards or raised my standards or done away with standards, dot dot dot. I try not to live with regrets, to go through each day and not wish I’d done something differently, but it doesn’t always work out that way. I think your average person has a handful of regrets, at least. That’s my grasp at one thin straw to call myself average.

My biggest regret ever is opening my mouth to tell him I loved him. That isn’t to say that we should never say it, or that we should never say it first, but for us in our relationship, it was too early.  After going out on some lame dates, talking to a lot of lame men– some married, some ’separated but dating’ (wtf? If you’re married, you’re married. Get divorced, wait a year, then call me.)– I met someone that I thought was an incredible human being. He was the most wonderful thing I’d ever experienced and it wasn’t perfect, but it was perfect to me. All my friends were all excited and ooh’d and aah’d at every story, looking for clues and hints, as they do. Taking everything he said and translating it into something I could grab onto and stick under my pillow and wish on.

Looking back, it was actually kind of lame, but whatever.

When we first started dating, we had all the important conversations. The sex conversation (he admired that and was okay with waiting. YAY. I thought I had found my Chocolate Nerd!). The ‘what do you want out of life’ conversation (marriage, family, maybe some kids, happiness, success—he wanted to go back to school and get a degree. More yayness. I am all about ambition.). The family upbringing, the small talk stuff (favorite color, TV show, etc). We matched. In every way, he fit me like a glove. I knew it was serious when I was considering taking that step with him. Yep. That one.

And because I was considering taking that step, I must have loved him. He passed all my tests. He said the things I wanted to hear, some without asking or prompting. I really wanted my experience with him to be different than the ones I’d had before. I didn’t want to regret not showing him all of me, so I threw open the shutters and I let go. I relaxed, and let myself have feelings I’d never felt before and think and dream about things I’d been afraid to dream about before.  I wanted my future to include him. He said all the right things and led me to believe that I’d have that. I told my parents about him. I wanted them to come down to Atlanta over Christmas to meet him—the inspection, haha. And then I had to go and open my big mouth.

It was a Saturday morning. We were lounging around, talking. He’d spent the night, the night before. We stayed up late watching movies and late night TV. Woke up in my favorite way, slowly, without an alarm, the quiet brightness of the morning streaming in through the window. While we were talking, I was struck with an irresistible urge to tell him. My heart was just about beating out of my chest as I said him that I had something to tell him.

Why didn’t I recognize the panic in his eyes? Why didn’t I stop, when he tried to stop me from saying it? Why did I just barrel right on through and say it because I felt like I needed to say it? Why did I? Because  I listened to other people who said that I should own my feelings and it didn’t matter if I heard it back, as long as I said it and he was happy to hear it. I wanted to hear it, though. I don’t know why I expected to hear it back, or for him to even be open to it.

Once the words were out, I knew right away that he didn’t feel the same. It was in the look on his face and the way he said, ‘well, how do you know that?’ Not really a romantic response to I Love You, dude.  It was a mistake. A terrible one, and right then, I wanted to grab those words and shove them back into my mouth and then go back in time to the second right before I said, I love you, and never say it. Let it hang in the air and let him think that’s what I was going to say and then let him come to terms with that and let him say it first.

Five years later, I wonder if I screwed it up, right then. I wonder, if I would have just let things evolve and not try to push things and not been so open, would things have turned out differently? Would we be married? Or… even… know each other?

The email came the weekend after I had been on vacation to see GreenEyes and Tex. We took a trip out to Galveston, rented a house on the beach. It was effing BLISS, people. It was so nice and peaceful to be put to sleep and awakened by and lulled through the day by ocean waves. I talked to FK once a day while I was in Texas. He seemed to be having a grand old time. FK never went anywhere unless he was coming to my house. He was the very definition of a homebody and I could never talk him into going to the sports bar down the street from his apartment to watch a game, or calling someone up from work to watch football with. If I was shy, FK was even more shy. And yet the second I leave town, he’s all over the place. I thought it was odd, but took it as a good sign. Maybe he was growing and changing and whatever.

I returned to town on a Monday. We had a date that Wednesday. Riverdance. Yeah, I love me some Celtic stomping around. Everything seemed fine. That Thursday, it was Dr. FK and Mr. Asshole. He sent me an email asking me about cruises, my opinion. Where to go, what to do, what price range is good?  What cruise lines are reputable? I ask him why he was asking– were we going somewhere?

He said, “I’m gonna take myself on a cruise.”

What most people don’t know is that I watch Royal Caribbean commercials and cry. I want to go on a cruise SO BADLY. He knew this. I’m instantly offended, bristle, and hang up the call.  I opened an IM to GreenEyes and told her what had just happened, and was I wrong to be offended and she said something like uh, what the fuck? He emailed you to ask your opinion on cruises, knowing good and well you would kill somebody to get on a Royal Caribbean boat?

There were tens of other examples, exactly like that. He added details like ‘well, just for me’ and ‘I was just thinking for myself’. For example, he brought up buying a house later in the year, investing in the future. And then in the next breath made a comment about living in it alone.  I remember us having a deep, serious heart to heart and him asking me what I wanted from life, what was my dream? And me opening up and telling him– I wanted to get married. I wasn’t sure about children, but we’d see. I wanted a home and a life outside of my job and I wanted to enjoy that life and have someone to share it with.  And then he asked me ‘what if you never get that? What if that never comes true?’  I made up some answer about doing the best I could with what life handed me, but inside I crumbled. I wanted to punch him in his fucking neck.

This was in severe contrast to months of us hanging out and saying ‘we’ and ‘us’ and ‘our’, getting loose in our language with each other, involving each other in conversations and decisions and plans. I guess I was dumb in thinking we were going somewhere and even letting myself  think that we were going somewhere. The little jabs here and there to let me know he was X-ing me out hurt me immensely.

There is this theory that men don’t like to be the bad guy. They will treat a woman like utter crap so that she’ll get sick of him and dump him. Then he doesn’t have to do the dumping.  I’m pretty sure that this is what was going on with FK. He was being an asshole so I would break it off.  He was being a coward, because he couldn’t do it himself.

I tried to hold on. I tried hard, to hold on. I hit a wall, though and I asked him WTF was up with all of his comments and he was so very nonchalant about it. I asked him what he wanted from us and he couldn’t give me an answer.  I asked him if he even cared that I was pretty much ready to walk away, and he said I should do what I felt I needed to do. >insert me breathing fire, here<

So, with all of those things coming at me and adding up, break it off I did. And then relented, because I thought  well… maybe he was just trying to tell me he needed some alone time. And, well relationships are hard work and why would I run as soon as soon it got hard, and if he didn’t want to be with me, he’d just say so, right?

I called and tried to talk to him. He was cold and didn’t really talk. I asked if we could meet up after the weekend to talk about stuff. He said okay.

Sunday night, I got the email.

It wasn’t even full of contrite it’s not you, it’s me bullshit. It was plain and simple and direct—he said he was selfish and self centered and was really only concerned about himself. Having me out of town showed him that he really enjoyed his time to himself (this is laughable. He had NOTHING but time to himself. I was only seeing him about once a week, toward the end) and he was only interested in seeing me when he wanted to see me. Which was apparently never? He said that he didn’t like arranging his schedule around someone else and when you date, that’s what you have to do. You have to consider other people. He didn’t feel like doing that.

Thing started to make sense, like getting up on a Friday or Saturday morning and not knowing if I’d see my boyfriend that day. Left to sit around and wait for him to call and let me know that he would grace me with his presence, all late in the day, after he’s been out and about and enjoyed himself, I get the leftovers. He didn’t wake up in the morning wanting to see me or talk to me or hang out with me, do stuff together. Like couples do. I hated being with someone that didn’t seem to want to be with me.

More than anything, that hung over me like a dark cloud. He didn’t enjoy my company like I enjoyed his.  He didn’t prefer my company to being alone.

Sometimes, when I get all misty-eyed and dreamy and think about wanting to be with someone, and how awesome FK was, and how great our relationship was, I think about that email. I think about how we got to that email, and then I think about the last three or four weeks of our relationship and wonder how it went from sugar to shit. How it went from wonderful to weird and then WHAAATTT?

That’s why I save that email. That’s why I keep it in a place where I know I can find it, so that every few years, when forget the hurt feelings and the confusion and how my heart totally broke, I can remind myself. He was okay, but he was not what I needed. He was not what I wanted. He was counterfeit. FK was not ready for this jelly. He said in his letter that he wanted to be. He just wasn’t.

Those who don’t learn from the past are doomed to repeat it, right?  Let’s note the lessons, from FK:

Surely it wasn’t the part about being open and ready to love someone.

Surely it wasn’t the part about working hard at our relationship.

Surely it wasn’t the part where, before I jumped in with both feet, I made sure to have the important conversations. No sense wasting anyone’s time.

Surely it wasn’t the part where I just did the best I could, and used every resource I could find, to do better.

It definitely wasn’t the part where I tried, really hard, to hang on through what I thought was just a rough spot, that period of time when men get weird, and then get over it. Some men come out the other side totally fine. Some don’t make it.

A few weeks after FK and I split, I came up with a list of lessons I had learned:

1. I don’t have to be a size 2/110 to snag a handsome dude. FK liked every inch of my frame.

2. That nagging feeling– that’s my conscience. My intuition. It will not be ignored. Listen to it.

3. Obey my own rules. If I’ve decided I’m not going to chase, then, by golly, don’t chase! Toward the end I felt like I was bending a lot and chasing FK to get him to spend time with me when I should have just let go. If he was interested, there is no doubt that he would come find me.

4. Red Flags are red for a reason. I see them. Don’t ignore them.

5. I am not desperate. The man I am dating is not the last available man on the planet. If it’s not working, work it out. If it can’t be worked out, let it go. One minute in a relationship with issues that can’t be resolved is a waste of time for both of us.

6. Contrary to my own belief, I am capable of having and showing affection to men, and loving someone. And it’s a very nice feeling to have it returned to me. Remember that feeling and strive for it again.

7. Expanding horizons is a very good thing, but don’t compromise on my list of must haves/ deal breakers. My list of must haves needs refinement. I’m not longer against compromise– I just don’t want to be the only one compromising.

8. Get. A. Life. Don’t let my life revolve around who I’m dating, seeing, interested in. Men like women who’ve got it together. Get it together.

9. Maintain self confidence. Don’t get needy and clingy and overobsessive, trying to read every word or email as signs that he’s thinking about me and wanting to take it to another level. Be the Goddess of Fun and Light (© The Surrendered Single) and when he is ready to make the move, he will.

10. It’s not a bad thing for a man to be attracted to me. It is flattering and speaks to my shape, my confidence, and my personality.

These are ten lessons I am going to take into my future.

People always laugh when I tell them how close I live to work. I don’t like a commute! It’s not as easy as people think it is, though. It’s not like I roll out of bed and get in the car. I still have to shower, dress, and drive to work, just like anyone else. I just don’t have to drive far.  I’m still late 4 out of 5 mornings.

Of course, there is a chance that it won’t snow at all. In fact, I am banking on nothing of the sort. According to the morning news, it will be mostly rain by the time it hits North Fulton County. I’m in Cobb, just above Fulton. I am guessing it will just be rain. BoooHiss. If we’re going to get bad weather, it should be bad weather for all, so we can all stay home! The boss is out today, there is no Tuesday meeting today, several members of the Exec staff (whom I work for) are traveling today. It would be a perfect day to stay home. With a big cup of coffee and something sweet from StarBucks.

I won’t, though. Because I always feel guilty about taking days off, even when I’m sick. I took last Monday off and spent half the day worried my boss was mad. So, I’ll get up and go to work and sit there and watch the window for the first hint of flakes. Just my luck, they won’t come.

Again I say, BoooHisssss.  Watching Weather.com like a hawk,

Edit: Yep, guess who is back home?  Totally doing the ‘at home in the middle of the day, dance’!

I spent most of Friday with my stomach in knots, not really sure what was going on, what was expected of me and how much of it I could get out of. My dad called me late morning and basically just said that he wanted to see me before he left town and wanted to see if I was coming to Uncle T’s 80th birthday. Much of the family from Colorado and Illinois and Indiana were coming to town. I said I would go.

I wrote on Saturday about my sucktastic Friday. Thankfully, that day went much better, because two crappy days in a row makes for a cranky Curvy. I took my time getting ready and instead of meeting the family at 4:00 at the restaurant where the dinner/ party was, I drove to Aunt and Uncle’s where my dad was staying.  He wasn’t there, as he had run to the store quickly, so I had a chance to talk with my Aunt, 78, and my Uncle, 80.

Their house is always 104 degrees. This makes me laugh, for no apparent reason.

Another thing is that my Aunt is so very frank and direct. She’s a funny little lady. “Well [insert my name]. I haven’t seen you for awhile? You married yet?”

For some reason, this doesn’t offend me. Maybe it’s that thing where old people can say whatever they want and no one calls them on it. I told her that I was not married. She asked if I was looking. “No ma’am,” I answered, to which she clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Pretty girl like you ought to have no troubles finding a boyfriend,” she says.

Tell me about it, I said to myself. I almost smarted at the word ‘pretty’ because I have such a hard time thinking I am, most days, but I caught a glance of myself, with my fresh-from-the salon hair and my cute pink trench and my trial run of Queen Latifah’s makeup line for CoverGirl (it’s aiiiiggght, I like my MAC better) and my new shimmery lipgloss and I thought, ‘Well I don’t look half bad!’

“Well,” my Aunt says, “there ought to be plenty of men at this here party we’re going to. A lot of people from the church are coming out to celebrate.” I wasn’t really encouraged by this, but I asked anyway, “Will any of them still have their teeth?”

She laughed and laughed and laughed.

Cut to the party.  It was scheduled to start at 4:00. At 4:30 people were still arriving and milling around. I forgot that my people are sometimes a little slow. I’m not used to that. Oy. My count of people under 40 in the room include me and all of the children. My Aunt, she lies.

They sit this guy next to me. He is about 117 years old, I swear. He was a TALKER. He was in the Army, in WWII, lost his dad early in life, put himself through school, two Master’s Degrees a, Doctorate, Fulbright scholar, speaks three languages. I mean, if he was cute and 100 years younger, he’d be my kind of guy.  His story was inspiring the first time I heard it. The next four or five times he told it, not so much.

I saw a lot of family I haven’t seen in a long time. My cousins from that branch are in their 40’s and 50’s. My second cousins (their children) are younger than I am by about 5 years. I forgot that I have two cousins that I actually really like, and one I like more than the other. We exchanged information and hopefully she and Iwill meet up for brunch one weekend.

I remember being jealous of my one cousin, because finally at age 50, she met someone and they got married 4 yrs ago. She had never been married. Hearing that she found someone gave me hope, but also burned me up inside so bad that I didn’t go to the wedding. I don’t like weddings much anyway unless we’re like the best besties that ever bestied, but in particular I didn’t attend her wedding because I was full of jealousy and loathing.

Seeing her life,  4 years later, I have nothing to be jealous of. That’s not being snarky– they are happy as clams. Got themselves a new house, and life is good for them and in a couple of years her kids will be out and about, exploring the world on her own and she will have someone to grow old with. I realized, watching her with her husband, hanging out with my family, that we each have our own path to take. Being jealous of someone else, or not Keeping My Eyes On My Own Paper takes my eyes off of my own path, my own journey, my own destination. Even if it’s only for a moment, for that moment I lost my way. Maybe I stumbled and fell because I wasn’t watching where I was going. Maybe I missed something good, while I wasn’t paying attention to my own path. I’m not really into the Karma thing, or the going back in time to decide that I could have met someone at her wedding (because I just don’t believe that would be true!), but I am all about being responsible for what I know now and moving forward with it. I can forgive ignorance based on not knowing– once I know, it becomes an expectation.

I also saw my Uncle E, who I haven’t seen in probably 15 years. He flew in to surprise everyone. I was amused because he looks like a much, much older Wesley Snipes. Everything he says has an air of sarcasm to it. He and my Dad and Uncle T argued like kids, which just had me laid out laughing.

In all, it was a good day. I had a few really awkward moments, in which I just didn’t know what to say.  My dad tried to go in at me as well, laying on the guilt because I don’t do the things he thinks I should do. To me this all comes down to that– they want me to do what they want. I’ve had this revolving argument with my dad for years–I’m not him! They don’t have any consideration for who I am and what I want. I’m well aware of how short life is. That’s why I am living it the way I want to live it.

Selfish? Maybe.  But I have an agenda, and after spending so much time catering to everyone but me, I just don’t have the energy to fulfill their agenda, too.

That said, I told my dad that I would take him to dinner this week, and I can’t decide what restaurant to go to. I have so many favorites, here. We could do Thai, or Singaporean, or good old American. They have places like PF Changs and Red Lobster and Olive Garden at home, and truthfully I don’t eat at a whole lot of chains. Atlanta has great local restaurants. Too many to choose from.

I am the world’s worst small, unimportant decision maker.  Big decisions? No problem!  Move to Georgia? Yes.Go back to school? No.

Where to eat dinner/lunch/brunch?  *blank stare* Uhmmmmm…Uh……..well…we could… or… maybe….

SIGH.

At the top of this post on the right hand side you’ll see  a directory of sorts. All posts in this series will be tied together. You can view other posts in this series by clicking on the link in the directory.

This is a long entry, I apologize. I was going to cut it but decided to let it be. It’ll be here if you get tired of reading and want to come back later! ;)

*

The whole nerd, mousy thing did not go away when I went to college. I was social with my roommate, the students I worked with, co workers. I was never into the college party scene. I wasn’t a drinker or a smoker or a dater. My friends tended to be nerdy, quiet people. I was just happy to be out of the house and away from home– I wasn’t really thinking about going wild. I had moved out and then moved back when it turned out that I wasn’t allowed to stay in the apartment my friends had, and was moving out again. In an odd show of closeness, my parents drove me to the University and dropped me off.  I was supposed to go off to school and become a teacher. One of the best teaching programs in the nation is at a University not far from my hometown. My college town was only about 25 miles away. I wasn’t going far.

A few days after I moved into my dorm room, met my roommate, had my experience with group feeding, otherwise known as The Commons (where, by the way, I could eat cereal for dinner, if I wanted. HEAVEN), I noticed a guy kind of hanging around up on the main floor. He seemed to be waiting for me when I came upstairs to check my mail. He was on the maintenance crew; I think he wore overalls with the University logo on them. I managed to chat with him off and on and he was friendly. He was from Africa. I know some of you know where this is going.

In my experience, Africans have a different method of approaching women and relating to them. They are aggressive and straightforward. I found them to be pushy and brash and overly eager. I am sure they have sentiments about black American women. The similar skin color gives a false sense of familiarity and closeness. The cultural difference creates a giant crevasse.

He lived in an apartment off campus but since he worked for the University, he was around a lot. One evening, he was hanging around the dorms and stopped by to see me. I would never let him in my room, mostly because I had a roommate, and because I didn’t want to be trapped in a room with a man. We talked in the hall, and after awhile, I begged off because I had to study. There was an interior door, a stairwell, and then the exterior door. He cornered me in the stairwell, between the two doors, leaned into kiss me and palmed both of my breasts. And squeezed.

I have always had a pretty rockin’ rack but no one had ever touched me there. All of a sudden everything my mom ever told me and everything I had ever been afraid of popped up in my mind. I was pretty sure I was about to be attacked or something. He scared me so bad I punched him and ran. He didn’t even know me and he put his hands on me. The groan that came out of him was… ugh. I wanted to throw up and I felt like I had done something wrong.

Weeks later at a campus dance, he sidled up beside me. All smiles and laughs and grabby hands. There was alcohol on his breath. I was disgusted. I pulled away from him and tried to walk away. He grabbed my arm roughly, tightly.  I pulled harder, yelling over the music, and he let go. I left him standing in the middle of the gathering room-cum-dance hall, left the dance and ran back to my room. I never saw him again. That was the last campus dance that I attended except for a Homecoming dance that I would attend much later.

The next four years were full of classes and work and friends, movies and papers and campus activities, ski trips and working with English language programs. I had friends, even some guy friends. A few guy friends I liked as more than a friend, but the feeling was never mutual. That was when I started hearing the phrase that stars in my nightmares: I just like you as a friend. If I never hear that phrase ever again, it will be too soon. I do anything and everything to avoid hearing it. You don’t have to say it. I already know.

I got through my entire college experience, the post-college crap jobs, the tiny apartment,  the beat up car, the “searching for the meaning of life” phases without so much as a hormone-ridden backseat make out session. I had never been kissed. I had never had sex. A man had never seen my body. I had never seen a fully grown nude male. I was so, so behind, but at around age 24, I’d say, I was catching up.

I finally got pretty.

I’m not saying that to be vain. I’m just saying that I knew, growing up, that I wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t even cute. I am legally blind and I have to wear glasses to correct my vision. There were no such thing as thin lenses when I was growing up. I wore big pink coke bottle glasses that were entirely too huge for my face.  I had buck teeth and an overbite and scoliosis, so everything hung off of my body in a weird way. I was always sort of in my own mind, so I never had any idea about fashion or trends. I couldn’t buy those clothes anyway, so there was no sense in paying attention to them. I wore donated clothes from people who had grown out of their stuff and were buying new things. All through high school I wore what was called a ‘Care Free Curl’ which was like a jheri curl but wasn’t drippy and wet. What it really amounted to was an afro me because I didn’t really know how to manage it.  I alternated between a Curly hairdo and braids. I have a Tyra Banks FiveHead © (a forehead so big it’s really a fivehead), so I just had an altogether weird face, odd shape, lost and nerdy look about me. I was never surprised that boys didn’t like me.

It took me until I was in my 20’s to grow into my head (though I still have a Fivehead, I just don’t care, lol or I cover it with bangs)  and my buck teeth and my big ass and big boobs and hourglass shape. I learned how to do my hair. I got new glasses that fit my face. I started wearing makeup (I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup when I lived at home and at college I just never found the time to learn how). I had braces my last two years of high school, which helped considerably with the buck teeth. I had a great job and I was having fun, which helped immensely with confidence. When I looked in the mirror, I was starting to like what I saw staring back at me.

I was 25 when I experienced my first kiss. He was almost twice my age. I had NO business messing with him.

I was working for a group of AM/FM radio stations, owned by a TV station. MB worked in the creative department—if I remember right, he made all of the graphics that are used on-air during a broadcast. He was well into his 40’s. White guy. Kind of short. Thin. Funny. He and I would talk at station gatherings. He must have sensed my naiveté, because as soon as he found an opportunity, he pounced.

What I didn’t know was that MB had recently spent some time away from work, at a treatment center for drugs and alcohol. He was a big time talent in New York, had been married, and had a great home, nice car, bright future. Life would have been great, except he snorted it all away. His marriage, his family, his home, all gone thanks to his cocaine habit. He was back in Podunk, WA, living with his parents in his childhood home, working for this small time TV station.

It was humiliating for him to be back working local news after working for a major station in NYC. He was unhappy. He was in recovery. He was looking for someone to hang onto, I guess. Use up some time and energy. Everyone else at the station seemed to be hip to his game. I was the only one, apparently, who didn’t know. I love how no one said anything until after it was over. I was so, so naïve.

The details of how I came to be spending time with him are jumbled in my mind. This happened over ten years ago. Some things I remember like it happened yesterday. Some things I can’t seem to remember no matter how hard I try. I remember we were extra friendly right before the company Christmas party. He was making the video that they showed at the end of the party every year and I stopped in to watch it. We sat really close on the couch in his office. He laid a hand on my thigh and I thought my heart was going to explode, it was beating so fast. It took everything in me not to get up and run out. I probably should have.

After the annual party, I’d stop in and see him in his office if I happened to be walking by. His office was on the way to the front desk and I had to go to the front desk 10-12 times a day to deliver prizes to radio contest winners. I don’t remember if we talked on the phone first or… what… but he ended up at my house one night. We sat and talked and watched TV. Casual

He tried to kiss me. I pulled away. He tried again. I pulled away. He asked me what was wrong. I said I didn’t know how to kiss. He laughed and laughed and then realized that I was serious. I know it’s not rocket surgery, and it’s mostly instinct but still, I didn’t know how. He tried to talk me into it, said it was natural and easy and I’d like it. Press, press, press. I don’t do pressure. The more you try to press me into doing something, the less likely I am to do it. He was pushing so hard that I was completely turned off and I made him leave.

I rolled into bed that night feeling really stupid and amateur and immature. I felt about 12 yrs old. I was 25 and had never been kissed and some guy wanted to kiss me and I wouldn’t let him.

The next night, or a few nights later, he was back. This time, I let him kiss me. It was okay. Really, just okay. Some lips on mine. Alright. I felt nothing. Probably should have been some kind of sign? And then I let him really kiss me, tongue and all. And that was okay, too. I’ve been told that I’ve never really been kissed if I don’t enjoy it, but I think I have been kissed enough to know that I just don’t like it. I have issues, and I am averse to saliva (even my own) and most of the time, guys can’t kiss. It’s just a fact, jack. When I meet someone new, I have to brace myself for the kissing. Oh my GOD, I am weird. Well, we made out for awhile and then his hands started to wander and against my better judgment, I let him creep up under my shirt.

Over the next week or so, I saw a lot of him. And I don’t mean that we had a lot of dates. :/ I had never seen an erect penis before. He happily showed me his. I remember asking if it hurt. *shrug* He laughed at me! I do remember that after this guy, I stopped asking questions and started doing my own research. I guess it was pretty weird for a woman in her mid twenties to ask such a juvenile question. I just… didn’t know. Anyway, he also saw some of me, but only the top half. The bottom always stays covered.

The things happened with MB were all about him. It was about him getting what he wanted and he wasn’t, at all, concerned about me. I was basically just some titillation for him.

One of the statistics that the Sextistics special talked about, that I really wanted to see was the section on the effect of an orgasm on the brain. Drug addicts are known to develop rampant and sometimes deviant sexual behaviors after or during recovery. I watched this happen with a friend of mine. The list of her sexual partners tops 100. I’m not sure if it’s still climbing, but man or woman, married or single, she’s done them. This person now claims to be a sex addict. I don’t know about all of that, I just know that sex seems to become a huge deal to an addict because an orgasm affects the same part of the brain that a cocaine high would. When MB pleasured himself, it fed the same part of his brain that cocaine fed. The high would not be as intense, but it would be the release he was looking for.

MB was fiending. He needed me to get off, to get his high. It was like he was using, all over again. He was using me. I was none the wiser.

After awhile though, I got tired of him. He was unavailable until he decided he needed to come over. We couldn’t be ‘out’ at work and he wasn’t all that affectionate. He wasn’t particularly interested in me or my life or the details thereof. It was really all about him. He would come over, talk me out of my top and bra, and masturbate. I got nothing out of it at all, just some bad kissing. Not even an orgasm. He didn’t even touch me, just looked. Then had the nerve to call and ask if I would ‘dress up’ for him. LOL WHUT?

I was frustrated, since I had an idea that there should be much, much more to this. We stopped seeing each other in early 1999. It was relatively painless, but he avoided me most of the time after that.

One Saturday morning in May of that same year I got a call from my Supervisor. MB had collapsed that morning and was unable to be revived. We suspect he had been dabbling in cocaine again in the previous months. Maybe drinking again, too. After being clean for awhile, going back to it must have been an intense, incredible high. His already damaged heart couldn’t take it. I attended my first Catholic funeral. It was surreal, watching that casket roll by.

I certainly felt sad for him but, I can’t say that I felt guilty or anything. I had long since figured that there was nothing I could have done for him. I got no joy out of what we did. In my mind it was pretty much good riddance. I saw him every day after we stopped seeing each other and felt nothing.

That experience awakened something in me, though. If that guy could want to be with me, surely there were others.  I would locate these ‘others’ and have experiences!  I didn’t enjoy the kissing much, but I liked being kissed, if that made sense. I liked the expectation of feelings coming and I liked being close to someone. And while MB was relatively harmless anyway, I had gone through, albeit short, an evolution of a relationship and come out unscathed. I was primed to try it again. It was exciting to me, deciding that I could set aside so much of what I thought and believed about men.

I started dating, after that. Since I was quiet and shy, I tried the online dating thing. It would allow me to get to know men before I had to meet them and talk to them. The problem was that my hometown is kind of a small town that is spread out. There really aren’t a lot of men to choose from, and few of those are black. Few of those black men wanted to date black women. If the woman was black, she had to be thin, athletic, bubbly personality– even if he was 5′2, had one leg shorter than the other, a  dried up jheri curl, three missing teeth, a lazy eye and a job as a security guard. I kid you not– the sense of entitlement among ugly men is astounding.

The hardest part about dating, for me, was… the dating. I didn’t know how to have fun with a guy. I didn’t know how to talk to them- what kinds of things was I supposed to say? I didn’t know how to be charming and mysterious. I had no clue how to flirt. I spent every date with my mental dukes up, waiting to fight him off. I was just always wary that he was going to try to have sex with me. And oh my God, that is an awful thing, isn’t it, for a man to want that? For a long time, I was absolutely offended that a man wanted to have sex with me.

I realized, years later, that it wasn’t about the sex. It was that I didn’t feel special. He didn’t know me and he wanted me to lay down with him and let him violate me. And then? Nothing. It would mean nothing and be about nothing. He would pick up his clothes and tiptoe out and I’d never hear from him again and there I’d be with my slightly used virginity hangin’ out.  To me, that was a waste of my time and affection. At that point I couldn’t just go to bed with someone. I had to know and trust him enough to even want to be alone with him. And maybe that wasn’t fair to him, but that’s how it was, for me. Maybe it wasn’t fair to me for anyone to expect me to lay back and spread my legs without knowing anything about me. I’m not a machine.

I knew what they wanted by how fast they ran away. I met person after person after person, each who immediately fell off of the edge of the planet the minute they found out I was a virgin. By this point, I was too old to toss it away on some horny ass who wouldn’t remember my name the next week. I wasn’t hard up for sex at all, so I wasn’t giving it up just to have it.

I didn’t want anyone wasting my time, but I wanted to at least get a few dates in before he ran away. Maybe he could just get to know me and decide I was worth the wait, or something. I varied the approach I would take in revealing my “situation”. Sometimes I’d wait a few dates to tell him. Sometimes I’d tell him up front. Sometimes I’d wait awhile. No matter. The second he found out, the shoulders sagged, the eyes closed, the chest heaved a sigh, and I got the gentle hand pat and the words that are supposed to be warm and comforting, but amount to nothing. Platitudes that are supposed to make me feel better. Something about how I will meet a man who will really appreciate that, someday. Awesome. What you’re saying, without saying it, is that you’re not that man.

What amazed me, I think, was how sex has become some sort of ritual in dating. It’s up there with the first kiss, now. You meet someone, exchange numbers, talk, meet for a drink, have sex. There is nothing in between. There is no getting to know me, there is no making sure I am comfortable with you, there is no span of time for us to become close enough to share a bed. I used to say I wasn’t having sex until marriage. Then I said I wasn’t having sex until I loved him.

Now? I don’t know. I’m not having sex until I’m ready. But for my first time, I am most definitely not hopping into bed with someone after only knowing them for 13 hours. This situation complicates dating like you wouldn’t believe… and it led to my decision to stop dating altogether.

But that will come later. It took a lot of experiences to get to that point and make that decision.

Post September 11, the economy anywhere, everywhere, but especially in my small town were so many companies had moved their headquarters because the Inland Northwest was cheap, was dismal and dropping. People were being laid off left and right. The company I was working for was slowly going under. I couldn’t compete in the market. And I couldn’t find a damn MAN. So I decided to bring my behind on down to Georgia.

I had a million reasons to move to Georgia. The sun and warmth was the biggest, because I suffer from S.A.D and I needed longer days and warm weather. It starts getting dark at 3:30 in the winter back home. By 4:30 it is pitch black outside. I could not spend another winter in a corner of the closet sobbing my head off. I had to leave or I was going to kill myself.

I was immediately giddy about my choice. I was encouraged by the possibility of starting over with a Big Sexy New Life, far and away from my family. I could wipe the slate clean. I could live a diferent life and be a different person and be vibrant and successful. I really wanted that. I really wanted to shed the former me.

The other reason was that black men here date black women. This is not to say that I am against interracial dating. While I do have some issues with the reasoning behind a person exclusively dating outside their race, I am not against it at all. I have done it and if I met a man who was not black that I liked and got along with, would happily do it again. I think my only issue was the same with the African men that I met– the cultural differences can create such a divide. Unless there is openness and understanding and a willingness to accept and learn, these things can drive people apart. I’ve seen many a successful interracial couple, and– confession– my heart smiles when I see a black woman with a white man. You go girl, it says to her. We hear so much about a) how black men don’t want black women and b) how white men are afraid of black women, that seeing that combination out destroying myths and stereotypes gives me hope.

There’s something about a black man, though. I can’t and won’t apologize for being attracted to and wanting a man of my own race. If I listen to ABC news and every other survey/self help book/Oprah broadcast, the chances of me finding my Chocolate Nerd, and him wanting to marry me and stay faithful to me for the rest of our lives is slim. Even slimmer is the chance that he’ll have hair, teeth, any kind of relationship with his mother/father but those are other subjects…. In the words of one of my new favorite blogs, though… Hope Dies Last. I choose to hope. I’m holding out for my Chocolate Nerd. I’d take a Vanilla one, though, if he comes first. I’m just saying.

I thought, when I moved to Georgia and I had established my Big Sexy New Life, that things would change for me. I would have more opportunities and more dates and I would be able to grow and flourish. For the most part, in every area but where men are concerned, I have. I drove to Georgia this same week 7 years ago. I am a completely different person than I was in ‘03.

I’m still changing and growing, but that feels good, at least.

Coming soon: Getting Down To The Nitty Gritty