being single


Well, fuck me, but I am a stoopid woman.  This is going to be hard to explain, but for those willing to do the math, Man-Friend and another person I blog about are the same person.  I can’t be more specific than that, and I can’t say it outloud because he could lose his job over it.  I think it’ll be evident who it is in a second, but anyway, without the information that they’re the same person, this story will make no sense.

Okay, so Man-Friend was over last night.  He brought over Army of 2 and played it on X-Box Live with this other guy that he plays with a lot.  Sounds like fun for me, right?  Actually it was because they’re just so damn funny with the stuff they say and do, so I was thoroughly entertained.  Afterwards, we made a Taco Bell run (I cannot believe I ate Taco Bell at midnight, but it turned out okay when I weighed this morning) and watched a little tv before going to bed.

This morning, we did our thing and then we were talking.  Somehow, and God help me, I can’t for the life of me remember how it happened, we got on the subject of feelings.  Oops.  See, the thing is, we weren’t supposed to have those.  Remember when I first brought Man-Friend onto my blog?  I wasn’t sure what to call him since he was only going to be kind of a fuck buddy (hey, first clue that I am dumb!).  Man-Friend was suggested and I took it because it sounds so much nicer.  The point is, I’m a girl, and I ended up with feelings.  Dumbass.  It’s not like I wasn’t warned.  My sister, Anjelica, and even M-F himself warned me.  We talked about it the night we discussed our Pros and Cons lists – one of his cons was he was worried that I might get “crazy attached”.  That sounds so fucking arrogant, but I guess if you’re not looking to get attached, you might worry about the other person attaching.

Wait, I just remembered how it happened.  He keeps telling me I could do better and that I’m slumming with him and all that kind of shit.  Or that I could meet a doctor and end up with him and all sorts of crap like that.  I keep saying nah.  Finally I was like, “Look, you keep trying to give me outs, and so we’re going to play a math game and see if you can figure out what this adds up to.  I don’t want this imaginary doctor.  I don’t think I’m slumming.  I don’t think I’ll get bored with you (this is another one he says).  What do you think all that means?”  Duh.  I still had to spell it out as in, “I did the thing I wasn’t supposed to do.  I got attached.  I like you, not fake doctor guy.”  Well, duh on me, he already knew that.

So then we got on the topic of him.  He said, regarding himself and anything relationshippy, “I’m an ass.  I told you I’m an ass.”  Oh, he also said he was sorry.  I told him, “I just don’t understand how you can be the way you are with me (meaning all cuddly and hand-holdy and having fun and texting me all the time and all that shit) and then not be at all attached.  How do you do that?”  He refused to answer, saying that it would only dig his grave deeper.  Then later he said that he never said that he wasn’t attached.  So what the fuck do I do with that?  You’re either attached or not, and I personally think that if you are and the other person is too, you might have something to work with.  Maybe that’s just me though???

And here’s where we get to the merging of M-F and this other person.  On Monday, he had asked me if he made me happy, and I said yes, except for the leaving part since he leaves town to move back home in ten days.  I can hear the lightbulbs snapping on right now.  I asked him if I made him happy, and he said yes, except for the part where I don’t cook, heh.  So this morning, I asked him why he asked me that question.  He didn’t want to answer at first, but he finally did, saying, “I wanted to see if I was more to you than another notch in your bedpost.  And for the record, you’re more than a notch to me.”  That sounds all well and good, but then we got on the subject of his feelings.  I was like, “I’m more than a notch, and you admit to being at least a little attached.  So why can’t you admit that you might just like me a little teeny tiny bit?”  And he proceeded to cover his face with pillows.  Fucking ridiculous.  Then he said he was emotionally repressed and that he would understand if I didn’t want him to come over anymore.  Oh yeah, and earlier he had said that his plan was to make me hate him before he left so that it wouldn’t be so hard on me.  Apparently, everyone who knows about us keeps telling him how hard it’s going to be on me when he leaves.  Duh, of course it’s going to suck!  Pissing me off isn’t going to make it hurt less – it’s just going to piss me off.  I didn’t say anything at first to the whole “I’ll understand if you don’t want me to come over anymore” comment because at that point, I was so upset that I felt like I needed to think about it.

So I thought for about five minutes while he convinced me I needed to hurry up and get ready to go skate.  And here’s what my fuck-tard self came up with:  He’s not telling me anything I didn’t already know or that I wasn’t warned about.  It’s just outloud, that’s the only difference.  So I walked over to him and gave him a hug and told him it was okay, and that I still wanted him to come over.  And he said NOTHING.  *screaming inside!!!*  So I go, “Does that mean ‘no’?” And he said, “I didn’t say that.”  Exactly, but you didn’t say anything at all.  What the fuck?  So then he took my hand and we went downstairs so he could get his game and hard-drive, and then I walked him out.  He gave me a kiss and a hug.

So yeah, I’m fucking confused.  I know that he, on some level, cares about me.  I know that he is, to some degree, attached.  I know that he can’t say it.  I don’t know what to do.  Oh also, he normally texts me a lot on nights that he’s not here, and I haven’t heard a word.  I’m afraid to text him and get ignored or worse, so my phone is off limits at the moment.  The thing is, I always knew how this would end up when I found out he was moving.  He was never going to do a long-distance thing with me.  It’s just not practical, and I’m not sure I would want to do that either.  But what the shit is this?  Damn it, I hate this.  I hate not knowing what I should do.  I hate not hearing from him (dude, you’d think the least he could do is text “R u ok?” – he does that after a bad day on the ice, and this morning was way worse than that!).  I hate not knowing what he’s really thinking.  He has just confused the utter fuck out of me.

Now, on the more hopeful side of me, I know people get hurt like this all the time, and I know we recover.  I’m 38 years old and have yet to have a successful relationship, but some part of me is willing to keep trying.  I wish this one would give me a chance, but if not, I’m not going to drop out of love-life stuff.  It might take me a while because I really like him.  God, the real suck of it all is that he’d get along so well with my family.  FUCK!!!  And now I need to cry again.  Shit shit shit.

Okay, I’m fine now.  I hope this post made some sort of sense (and if not, welcome to my world!).  I’m super-confused and upset, so I know I got stuff out of order and whatnot.  I just hope it’s readable.  

UPDATE:  I know y’all are waiting with baited breath for updates on all this bullshit, but twenty minutes after I posted this, he started texting me.  What to do, what to do?

All righty then, the term “eat own ass” was used to find my blog.  Very interesting …

I got my hair done today, and it’s still not the right blonde.  I’m okay with it because it’s a pretty strawberryish blonde, but it’s not blonde blonde like it’s supposed to be.  We know what to do now though.  Of course, we did say that last time, and look what happened.

My dog is being horrible lately.  He’s decided it’s a good idea to bite my clothes, but he misses and gets me instead.  My arms are all bruised up which I at first blamed on my new … hunh, what to call him?  “Fuck buddy” is way too crass, “boyfriend” isn’t right, and “lover” is just gross.  “Person I’m seeing” is all wrong too since if I were just “seeing” him, I probably wouldn’t have done what I’ve already done quite yet.  Wow, stream of consciousness is fun, isn’t it?  I guess “fuck buddy” is probably most accurate, but gosh, that makes me sound like a dirty little whore.  Hey, I’m a single girl of the 2000’s and I have needs, dammit!  And toys don’t hug back.  That’s kind of pitiful.  Anyway, I originally thought, “He must’ve grabbed my arms pretty hard.  Hunh, I don’t remember him doing that.”  He didn’t.  It’s the damn dog.  He needs some Valium.

I’m totally behind on my Christmas stuff.  I haven’t done my cards yet.  I’ve barely done any shopping, and what little I have done hasn’t been shipped to the recipients yet.  The stress is an excellent diet though (she says while eating Gingerbread Men straight out of the box).  I also have a tendency to eat while standing over the sink, if you must know.  I specifically used to not eat over the sink because that was so bachelorish, but now I’m like, “Hey, why use a plate when there’s this nice sink here to catch the crumbs?”

I have my dentist’s appointment tomorrow to check how my implants have grafted to the bone.  If it’s all good, we’ll make molds and I’ll have crowns soon!  I hope they’re ready – that stupid flipper is really a nuisance. 

Why is it that when I find a new blog I like, that person takes a vacation from writing?  Generally what happens is I get bored and I start clicking on blogs on people’s blogrolls and I’ll run across a really good one, and blam!  They take a month off.  That sucks.

 In other news, regarding my ex-husband’s upcoming nuptials, I’ve decided to take the saintly route rather than wonder any longer how he won the contest (it’s not a contest as I’m not participating in dating which makes it extremely hard to get married).  See, when I left him, I did not scar him for life as originally accused.  What I did was set him free from misery, giving him a chance to follow his bliss.  Which he did immediately with some woman in Seattle (this is not the same woman he’s marrying – she is the second woman he dated and is from Indiana but she says Chicago.  No comment), but as my sister put it last night, clearly he needs someone to take care of him which is why he began internet dating approximately sixteen seconds after I left.  Eeewww.  Anyway, I’m sure anyone can see how good and virtuous and saintly it was for me to get out of the way and let him find his true love.  My halo fits quite well, thank you for asking.

Munchkin’s step-mom to be is coming to pick him up tonight since ex-husband will be picking up his sister at the airport.  This is weird.  Do I invite her into the family room?  Or does she stay in the foyer while Munch grabs his stuff?  At my ex’s house, he used to invite me in, but once step-mom moved here last week, he kept me confined to the foyer.  Rude.  And she didn’t even come say hello.  Double rude.  So, I think that in keeping with my new saint-style persona, I will invite her in.  She doesn’t have to come in, but I’ll at least invite her.  And then I’ll let the dog jump on her.  No!  Bad Renee!  Not saintly at all.  Shit, it’s hard to be angelic.

I figured out the chair situation for my dining room.  I’m just getting boring Parson’s chairs since they’re so easy to slipcover and that way, I can change the look of the room with the seasons or with my whims or whatever.  Look at that – I can be the consummate mind-changing woman.  How fun!

My dear sweet skating friends are taking me out December 1st and getting me schnockered out of my mind as that’s the day my ex-husband is getting remarried.  I’m fine with that, but I do think that if there’s any day in your life that you’re allowed to get memory-erasingly blotto, it’s the day your ex remarries.  I told D that my only requirement for the night was that somebody had to make sure I got back to my house because I have no desire to sleep somewhere strange that night or drive home in the morning.  Plus I have a dog which is pretty much like having a kid except you can be fucked up around your dog.  You do need to be home to let the dog out though.  Now having said that, I seem no longer to be able to get shit-faced because I’ve mastered keeping a good buzz without getting stupid.  So it will probably end up where nobody has to responsible for me, and we all just have a fun night.  Yay!

All of which brings me around to the worst hangover ever:  I went out on a Friday after work with my ex who was not my ex at the time, and I was drinking wine.  Oops.  I thought I was fine, and then I wasn’t.  It was like going from pleasantly buzzing to completely fucking gone in five seconds.  I told him I was going to the car, it was time to go home, and please pay the tab, let’s go.  That’s my memory anyway.  He showed up at the car fifty-two hours later and finally took me home.  I managed not to barf in the car, but as soon as I got to my bathroom, it was coming out.  This is the previous marker for the non-pukage streak, by the way (before the painkiller earlier this year where I learned that apple juice doesn’t qualify as food for pills you have to take with food.  That’s where my current streak starts).  Anyway, I think I passed out after that.  I spent all day Saturday in the bathroom where I learned it really is possible to have it coming out both ends at the same time.  I thought that was a myth.  You just have to pick up a trash can for the front end, and it’s all good.  I spent Sunday in bed trying not to barf again, but really, there was nothing left.  I lost seven pounds that weekend, so yeah, I’d do it all again. 

I cleaned the bathrooms today, and I need to record this for posterity: it took an hour and twenty minutes.  So it’s not that bad.  Next time I’m procrastinating, I just need to remember that it takes less than an hour and a half, so just do it already!  Plus if I’d do it more often, it would take even less time.  My bathroom is by far the worst since a) it’s the master and therefore the largest and contains that stupid bathtub that is used for trash/recycling/dust collecting and takes freaking forever to clean (don’t worry, the trash and recycling go into containers which are stored in the tub, not directly thrown in there.  Though I do miss with nasty cottonballs and Q-Tips more frequently than I care to admit), and b) I don’t know how it happens, but my make-up ends up everywhere.  And I do mean everywhere.  There’s this slightly pink powdery coating on freaking everything.  It’s pretty impressive.  It’s even on the lights.  How???  Tomorrow after Munch gets out of school and I finish skating, we’re dusting and doing the floors, and then the house will be ready for decorating for Christmas next Sunday.  I’m all sorts of excited about that!

belbin-agosto-amelie.jpg

My gosh, just look at that ass.  Look at it!  If there’s one thing I can really get on board with, it’s a nice ass.  And skaters have the best asses on the planet.  I can’t think of a sport that makes a nicer butt.  Cyclists have nice asses too, but not quite up to the level of skaters.

D and I had this conversation today, and I’m still not sure how or why it started, but he made some comment about the guy “who asked you to coffee.”

Me:  It wasn’t coffee; it was a game.  I might’ve gone if it were just coffee. *continue to attempt a reasonable facsimile of a Choctaw while failing miserably*  You know what, no, no I would not have gone.

D:  Why not?

Me:  I don’t know, I just don’t want to.

D:  Why?  What’s it going to hurt?

Me:  I don’t know *put my hands in my pockets, shrink into turtle-like shell*.  It just freaks me out.  Look what you’re doing to me just asking about it!

D:  You’re 13, aren’t you.

Me:  Fuck off *13 with a potty mouth apparently and yes, I regularly tell my coach to fuck off*

D:  *gives random Choctaw corrections* I just don’t know what the problem is.  You could ask him for coffee.

Me:  *quit doing Choctaws entirely and stand in middle of rink like complete idiot*  Oh hell no!  No way!  Nuh-uh.  Not going to happen.

D:  Why is this such a big deal?

Me:  Because it is.  It’s scary.  If you go out with someone, then you have to talk to them.

D:  Yeeeaaaahhhh

Me:  And you have to eat in front of them at some point.

D:  *looks at me like all suspicions of me being totally insane have been verified*  Yeah, so?

Me:  You wouldn’t understand.  Anyway, if everything goes well, then at some point you have to think about touching the other person.

D:  Isn’t that the point of being with someone?

Me:  Probably, but I’m not ready for that.  I’d rather stay home by myself.

D:  But it would be good for you to socialize.

Me:  No, it really would not.  I don’t do that.  *patently false – I do socialize, but only with people I already know and hang out with*  You know, I think it’d be easier to just go get laid rather than deal with all the relationship crap.

D:  *looks a bit shocked, heh* Ooookaaay

Me:  Well, it’s easier for girls than for guys.

D:  Yeah, you could just walk in a room *I know he doesn’t mean me specifically, but I may have blushed a little – I’ll take that sort-of compliment on behalf of all women in the world*

All of which leads me to this:  yes, a reasonably attractive woman with a relatively decent body could walk into a place and make her intentions known and successfully get laid that night.  I don’t think guys have it that easy.  Super hot guys, yeah, but not reasonably attractive guys.  That said, I think that in the realm of “Sex and the City”, I am more Charlotte than Samantha, so I’m thinking I’m not going to be going out with the intention of getting laid in this lifetime.  Besides that, I am very very very shy and making those intentions known would probably kill me.

This is the second time we’ve had this conversation.  I don’t want to have it anymore.  So if he brings it up again, I’m going to ignore him.  Or more likely, run away to the bathroom where he can’t follow.

It’s just hard – the thought of being with someone and trusting them and all that.  I have trust issues anyway, but they’ve been worsened by the last couple of years of my life.  I’m pretty gullible though.  There’s a part of me that just doesn’t think that anyone would lie to me, and then I’m shocked, just shocked when they do.  And then I wonder what else they’re hiding or whatever.  Or when they’re going to fuck me over next or hurt me (feelings-wise, not physically).

In the meantime, I’m surrounded every day by glorious skating butts, so I’ll just enjoy looking for now!

I have a small life.  My sphere is tiny – hence “My Wee World”.  I get up, work out at home, go to the rink, pick up my kid, go home, and hang out with my dog.  My social stuff is generally with rink people.  That’s where the problem is.  My ex-boyfriend and I had a ton of issues, and sometimes D and I would talk about them.  He always said that the first and biggest issue was that we met at the rink, and you should never shit where you sleep.  Don’t dip your pen in the company ink.  The metaphors are plentiful, and all of them are true.

Why is this relevant?  Well, yesterday, this guy (and he shall have to be called “this guy” because I don’t know his name!) that I talk to at the rink asked me to go to a Stars game.  He asked really casually, like, “Hey, do you have plans tonight?  Cuz if not, I have an extra ticket to the game if you want to go.”  So it wasn’t like “Hey, you wanna go on a hot date and have sex all over the city?”  Unfortunately, I reacted like he went with option number two and freaked out like a fifteen year old girl (that was D’s assessment of my behavior when I told him today).

I’ve got to get organized and go more in order here.  First of all, what I said in response was something like, “Oh, we’re doing the Trick or Treat thing tonight, and I have my son, so I really can’t”, but inside my mind was reeling and I’m pretty sure I was hyperventilating.  Not a pretty sight.  My palms were definitely sweating.  What was going through my mind?  All sorts of crap including what would happen if I dated him, what would happen when (yes, when – call me a pessimist if you like) it didn’t work out, what would happen when I had to face him at the rink after letting him see me naked, etc etc.  Typical freak-out stuff for me.  Anyway, we talked for a few minutes after that, and then I went downstairs.

Downstairs, Natasha told me that I should go out with the new ops guy (aka, “this guy”, duh).  She was like, “He’s really an engineer”, which I already know because he told me a while back.  I think he has his own company and normally does most of his worky stuff at night, leaving the days open to skate, play open hockey, and apparently, drive the Zamboni.  I told Natasha that I was still in my dating moratorium.

I guess I should thank him for freaking me out so much because I kind of quit spazzing about my dance test on Sunday.  It’s like when D gives me something scarier than normal to work on and I’m suddenly not afraid of my old tricks.  Like when an outside Mohawk was making me a nutter, he gave me the Foxtrot Mohawk.  And when that freaked me out, he gave me the Killian Choctaw.

Anyway, one of the main issues here is the “Don’t sleep where you shit” rule.  I can’t go out with someone at the rink.  I can be friends with everyone at the rink.  It’s just too awkward otherwise.  I mean, what do you do if you go out with someone and it sucks and then you have to see them at the one place that you go to not deal with people crap?  That rink has my own world right inside it.  I don’t have to worry about being divorced or my son or my family or my dog or world peace or any of that shit.  I go there for me.  I go there to work on this crazy skating stuff that’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.  It’s a place I go where the only complications are supposed to be skating related (crush on coach notwithstanding – that’s a proximity thing and nothing will ever happen because it’s just riddled with complexity).

Now, that’s all fine and dandy, but considering that my world revolves around that rink, you have to wonder where I’m going to find a dude when I’m ready to date again (my reaction to a non-date date thing made it quite obvious to me that I am clearly not ready).  So I think I need to broaden my circle.  If I ever go on another date, the guy cannot be someone in my skating circle.  Maybe I need to join a gym.  Hey, if I did that, maybe I could finish losing this stupid weight.  Urgh!  Of course, then you end up with your gym circle, and you don’t want to date out of that pool either, right?

As far as how I don’t know “this guy’s” name – that happened because he skated on the adult sessions that I was skating on (though not anymore – I use the freestyle sessions now because there aren’t any hockey guys on them.  Ironic, eh?) and we would chit-chat during the sessions.  I guess we’re both social retards who don’t introduce ourselves.  I just hate that, “Oh, by the way, my name’s Renee, what’s yours?” shit.  Honestly, I don’t know if he knows my name either, but I suppose he could’ve asked someone.

So to sum up – not ready for dating!  It’s funny because J and I can have conversations about possibilities with me and D and I’m not threatened by it at all.  It doesn’t bother me because I know it’s safe since nothing will actually happen.  We can all think about it, but we all know it’s totally unrealistic (well, I know that, and D knows that, but I don’t think J knows because he’s still trying to get us together!).  Fantasyland is a lovely place.  I’m not so fond of having the reality whack me upside the head.  Egads!

I have to pee, but my interest level in getting off the couch is less than nil, so I’m holding it.  Meanwhile, my belly is swelling (I have to go pretty bad), and if the dog jumps on me, I will pop, thereby electrocuting myself on the computer and dying one of those really embarrassing deaths that show up on that Darwin thing.  It will be worse than being on “Dateline: Survivor Story”.  I should add that to my life goal list: I do not want to die in such a way as to end up on that damn Darwin list.  There.

My sister, brother-in-law, and I are going to a Halloween party during our Fakesgiving weekend (meaning Thanksgiving in October due to a grandparental cruise during real Thanksgiving).  We’re going to dress as geishas.  All three of us.  Jason has a history of being willing to cross-dress for Halloween.  He was a cheerleader one year.  My sister was a boy cheerleader that year.  I wish I had a picture so I could put it up.  Anyway, Kim got the costumes at Target.  We’re going to wear white knee-highs and black flip flops for our footwear.  Have I mentioned that I hate flip flops?  That damn thing between my toes drives me up a wall.  Hopefully the socks will cure that problem.  Kim bought white makeup too.  I have the most awesome red lipstick ever, so we’ll use that.  We’ll also wear black eyeliner and geisha wigs.  The only problem is that they only had mediums and larges, and I’m fairly wee, so my costume is probably going to be too big.  Oh well.

Craving warning:  I want some fucking chocolate.  There is no chocolate in this house.  How is that possible?  That can’t be normal.  Well, on second thought, there’s some white chocolate in the fridge, but it’s well past it’s prime.  I just keep forgetting to chuck it in the bin.

My worries over J as a coach have been alleviated.  He’s got a way of describing things that I relate to really well, and I feel like I’ve improved in D’s absence.  Usually I regress, so this is very good news.  Plus he’s making me work on those hideous Moves in the Field, so that’ll make me a better skater overall.  It’s torture, but it’s good stuff.  Today was a little worthless.  Gillian was on the ice at the same time as me, and she loves nothing more than to talk.  That’s fine for a minute here and there, but she wants to yak the whole time, and it’s IMPOSSIBLE to get away from her.  I think I wasted half an hour talking to her, but at least we were talking about skating stuff.  Wasted is kind of harsh.  I should say I let half an hour of practice time fly by while talking.  That sounds a little less rude.  My second session was much more productive.  I’ll just have to make up for it by busting my ass tomorrow, which I never do on Fridays. 

When I was all done for the day, Cute Guy from work came up and talked to me while I was taking off my skates and stuff.  He was playing with my skates and my Bunga pads (please please don’t let them be all stretched out now!).  He liked the art on the bottom of my skates, but how could you not like Betty Boop and Jessica Rabbit?  Anyway, I’ve noticed that I get all nervous when talking to guys now.  I feel like a ninth grader.  I don’t know, maybe ninth graders are less nervous than me.  I sat there, chit-chatting, but worrying the whole time that my skates were stinky.  It was pretty pitiful!  I even get a little nervous talking to guys on my softball team, all of whom are taken except for D.  I’m not nervous around him, but I see him all the time so that doesn’t count.  I think I’m painfully aware of my singleton status.

We’ve got a double header in softball tonight.  I’m trying to decide if I should bother jumping in the shower for a quick “rinse the skate sweat off” or if it doesn’t matter since I’m going to get all gross again.  I keep sniffing my pits, and they’re alright.  They do smell like working deodorant.  I don’t want them to end up smelling like failed deodorant.  Ick!  Okay, yeah, I’m gonna take a shower. 

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