I am currently writing to Don't You (Forget About Me) by Billy Idol, so if I start sounding like Allison from the Breakfast Club, don't mind it.
So, my Spring Break sucked, on so many different levels. Friday through Tuesday, I was healthy, and still managed to not have sex. The dynamic between me and W had become non-existent. There was no affection, no sex drive. Any time I got to hold his hand, I just wanted so badly for there to be more and more, but there never was. I wanted the affection so badly, but the more I reached for it, the father away it got. On top of that, we were snappy and bitchy at each other. It was just such a negative atmosphere, it made me feel worse, making the atmosphere more negative.
Tuesday night, I could feel a fever coming on. Me and W went to Trivia at the local club, and I was just miserable. That might, in a desperate act, I had sex with him, knowing that I was getting sick, and it was my last chance. If we didn't have sex that night, we wouldn't have done it at all over spring break, and I was afraid of what that would mean. The sex was listless and quick, hardly even worth mentioning. It was just a placeholder.
The rest of the week only went downhill. I was sick, and not sleeping well. Affection became even less present. By the time Saturday rolled around, I was dragging along the ground, extremely low.
Saturday night, I cried in bed while W slept, his whole body turned away from em, on the complete opposite side of the bed. At one point in the night, when I thought I had worked out enough of my angst, I turned back to him, placed my hand on his waist, and kissed his shoulder, getting ready to settle down and snuggle my boyfriend.
In his sleep, he pulled away from me. Violently.
I rolled back over, and the silly crying started up again. Even though I was feeling better physically, I did not sleep well that night.
Sunday morning, I woke up at two, lethargic and depressed. When he asked about it, I let W believe that I was just tired from being sick. At three, we went up to Denver, so that W could see his friend, and look at a car he was thinking about buying. While we were standing in the cold, looking at that stupid little car, I received a text from my friend, telling me that, instead of nine at night, ne needed me at seven for a babysitting gig. It was 5:30 at the time, which created some problems, as I'm sure you can imagine. I had to tell W that we had to leave early.
The news did nothing more than put him in a worse mood. However, being the wonderful boyfriend that he is, he got me down to the Springs perfectly on time. We parted with little more than a "see ya."
What followed was the babysitting job that pulled me out of my depression in a way that I will never forget...
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
The truth now...
Hello again dears, it's been about a week, and while Monday through Thursday was the usual trudgery of every day life, my most recent weekend was quite interesting. I'll have you know that I am currently blogging in the nekkid, and I am also enjoying it. A regular occurrence perhaps? We shall see...
Anywho, let me start with Friday.
Friday at three pm, there was a memorial for a dear friend of my extended "family." While my mother had met this man before, I had not, and frankly would have felt extremely uncomfortable had I been present, so I opted out.
Instead, W, who had gotten out of work early for Spring Break, picked me up at about three, and we went out to "lunch" with some of his friends. We ate a bunch of shrimp and mysterious fruits at the swanky asian buffet, and then said our goodbyes.
After that, it was a quick trip home, and then an even quicker trip downstairs to power up the PS3. W then played Final Fantasy XIII for a few hours. (On another blog, I believe I might do a review of this game. I have mixed feelings...)
Anyways, I absolutely detest watching W play video games, and especially hate watching him play video games that I haven't played before, thereby ruining the plot. So I made haste to create plans for the evening with Pirate Man, and his crew. Pirate Man was, of course, willing to hang out, and W didn't argue.
So I spent the evening making woolen dreads with Kitty, and getting my picture taken by their very pretty new roommate, James. (More on him, later.)
At the end of the evening, we made plans to have me picked up the next day, so that I could help put in the rest of Kitty's dreads. (W works on Saturdays, so I had nothing to do anyways. That and I find myself enjoying Kitty's company more and more...)
The next morning, (And by morning, I mean at about 1pm) Kitty and James picked me up. This was the first time I had really been in close, personal proximity to the man, and so I learned a bit, and let me tell you: James is the gayest straight man you will ever know. I know ACTUAL gay men that care less about their appearance than this man does. Needless to say, he quickly became one of my favorite people.
We spent the first part of the afternoon eating at Burger King, and then going to Target to shop for nail polish and bandanas, both for James.
When we returned to Kitty's house, we spent the rest of the afternoon actually doing our finger and toe nails (James included), and then moved on to Kitty's dreads. That night, we all had a St. Patrick's Day party to be going to, so finishing her hair was imperative.
On a side note, let me tell you something: Installing permanent wool dreadlocks is one of the most irritatingly tedious things you will ever do; I don't reccomend it.
In any case, I finished the project of Kitty's Hair about a half hour after W arrived from work.
Two and a half hours later, we were at the Patty's Day party. Me and W had to wait around, because Kitty wanted me to paint her fingernails right before they left, and took a dreadfully long time doing everything else... But lets face it: A household with one woman and three men and only one shower can't get ready much faster than that. W and I actually ended up leaving earlier than the four of them.
The party itself was well on its way when we arrived. As soon as I walked in, I hugged my favorite gay man ever, T, who was tending the bar, and he made me an Irish car-bomb. While I was looking at somebody to do the other half with me, I ran into Miguel, flirted with him a bit, and then continued on my way back to my drink.
Only one car bomb in, and the rest of Pirate Man's crew arrived, and Kitty helped me finish my food. Another car-bomb in, and Pirate Man and his crew were warring with the nerf guns that they had found.
Not one to miss out on opportunity, I immediately started hoarding ammo, and charging for it.
Between selling ammo, and rolling about on the floor looking for more, I introduced James to his first Blowjob. (The drink, you dirty, dirty minded people.)
For the rest of the night, we did blowjobs together, and I continued to sell ammo. James, who had brought his camera, spent much of the night behind it, taking pictures of everyone and everything.
At one point, I approached James from accross the room, and sat next to him, joining whatever conversation he was having.
At that point, I was pleasantly buzzed, more on atmosphere than spirits, and he was a bit farther along than me.
He turned to me, and said, "You know what? I love you."
I grinned and leaned on his shoulder. "Well, I love you too."
We laughed, and he spoke again. "Too bad you're with W."
I laughed again. "Yeah," came my non-committal response. "One day you and me will get married."
"Yeah," he said. "Lets get married one day."
"I'm gonna hold you to that," I said.
"I promise," he said. "We're gonna get married."
And then we went off and did another round of blowjobs.
Now, I'm terribly sorry to leave you all hanging, but W just got back from the store, and we're going to eat. I'll relate the rest of the evening to you later.
Lots of love,
Me.
Anywho, let me start with Friday.
Friday at three pm, there was a memorial for a dear friend of my extended "family." While my mother had met this man before, I had not, and frankly would have felt extremely uncomfortable had I been present, so I opted out.
Instead, W, who had gotten out of work early for Spring Break, picked me up at about three, and we went out to "lunch" with some of his friends. We ate a bunch of shrimp and mysterious fruits at the swanky asian buffet, and then said our goodbyes.
After that, it was a quick trip home, and then an even quicker trip downstairs to power up the PS3. W then played Final Fantasy XIII for a few hours. (On another blog, I believe I might do a review of this game. I have mixed feelings...)
Anyways, I absolutely detest watching W play video games, and especially hate watching him play video games that I haven't played before, thereby ruining the plot. So I made haste to create plans for the evening with Pirate Man, and his crew. Pirate Man was, of course, willing to hang out, and W didn't argue.
So I spent the evening making woolen dreads with Kitty, and getting my picture taken by their very pretty new roommate, James. (More on him, later.)
At the end of the evening, we made plans to have me picked up the next day, so that I could help put in the rest of Kitty's dreads. (W works on Saturdays, so I had nothing to do anyways. That and I find myself enjoying Kitty's company more and more...)
The next morning, (And by morning, I mean at about 1pm) Kitty and James picked me up. This was the first time I had really been in close, personal proximity to the man, and so I learned a bit, and let me tell you: James is the gayest straight man you will ever know. I know ACTUAL gay men that care less about their appearance than this man does. Needless to say, he quickly became one of my favorite people.
We spent the first part of the afternoon eating at Burger King, and then going to Target to shop for nail polish and bandanas, both for James.
When we returned to Kitty's house, we spent the rest of the afternoon actually doing our finger and toe nails (James included), and then moved on to Kitty's dreads. That night, we all had a St. Patrick's Day party to be going to, so finishing her hair was imperative.
On a side note, let me tell you something: Installing permanent wool dreadlocks is one of the most irritatingly tedious things you will ever do; I don't reccomend it.
In any case, I finished the project of Kitty's Hair about a half hour after W arrived from work.
Two and a half hours later, we were at the Patty's Day party. Me and W had to wait around, because Kitty wanted me to paint her fingernails right before they left, and took a dreadfully long time doing everything else... But lets face it: A household with one woman and three men and only one shower can't get ready much faster than that. W and I actually ended up leaving earlier than the four of them.
The party itself was well on its way when we arrived. As soon as I walked in, I hugged my favorite gay man ever, T, who was tending the bar, and he made me an Irish car-bomb. While I was looking at somebody to do the other half with me, I ran into Miguel, flirted with him a bit, and then continued on my way back to my drink.
Only one car bomb in, and the rest of Pirate Man's crew arrived, and Kitty helped me finish my food. Another car-bomb in, and Pirate Man and his crew were warring with the nerf guns that they had found.
Not one to miss out on opportunity, I immediately started hoarding ammo, and charging for it.
Between selling ammo, and rolling about on the floor looking for more, I introduced James to his first Blowjob. (The drink, you dirty, dirty minded people.)
For the rest of the night, we did blowjobs together, and I continued to sell ammo. James, who had brought his camera, spent much of the night behind it, taking pictures of everyone and everything.
At one point, I approached James from accross the room, and sat next to him, joining whatever conversation he was having.
At that point, I was pleasantly buzzed, more on atmosphere than spirits, and he was a bit farther along than me.
He turned to me, and said, "You know what? I love you."
I grinned and leaned on his shoulder. "Well, I love you too."
We laughed, and he spoke again. "Too bad you're with W."
I laughed again. "Yeah," came my non-committal response. "One day you and me will get married."
"Yeah," he said. "Lets get married one day."
"I'm gonna hold you to that," I said.
"I promise," he said. "We're gonna get married."
And then we went off and did another round of blowjobs.
Now, I'm terribly sorry to leave you all hanging, but W just got back from the store, and we're going to eat. I'll relate the rest of the evening to you later.
Lots of love,
Me.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Feeling Brighter
Hello again lovelies.
It's been a while, but truth be told, I'm sure the great adventures of my cereal eating and video-gaming aren't the most enthralling subjects. I do, however, have a few little anecdotes about pretty pirate men, if you're interested at all. Aha, caught you now, didn't I?
So, on Friday night, W and I decided to take a night away from the house and hang out with our friends Pirate Man, his girlfriend Kitty, and their friend Mike. Before I go into the real story, let me give you a little background information on my relationship with these people.
Two summers ago, I attended a large camping event for the SCA called Baron's War. I was sixteen at the time, and so I was watched very carefully, because everyone is afraid of a minor at these events. I may have just gone off and got drunk on illegal alcohol and fucked my brains out... But that's not the point. (Can you tell I'm a little bitter?) On a particular night of this event, my "accompanying adult" was W. (I think this was Saturday night)
My step father was actually the one that had taken me to the event, but it had turned out that I had tagged along with W for that evening, because he was around the more interesting people. In return for his babysitting, I was given the task of guarding the taps of his "Beer Wagon" and IDing people, since I was the only one there not drinking.
Eventually, as the night progressed, I was approached by Pirate Man, Mike, and their friend and roommate Miguel. There was MUCH flirting, in particular between me and Pirate Man.
Later that night, the Beer Wagon left the middle of the event, and made its way to the smaller camp circle occupied by Pirate Man and his comrades. There was much more flirting.
The evening ended abruptly, however, when W found a girl he wanted to take to his tent for the night, and had to take me back to my own campsite. (In case there's any confusion, no, me and W were not together at this point. There had been quite a bit of flirting before this point, but no hooking up.) I left the night with one last look at Pirate Man, and not even names exchanged. Very late that night, I asked Kitty, who I didn't know was his girlfriend, what his name was, and got it.
The next time I spoke to B, my best friend, I told her that I had had amazing sex with Pirate Man, because she needed the story at the time. (She was, at the time, stuck in a monogamous relationship, and was beginning to feel the boredom. She was living vicariously through my pretend sex life.) She doesn't know that nothing actually happened.
Before the next Baron's War, (It's a yearly event) I ended up getting with W, and so my fantasies of amazing, steamy tent sex with Pirate Man died, unfulfilled. W did know about my infatuation, because I had talked to him about it, before we got together.
It also just so happens that W is good friends with Pirate Man and his crew. We have been hanging out with them quite a bit lately. I share more than vague flirts with Pirate Man, as well as his two friends Mike and Miguel. With Miguel, it's most the I'm-avoiding-you-cuz-you're-kinda-creepy-but-I-don't-wanna-hurt-your-feelings sort of flirting, with Mike, it's the You're-the-sweetest-old-man-I've-ever-known-so-I'm-gonna-snuggle-with-you sort of flirting.
With Pirate Man, however, it's the I'm-going-to-call-you-gorgeous-and-foxy-when-my-girlfriend-isn't-around sort of flirting. And of course, because of my lost infatuation, I am particularly affected by his affections. With the other two boys, the flirting is a lot of touching, with Pirate Man, it's all verbal cuties and bedroom eyes.
I'm a terribly terribly naughty girl.
So, I've got a crush on Pirate Man. And if we were single, we'd totally be fucking.
So this weekend, before we hang out, I call him, as usual, to talk about plans. When he picks up, he says, "Hey Gorgeous," making me all fluttery, like usual. But that's not the point. Here's the really interesting bit:
As the phone is ringing, the cold computer lady says in my ear, "Please enjoy the music while your party is reached," and I expect to hear the theme of Pirates of the Caribbean, because that has been his caller-tune for forever.
To my surprise, however, it's something else. I am in the car with W at this point, and I say, "Huh, Shane changed his music."
W replies, "No, he just gave us personalized tunes."
My heart starts to flutter. My mind immediately goes off into fantasies of confessed love via caller-tune, a secret emotional outpouring that nobody can hear but me... (I have an active imagination, and my little hopeless romantic self hasn't died quite yet.) "Oh yeah?" I ask. "What plays when you call him?"
"Pirates," he says.
Oh. So it comes out now. Everybody didn't get personal music. I got personal music.
So now I'm burning to know what my song is. Unfortunately, the quality of the music is so shitty, I can only barely recognize the song. Later, I find out what it is. (It has been nagging at me for days now, and I had to know what it said...)
I was not disappointed.
Here's the first stanza of the song:
Baby, I get so scared inside and I don't really understand
Is it love that's on my mind or is it fantasy?
Heaven, is in the palm of my hand and it's waiting here for you
What am I supposed to do with a childhood tragedy?
If I close my eyes forever
Would it all remain unchanged?
If I close my eyes forever
Would it all remain the same?
(In case you don't know, and would like to look up the rest of the song, it's "Close My Eyes Forever" by Ozzy Osbourne and Lita Ford.)
So yeah. I had to share that with you. This song was exactly what I was expecting. This dude is the most amazing flirt-master I have ever known. And he does it without anybody else knowing about it...
I wonder if he knows about my past infatuation with him, I'm not sure. Kitty seems fine with me, so I get the impression that it has been kept a secret, at least from her.
Who knows. It's not like anything is gonna happen, but it's damn fun to think about it...
Pleasant dreams, my dears... I plan to have many of them this evening...
Perhaps starring a pretty Pirate Man? Yes...
It's been a while, but truth be told, I'm sure the great adventures of my cereal eating and video-gaming aren't the most enthralling subjects. I do, however, have a few little anecdotes about pretty pirate men, if you're interested at all. Aha, caught you now, didn't I?
So, on Friday night, W and I decided to take a night away from the house and hang out with our friends Pirate Man, his girlfriend Kitty, and their friend Mike. Before I go into the real story, let me give you a little background information on my relationship with these people.
Two summers ago, I attended a large camping event for the SCA called Baron's War. I was sixteen at the time, and so I was watched very carefully, because everyone is afraid of a minor at these events. I may have just gone off and got drunk on illegal alcohol and fucked my brains out... But that's not the point. (Can you tell I'm a little bitter?) On a particular night of this event, my "accompanying adult" was W. (I think this was Saturday night)
My step father was actually the one that had taken me to the event, but it had turned out that I had tagged along with W for that evening, because he was around the more interesting people. In return for his babysitting, I was given the task of guarding the taps of his "Beer Wagon" and IDing people, since I was the only one there not drinking.
Eventually, as the night progressed, I was approached by Pirate Man, Mike, and their friend and roommate Miguel. There was MUCH flirting, in particular between me and Pirate Man.
Later that night, the Beer Wagon left the middle of the event, and made its way to the smaller camp circle occupied by Pirate Man and his comrades. There was much more flirting.
The evening ended abruptly, however, when W found a girl he wanted to take to his tent for the night, and had to take me back to my own campsite. (In case there's any confusion, no, me and W were not together at this point. There had been quite a bit of flirting before this point, but no hooking up.) I left the night with one last look at Pirate Man, and not even names exchanged. Very late that night, I asked Kitty, who I didn't know was his girlfriend, what his name was, and got it.
The next time I spoke to B, my best friend, I told her that I had had amazing sex with Pirate Man, because she needed the story at the time. (She was, at the time, stuck in a monogamous relationship, and was beginning to feel the boredom. She was living vicariously through my pretend sex life.) She doesn't know that nothing actually happened.
Before the next Baron's War, (It's a yearly event) I ended up getting with W, and so my fantasies of amazing, steamy tent sex with Pirate Man died, unfulfilled. W did know about my infatuation, because I had talked to him about it, before we got together.
It also just so happens that W is good friends with Pirate Man and his crew. We have been hanging out with them quite a bit lately. I share more than vague flirts with Pirate Man, as well as his two friends Mike and Miguel. With Miguel, it's most the I'm-avoiding-you-cuz-you're-kinda-creepy-but-I-don't-wanna-hurt-your-feelings sort of flirting, with Mike, it's the You're-the-sweetest-old-man-I've-ever-known-so-I'm-gonna-snuggle-with-you sort of flirting.
With Pirate Man, however, it's the I'm-going-to-call-you-gorgeous-and-foxy-when-my-girlfriend-isn't-around sort of flirting. And of course, because of my lost infatuation, I am particularly affected by his affections. With the other two boys, the flirting is a lot of touching, with Pirate Man, it's all verbal cuties and bedroom eyes.
I'm a terribly terribly naughty girl.
So, I've got a crush on Pirate Man. And if we were single, we'd totally be fucking.
So this weekend, before we hang out, I call him, as usual, to talk about plans. When he picks up, he says, "Hey Gorgeous," making me all fluttery, like usual. But that's not the point. Here's the really interesting bit:
As the phone is ringing, the cold computer lady says in my ear, "Please enjoy the music while your party is reached," and I expect to hear the theme of Pirates of the Caribbean, because that has been his caller-tune for forever.
To my surprise, however, it's something else. I am in the car with W at this point, and I say, "Huh, Shane changed his music."
W replies, "No, he just gave us personalized tunes."
My heart starts to flutter. My mind immediately goes off into fantasies of confessed love via caller-tune, a secret emotional outpouring that nobody can hear but me... (I have an active imagination, and my little hopeless romantic self hasn't died quite yet.) "Oh yeah?" I ask. "What plays when you call him?"
"Pirates," he says.
Oh. So it comes out now. Everybody didn't get personal music. I got personal music.
So now I'm burning to know what my song is. Unfortunately, the quality of the music is so shitty, I can only barely recognize the song. Later, I find out what it is. (It has been nagging at me for days now, and I had to know what it said...)
I was not disappointed.
Here's the first stanza of the song:
Baby, I get so scared inside and I don't really understand
Is it love that's on my mind or is it fantasy?
Heaven, is in the palm of my hand and it's waiting here for you
What am I supposed to do with a childhood tragedy?
If I close my eyes forever
Would it all remain unchanged?
If I close my eyes forever
Would it all remain the same?
(In case you don't know, and would like to look up the rest of the song, it's "Close My Eyes Forever" by Ozzy Osbourne and Lita Ford.)
So yeah. I had to share that with you. This song was exactly what I was expecting. This dude is the most amazing flirt-master I have ever known. And he does it without anybody else knowing about it...
I wonder if he knows about my past infatuation with him, I'm not sure. Kitty seems fine with me, so I get the impression that it has been kept a secret, at least from her.
Who knows. It's not like anything is gonna happen, but it's damn fun to think about it...
Pleasant dreams, my dears... I plan to have many of them this evening...
Perhaps starring a pretty Pirate Man? Yes...
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
A Letter Sent
Here is a letter that I sent earlier today to my dear friend. It reflects my thoughts properly.
"Bryan,
This isn't truly a response to your last letter, just a sort of snippet, perhaps the beginning of a discussion.
Today, I got, in the mail, a complimentary wedding catalog. (Of course, they were trying to sell me a subscription, and to be frank, I don't have the money, so I am not interested.) Looking through it, however, it brought up many memories.
I have probably been planning my wedding since before I knew what a wedding really meant. My mother has collected Martha Stewart Weddings magazines for as long as I can remember. We've always been too poor to even consider any of the things advertised in the magazines, but it was more of an interest, than an intent. Even the once when my mother was going to be married, the magazines did little to that end. But even when she was single, or when marriage was nothing more than a drunken dinner joke, we looked through the magazines, pointing out the things that we liked, and didn't.
A few years ago, after my mother married my step-father (It was a courthouse wedding.) she threw away all of the magazines, and I remember her saying very clearly, "I'm never going to have a real wedding, why keep these around?" (One day I may tell you all the wonderful and sad things about my mother. She is an angel.)
Crushed, I coveted as many of the magazines as I could, not wanting them to become mulch, or coffee-stained heaviness in a land fill. They had the smell of years of our hands turning the pages, and the aura of our little princess dreams smothered into the pictures. Unfortunately, I only saved a few.
Since then, however, I had forgotten of my hobby. I think my saved magazines are still in my room, somewhere.
That's not the point of this story, however. Today's musing is about marriage. Being a married man yourself, I was hoping to gain some enlightenment from you.
While flipping through the wedding magazine in my lap, I realized that my generation has made the practice a taboo. There was once a time, as I've been told, that men and women WANTED to get married. Now, the mention of the word, or even the passing compliment of a white dress is grounds to end a perfectly healthy relationship.
I also briefly evaluated my own relationship. Some day, I want to be married. Perhaps later on, I may want children. (That one is still not for sure.) But with W, it is not a possibility. (He has said once that IF he ever got married, it would be at LEAST seven years down the line.) This, however, does not convince me. He doesn't want to get married. Ever.
When did women with marriage on the mind change from practical, normal women to crazy, ostracized shrews?
And I suppose I understand the train of thought. With divorce rates on the rise, society's response to "fix" the problem is to avoid it entirely, rather than to cure the true issue. People now-a-days assume that marriage is just plain bad, and that it will NEVER work, and if it does, the best way to go about it is after years and years of non-commitment.
But think about the baby-boomers. They met, and were married weeks later. Most of those relationships have survived even to today, and into their death. What is the difference here?
I'm not saying that everyone needs to get married on a whim. In fact, I generally think that's a bad idea. But now the very thought is considered dirty, the way homosexuality used to be viewed. If a woman wants to get married, she's a bad fruit. Throw it away, before it spoils the rest.
I think it's a sign that the feminist movement has come full circle. We have come so far around, that men have come to expect women to be un-emotional, passionate, successful and easy. Wham-bam has never been easier, and men don't want that to change. (Don't take this as man-hate, or anything like that. I'm a moderate feminist, not the buzz-cut man killer type.) Maybe I'm just old fashioned, but I think with women's new status in society, (The majority of college graduates, very recently, has just shifted to the female side.) they should start having standards. We should make our partners work for us, truly show some sort of devotion, just as we have to them, for the great majority of history.
Who buys flowers anymore, really? Out of the blue, no holiday, who was the last person that you knew to send or receive a sweet gift? In my own relationship, eight months in, verbal affection is strictly off limits. There has been no "L-bomb," or even "I care about you"s. Because we're afraid.
What is your experience with marriage? As a generation or two before me, perhaps you can tell me some things that I'm missing. Was is this bad for you? Were you looking for it when it came to you, or was it something that you really didn't want to happen, throughout your bachelor-dom?
I just need a little hope that the whole male of world isn't the wham-bam sort, afraid of a silly little white dress..."
What do you think, my dearlings? What is your opinion?
"Bryan,
This isn't truly a response to your last letter, just a sort of snippet, perhaps the beginning of a discussion.
Today, I got, in the mail, a complimentary wedding catalog. (Of course, they were trying to sell me a subscription, and to be frank, I don't have the money, so I am not interested.) Looking through it, however, it brought up many memories.
I have probably been planning my wedding since before I knew what a wedding really meant. My mother has collected Martha Stewart Weddings magazines for as long as I can remember. We've always been too poor to even consider any of the things advertised in the magazines, but it was more of an interest, than an intent. Even the once when my mother was going to be married, the magazines did little to that end. But even when she was single, or when marriage was nothing more than a drunken dinner joke, we looked through the magazines, pointing out the things that we liked, and didn't.
A few years ago, after my mother married my step-father (It was a courthouse wedding.) she threw away all of the magazines, and I remember her saying very clearly, "I'm never going to have a real wedding, why keep these around?" (One day I may tell you all the wonderful and sad things about my mother. She is an angel.)
Crushed, I coveted as many of the magazines as I could, not wanting them to become mulch, or coffee-stained heaviness in a land fill. They had the smell of years of our hands turning the pages, and the aura of our little princess dreams smothered into the pictures. Unfortunately, I only saved a few.
Since then, however, I had forgotten of my hobby. I think my saved magazines are still in my room, somewhere.
That's not the point of this story, however. Today's musing is about marriage. Being a married man yourself, I was hoping to gain some enlightenment from you.
While flipping through the wedding magazine in my lap, I realized that my generation has made the practice a taboo. There was once a time, as I've been told, that men and women WANTED to get married. Now, the mention of the word, or even the passing compliment of a white dress is grounds to end a perfectly healthy relationship.
I also briefly evaluated my own relationship. Some day, I want to be married. Perhaps later on, I may want children. (That one is still not for sure.) But with W, it is not a possibility. (He has said once that IF he ever got married, it would be at LEAST seven years down the line.) This, however, does not convince me. He doesn't want to get married. Ever.
When did women with marriage on the mind change from practical, normal women to crazy, ostracized shrews?
And I suppose I understand the train of thought. With divorce rates on the rise, society's response to "fix" the problem is to avoid it entirely, rather than to cure the true issue. People now-a-days assume that marriage is just plain bad, and that it will NEVER work, and if it does, the best way to go about it is after years and years of non-commitment.
But think about the baby-boomers. They met, and were married weeks later. Most of those relationships have survived even to today, and into their death. What is the difference here?
I'm not saying that everyone needs to get married on a whim. In fact, I generally think that's a bad idea. But now the very thought is considered dirty, the way homosexuality used to be viewed. If a woman wants to get married, she's a bad fruit. Throw it away, before it spoils the rest.
I think it's a sign that the feminist movement has come full circle. We have come so far around, that men have come to expect women to be un-emotional, passionate, successful and easy. Wham-bam has never been easier, and men don't want that to change. (Don't take this as man-hate, or anything like that. I'm a moderate feminist, not the buzz-cut man killer type.) Maybe I'm just old fashioned, but I think with women's new status in society, (The majority of college graduates, very recently, has just shifted to the female side.) they should start having standards. We should make our partners work for us, truly show some sort of devotion, just as we have to them, for the great majority of history.
Who buys flowers anymore, really? Out of the blue, no holiday, who was the last person that you knew to send or receive a sweet gift? In my own relationship, eight months in, verbal affection is strictly off limits. There has been no "L-bomb," or even "I care about you"s. Because we're afraid.
What is your experience with marriage? As a generation or two before me, perhaps you can tell me some things that I'm missing. Was is this bad for you? Were you looking for it when it came to you, or was it something that you really didn't want to happen, throughout your bachelor-dom?
I just need a little hope that the whole male of world isn't the wham-bam sort, afraid of a silly little white dress..."
What do you think, my dearlings? What is your opinion?
Comfort vs Change
Hello everybody. I'm back, with a brand spankin' new story, just for you. And I'll probably have ANOTHER one to post, after this one. So there, you silly writer's block...
Anywho, on with the story...
Two weekends ago, W and I found our way up to Denver for some good old fashioned super-arcade trolling. I am, of course, referring to Dave and Busters, the only arcade that really exists.
Anyways, after a night of much money spent, and three small stuffed animals to show for it, we stayed the night in Denver, and then promptly made our way back down to the Springs. About halfway through our commute, W's white, 97 Dodge Stratus just up and stopped running. There were no bangs, no clicks, no groans, no noise at all, the car just stopped running, and proceeded to puke all of its oil all over the highway.
After much thinking, and some waiting, and then some driving (this time in a kindly rescuer's car) we returned to the stratus with W's work truck, and towed it home.
It had become apparent, between that weekend and this most recent weekend, that W really doesn't have the time or money to fix the car right now. So, he decided on buying a new-old car.
Here's where the story gets all its meaning, so pay attention now.
W is not one of those men that will go to a dealership. His favorite car salesman is Craigslist. He also wants to spend between one and two grand, and for this price expects to find a car just as wonderful and amazing as his Stratus.
This is when my first red flag goes up. This man is not the sort that enjoys spending money. He spent three months buying his new TV, finding a way to use an employee discount. The result was a 47 inch, top of the line flatscreen (you know, 1080p, 240 Hz... all that jazz...) for 880, not counting warranty. All around, an amazing deal, and he still complained about spending the money.
So I knew that this little car venture was not going to go well. You simply cannot find a nice car for a grand anymore. What you'll find is a little shit kicker that'll get you there, but only for about a week. If you're lucky.
So he gets his heart set on this little 300 zx that he finds for 1900 on, you guessed it, Craigslist. Too bad, it sold before he got the chance to look at it.
He then looks at a little (Nissan?) Axiom, you know, that little itty-bitty SUV... Too bad the engine sounds like there are dismembered body parts thrashing about inside of it.
He finally settles on a little VW Golf III, sport edition, with damage on the hood from a hitch backing into the poor little thing, all for 1400. He says he'll offer 1200. We get around to seeing the car, just yesterday, and looking under the hood proves that the car isn't actually a sport at all, it's just a GL, a disappointment for poor W. But it gives him an excuse to offer less. There are a few other issues with the car, evident right out, but nothing particularly deal-breaking, if the price is right. (Some rust, some body damage, the sunroof doesn't work)
This is basically the car, except ours has a busted hood, and peeling paint.
Luckily, W, being the well-prepared man that he is, already has the print out from Kelley Blue Book for a GL in fair condition, and it's priced at 1070.
And so the haggling starts. W offers 800, and the salesman says a grand. W offers 900, and the salesman says he has some other people looking at it, and he'll give them a call. W pays a grand. Great bargaining between men, yeah? This little game is so silly to me.
Of course, on the drive home, W begins to notice things that he didn't on the test drive. The stereo display is too bright, the stick shift is wiggly, the windshield wipers suck, the steering wheel doesn't tilt, the motor isn't a sport motor... I could go on for days.
And he just puts himself in a bad mood. I don't know what to do. I want to say, look, you spent the money, and bought the car, get the fuck over it. On the other hand, I should be comforting him, but I don't know how to go about that either. I'm sorry you're perfect car broke honey, and you're too stingy to buy a better one than this piece of shit... Seriously, what the fuck am I supposed to say?
So, that night, we drive it again, to Walmart to find something to eat. Again, he finds things wrong with the car all the way there, and he's in a pissy mood. If there's anything I say, it's returned with rudeness. And of course, my response is to be rude right back. (I've learned that, with him, the only way to force him to realize he's being mean is to be mean right back. That whole "take it with a smile" approach that I tried for a long time might as well be a handful of pleasantly warm STOOL.)
So, by the time we get to Walmart, I'm already in a bad mood. I'm sure you can guess how the rest of that trip went.
Walmart is never good for me. The air of the place is just so negative. Nobody wants to be there, nobody is happy when they're there, it's like an oppressive heat, shoving you down into the dirt of unhappiness.
And so I start thinking my pessimistic thoughts, as I always do in Walmart.
This man, that I am so in love with, will never change, I realize. He finds comfort in routine, and in things that he knows. Had he the choice, he would have bought another white Dodge Stratus, exactly like his broken one. He likes his video games, and his rooms just the way they are. Even the smallest change, like the change to another car, puts him in a sour mood. He doesn't like his bank account to change amount, he doesn't buy new clothes, he's owned the same brand and style of shoes, (replaced promptly every christmas) for as long as he cares to remember. He is a serial monogamist.
And don't get me wrong, this doesn't make him a bad person. He's stable, and happy like that.
The problem is with compatibility. I am not the sort of person that finds comfort in routine. In fact, the moment anything becomes routine, I am particularly uncomfortable. I like to try new things, shake it up a bit. Don't get me wrong, I like eating at my favorite restaurants any time that I can, but sometimes, I just want to go somewhere NEW. The minute I sense the pattern in a video game, I'm done with it, whether I've finished it or not.
(On a COMPLETELY different note, FFXIII came out last night! omgomgomgomg!!!)
And so I wonder about our future. When we've both finished college, and have the huge incomes that we're expecting, will we still eat Caesar's pizza every Saturday night? Will we still have sex the same way? Will he still buy shitty little cars for a grand? And what about when I want to splurge, and eat somewhere fancy up in Denver? What am I supposed to do when he just wants store-brand macaroni and cheese, and fucking Hormel chili on his hot-dogs?
So, we got home from Walmart, and I was in a bad mood. Like, the sort of bad mood when you throw shit around, and you think you might cry if you open your mouth. (I'm suspicious of a temporary hormonal imbalance. This was a PROFOUND level of unhappiness) When I was washing dishes, while he made tacos for dinner, I wanted to smash them all, so he would HAVE to buy new ones. And when I took pain pills, I looked at the little pile of tablets in my hand, and wished one could overdose on ibuprofen.
In this state of unhappiness, I ate tacos. (Unflavored meat, no lettuce, diced tomatoes from a fucking can.) The food made me so angry. I wanted salsa in my meat, and I wanted to dice up real tomatoes, and I wanted some fucking lettuce in my taco. I had showed him once before the way I liked taco meat, with blackbeans and salsa mixed in with the hamburger, and he told me he liked it. But this time, I wasn't allowed to put salsa in the fucking meat.
And I know it's stupid, but in the state that I was in, this made me VERY ANGRY. It made me so mad that EVERYTHING we ate, and EVERYTHING we did was because that's the way that HE wanted it. Seriously, I just wanted some fucking lettuce, maybe a dollar. I wanted a real tomato, which would be CHEAPER than a can of them, and MUCH better.
But I can't ask him for any of these things, because it's not my money being spent. I refuse to ask him to spend extra money on me like that, and sacrifice the happiness he finds in his bachelor ways.
I was washing dishes, and on the counter was a stained, ratty old bar-rag. Bar-rags don't absorb liquid, and this thing is just nasty looking. Perfectly useless. I asked him if it was clean, so I could dry the dishes with it. "No," he said. So, in my angry state, I threw it on the ground. If it's not clean enough to dry dishes with, why is it on the fucking counter? He threw a fit, and picked it up again, returning it to it's place. "It's cleaner than the floor," he said.
WHAT?! It's cleaner than the floor, so it's allowed on our food? Let me tell you something, I am not allowed to clean the kitchen floor, according to him. It has NEVER been mopped, since he moved in. I believe I have swept it twice.
Yeah, that face you're making? I made it too. Except worse.
Anyways, so after the debacle with the tacos and the dishes, we're sitting downstairs, watching fucking reruns of family guy and the Simpsons on hulu. Because he's too damn cheap to hook up to local channels.
I HATE watching tv I've seen before. I don't like tv much anyways, but when it becomes REDUNDANT as well as boring? Oh yeah, I was fucking unhappy.
Just, sad, and mad, and lethargic. I didn't even want to eat the food that was in my lap. (Oh guess what? He doesn't own a table. Not a fucking one. We eat in our laps.)
But I do, I finish my stupid bland, lettuce-less tacos. And I play a little bit of a video game.
And you know what he does? He holds me, and he kisses me, and he tries his best to put me in a better mood. He snuggles me up, and says, "Poor, miserable girl. I just wanna make you feel better."
And you know what? None of that shit matters, when he says stuff like that, and treats me so well.
I fucking love him.
Anywho, on with the story...
Two weekends ago, W and I found our way up to Denver for some good old fashioned super-arcade trolling. I am, of course, referring to Dave and Busters, the only arcade that really exists.
Anyways, after a night of much money spent, and three small stuffed animals to show for it, we stayed the night in Denver, and then promptly made our way back down to the Springs. About halfway through our commute, W's white, 97 Dodge Stratus just up and stopped running. There were no bangs, no clicks, no groans, no noise at all, the car just stopped running, and proceeded to puke all of its oil all over the highway.
After much thinking, and some waiting, and then some driving (this time in a kindly rescuer's car) we returned to the stratus with W's work truck, and towed it home.
It had become apparent, between that weekend and this most recent weekend, that W really doesn't have the time or money to fix the car right now. So, he decided on buying a new-old car.
Here's where the story gets all its meaning, so pay attention now.
W is not one of those men that will go to a dealership. His favorite car salesman is Craigslist. He also wants to spend between one and two grand, and for this price expects to find a car just as wonderful and amazing as his Stratus.
This is when my first red flag goes up. This man is not the sort that enjoys spending money. He spent three months buying his new TV, finding a way to use an employee discount. The result was a 47 inch, top of the line flatscreen (you know, 1080p, 240 Hz... all that jazz...) for 880, not counting warranty. All around, an amazing deal, and he still complained about spending the money.
So I knew that this little car venture was not going to go well. You simply cannot find a nice car for a grand anymore. What you'll find is a little shit kicker that'll get you there, but only for about a week. If you're lucky.
So he gets his heart set on this little 300 zx that he finds for 1900 on, you guessed it, Craigslist. Too bad, it sold before he got the chance to look at it.
He then looks at a little (Nissan?) Axiom, you know, that little itty-bitty SUV... Too bad the engine sounds like there are dismembered body parts thrashing about inside of it.
He finally settles on a little VW Golf III, sport edition, with damage on the hood from a hitch backing into the poor little thing, all for 1400. He says he'll offer 1200. We get around to seeing the car, just yesterday, and looking under the hood proves that the car isn't actually a sport at all, it's just a GL, a disappointment for poor W. But it gives him an excuse to offer less. There are a few other issues with the car, evident right out, but nothing particularly deal-breaking, if the price is right. (Some rust, some body damage, the sunroof doesn't work)
This is basically the car, except ours has a busted hood, and peeling paint.Luckily, W, being the well-prepared man that he is, already has the print out from Kelley Blue Book for a GL in fair condition, and it's priced at 1070.
And so the haggling starts. W offers 800, and the salesman says a grand. W offers 900, and the salesman says he has some other people looking at it, and he'll give them a call. W pays a grand. Great bargaining between men, yeah? This little game is so silly to me.
Of course, on the drive home, W begins to notice things that he didn't on the test drive. The stereo display is too bright, the stick shift is wiggly, the windshield wipers suck, the steering wheel doesn't tilt, the motor isn't a sport motor... I could go on for days.
And he just puts himself in a bad mood. I don't know what to do. I want to say, look, you spent the money, and bought the car, get the fuck over it. On the other hand, I should be comforting him, but I don't know how to go about that either. I'm sorry you're perfect car broke honey, and you're too stingy to buy a better one than this piece of shit... Seriously, what the fuck am I supposed to say?
So, that night, we drive it again, to Walmart to find something to eat. Again, he finds things wrong with the car all the way there, and he's in a pissy mood. If there's anything I say, it's returned with rudeness. And of course, my response is to be rude right back. (I've learned that, with him, the only way to force him to realize he's being mean is to be mean right back. That whole "take it with a smile" approach that I tried for a long time might as well be a handful of pleasantly warm STOOL.)
So, by the time we get to Walmart, I'm already in a bad mood. I'm sure you can guess how the rest of that trip went.
Walmart is never good for me. The air of the place is just so negative. Nobody wants to be there, nobody is happy when they're there, it's like an oppressive heat, shoving you down into the dirt of unhappiness.
And so I start thinking my pessimistic thoughts, as I always do in Walmart.
This man, that I am so in love with, will never change, I realize. He finds comfort in routine, and in things that he knows. Had he the choice, he would have bought another white Dodge Stratus, exactly like his broken one. He likes his video games, and his rooms just the way they are. Even the smallest change, like the change to another car, puts him in a sour mood. He doesn't like his bank account to change amount, he doesn't buy new clothes, he's owned the same brand and style of shoes, (replaced promptly every christmas) for as long as he cares to remember. He is a serial monogamist.
And don't get me wrong, this doesn't make him a bad person. He's stable, and happy like that.
The problem is with compatibility. I am not the sort of person that finds comfort in routine. In fact, the moment anything becomes routine, I am particularly uncomfortable. I like to try new things, shake it up a bit. Don't get me wrong, I like eating at my favorite restaurants any time that I can, but sometimes, I just want to go somewhere NEW. The minute I sense the pattern in a video game, I'm done with it, whether I've finished it or not.
(On a COMPLETELY different note, FFXIII came out last night! omgomgomgomg!!!)
And so I wonder about our future. When we've both finished college, and have the huge incomes that we're expecting, will we still eat Caesar's pizza every Saturday night? Will we still have sex the same way? Will he still buy shitty little cars for a grand? And what about when I want to splurge, and eat somewhere fancy up in Denver? What am I supposed to do when he just wants store-brand macaroni and cheese, and fucking Hormel chili on his hot-dogs?
So, we got home from Walmart, and I was in a bad mood. Like, the sort of bad mood when you throw shit around, and you think you might cry if you open your mouth. (I'm suspicious of a temporary hormonal imbalance. This was a PROFOUND level of unhappiness) When I was washing dishes, while he made tacos for dinner, I wanted to smash them all, so he would HAVE to buy new ones. And when I took pain pills, I looked at the little pile of tablets in my hand, and wished one could overdose on ibuprofen.
In this state of unhappiness, I ate tacos. (Unflavored meat, no lettuce, diced tomatoes from a fucking can.) The food made me so angry. I wanted salsa in my meat, and I wanted to dice up real tomatoes, and I wanted some fucking lettuce in my taco. I had showed him once before the way I liked taco meat, with blackbeans and salsa mixed in with the hamburger, and he told me he liked it. But this time, I wasn't allowed to put salsa in the fucking meat.
And I know it's stupid, but in the state that I was in, this made me VERY ANGRY. It made me so mad that EVERYTHING we ate, and EVERYTHING we did was because that's the way that HE wanted it. Seriously, I just wanted some fucking lettuce, maybe a dollar. I wanted a real tomato, which would be CHEAPER than a can of them, and MUCH better.
But I can't ask him for any of these things, because it's not my money being spent. I refuse to ask him to spend extra money on me like that, and sacrifice the happiness he finds in his bachelor ways.
I was washing dishes, and on the counter was a stained, ratty old bar-rag. Bar-rags don't absorb liquid, and this thing is just nasty looking. Perfectly useless. I asked him if it was clean, so I could dry the dishes with it. "No," he said. So, in my angry state, I threw it on the ground. If it's not clean enough to dry dishes with, why is it on the fucking counter? He threw a fit, and picked it up again, returning it to it's place. "It's cleaner than the floor," he said.
WHAT?! It's cleaner than the floor, so it's allowed on our food? Let me tell you something, I am not allowed to clean the kitchen floor, according to him. It has NEVER been mopped, since he moved in. I believe I have swept it twice.
Yeah, that face you're making? I made it too. Except worse.
Anyways, so after the debacle with the tacos and the dishes, we're sitting downstairs, watching fucking reruns of family guy and the Simpsons on hulu. Because he's too damn cheap to hook up to local channels.
I HATE watching tv I've seen before. I don't like tv much anyways, but when it becomes REDUNDANT as well as boring? Oh yeah, I was fucking unhappy.
Just, sad, and mad, and lethargic. I didn't even want to eat the food that was in my lap. (Oh guess what? He doesn't own a table. Not a fucking one. We eat in our laps.)
But I do, I finish my stupid bland, lettuce-less tacos. And I play a little bit of a video game.
And you know what he does? He holds me, and he kisses me, and he tries his best to put me in a better mood. He snuggles me up, and says, "Poor, miserable girl. I just wanna make you feel better."
And you know what? None of that shit matters, when he says stuff like that, and treats me so well.
I fucking love him.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Aw...
I've been a terrible, awful, disgusting blogstress. I haven't posted in days. Tomorrow, I promise I have an amazing story for you, right now I'm gathering the facts. My detective skills are at your disposal, and the story is coming together....
Ta.
Ta.
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