Still futzing with this blog design, and a bunch of other stuff that seems like it should be a done deal already

In my head, there are the moral equivalent of 50 post-notes circulating in a tornado-like fashion, each one with a to-do that really needs to get done. I want to start 2008 on the most positive note possible, so I forced myself to sit down and write out a quick list from the biggest pieces of paper floating around my head. As per usual, the list is not nearly as daunting on paper.

Last week, I bought a book about blogging and blog design because I’m still vaguely dissatisfied with the layout and navigation here. And, the winter marathon training group starts Saturday (!), and I wanted to get a blog up and running for that, separate from this one, designed more for interaction.

And in making up my little list, in  my apartment with a half dozen begun projects, I realize that I’ve really been overfocusing on the whole return-to-dating. I have eschewed the idea of “rules” and whatnot, but I can see the value. I’m still not going to engage in gaming, but some very simple guidelines like date #1 being just a drink (coffee, wine, tea, whatever). Some people want that first date to be longer, but I think that when you initiate contact via the internet, and exchange a series of emails, you’ve got some good information there. The next step is determining whether there is some physical chemistry, whether the witty banter translates to real life.

But more than anything, I over think this. Which is why I’m not going out tonight. I thought about trying to find a singles event, get out of the house, continue to put one foot in front of other, dating-wise, but I would feel more like myself if I stayed home with the dog, cleaned, put stuff away, and prepared for the new year.

Quite possibly the most important thing I want to get done today is making sure all my reading lists are posted properly.

On the occasion of missing my dog Ben

I’ve been up for a couple-few hours now after hearing a suspicious series of unidentifiable noises. You know how it is when you hear something go bump in the night. The mind develops creative explanations, however unlikely. Like, if someone was trying to get in my apartment via a door–a very traditional entry method–why would they hack through the middle? But it’s the only explanation for the weird noises on the other side of the door. Maybe it isn’t a somone trying to get in, but a squirrel. We have a lot of fairly aggressive squirrels in this ‘hood.

When there were peculiar noises in the night, Ben did the moral equivalent of telling me not to worry about it, he’d take care of it. Most situations called for nothing more than a cautionary (for them) grump from the foot of the bed, as if to say, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you meant no harm in touching my door. I politely urge you to take better care in the future not to inadvertently touch my door, or wall, or pass noisily by my home. I thank you in advance.

God love him. He was a confident but not overly enthusiastic guard dog.

Ruby, not so much.

She hears something go bump in the night, and turns to me as if to ask, are you going to take care of that? Maybe you should get up and check that out. I’ll just wait here. Right here.

She’s a wonderful dog, the kindest, sweetest dog soul ever. She just doesn’t seem to know she’s a 95-lb. German Shepherd.

Deep Thoughts on the Occasion of my Birthday

Happy Birthday to me!

 

My birthday passed on Sunday, and my instincts were to hide under my comforter here in Chicago. My weekend goal would have been to stay in the same pair of pajamas right through til Monday morning. In fact, although I made plans to travel to suburban Detroit, I woke up Saturday morning wondering how I could plausibly cancel and still keep my friendships intact. And there are a lot of people who I could have called, and said, I am toooooo depressed, I can’t do it, I can’t bring myself to leave the house. And virtually everyone but Carol would say, ok, yes, take care of yourself, like I have cancer. And what I really need is Carol, who is most honest with me, to tell me that’s unacceptable to her. So there was no way I was going to be able to get away with calling Carol and canceling, and besides that, I knew that if I could just get to the train station, and get to their house, I would feel about a thousand times better.

 

But I was wrong—I got to their house and felt a million times better. Four college-era friends and their five children proved to be food for my soul. P. and B., along with P. E. have all signed up for Wisconsin Ironman, so there was a lot of discussion about training and for this epic event.

 

[If you’ve never seen an Ironman event, and only heard the numbers (2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike ride, capped off with a 26.2 run) it sounds insane and very, very difficult to visualize. And in fact, if you’ve seen the event on television, it looks excruciating. They seem to pick the athletes who are pushing themselves to the edge of breakdown—I suppose that makes good, dramatic television, but it’s not at all representative of the vast majority of the athletes. I suppose it isn’t all that interesting to watch people just plug away for 12-13 hours, putting one foot in front of the over, over and, but here’s to the blessed souls that persevere for no other reason than their own sense of accomplishment, completion, endurance. The vast majority of us live outside the spotlight, where we complete our own Ironmans every day. Mothering young children is like a years-long Ironman. That’ll never be accurately televised, though. That would make an Ironman look like a walk in the park.]

 

So, back to a point I was kind of trying to make, and that is, having watched P. complete one Ironman, and talking to my friends who raise multiple children, nurture their marriages, work 40+ hours at demanding jobs, and wedge in training for Ironmans, yes, but also half-marathons, etc., life goes on, life is challenging, life isn’t easy for most people, life is busy, so suck it up, and make the most of it.

 

I’m not sure what I think life is supposed to be. Where does this debilitating depression come from? Do I think that life is easy, smooth, without disappointments for everyone else? Or . . . what exactly?

 

I don’t know. I don’t have any more answers than Saturday morning, before I got on the train, but I definitely feel a resurgence of enthusiasm to keep putting one foot in front of the other. It was just a simple weekend. We ate, we napped, I watched their children play in the snow (so much snow! This is a Midwestern childhood, our birthright is to have snow from which we make forts, and androgynous snow people, and snow angels, and snowballs to throw at one another), for hours they played in the snow, and remembered when there was nothing better than a day outside in it. I don’t want to do that anymore, but I certainly remember its allure. And to talk to their children, people who were once just an idea, a concept entirely unformed, but loved before they even know who they were or would be, is very exciting. Their oldest daughter can discuss books with me, and the youngest read to me, a process I find exhilarating. Remember learning to read? How exciting it was to have an adult listen to you while you showed off your new skills? And what’s remarkable to me is that this process of reading is real work. She selected a challenging book, and I could hear the way she sounded out words, and corrected herself. Remember that? Brain on! It seems that as adults, we sometimes lose that delight in our hard work—unless there’s a monetary reward. Watching adults set goals for themselves, like an Ironman, or something like just starting to run, is like learning to read, it’s just satisfying hard work that means the most to the individual. What are you doing that means nothing to anyone else, that has meaning only to yourself?

I’m too picky

So, to mark my reluctant return to the dating scene, I placed an internet ad. I started getting replies from men who very obviously hadn’t even bothered to read my profile. Strange? Strange. I can’t help it–I was a little insulted that a 29 year old smoker who doesn’t want kids is lobbying for my time. More than likely, he’s lobbying for a blowjob, but that’s neither here nor there.

After this long, I would hope that I have a clear vision of who I’d fit with and what I want. I thought I’d expressed that pretty clearly, but I added a short paragraph with a preface in all caps: IF YOU READ NOTHING ELSE, PLEASE READ THIS, wherein I detailed my “requirements” and a very strong recommendation, as follows:

#1: I want someone my age or a bit older.

 

I’ve dated younger men, and while there is nothing inherently wrong with younger men, my experience is that they aren’t ready for marriage and kids, and I am.

#2: I’m ready for an LTR with marriage as a possibility.

I’m just being honest. Casual guy doesn’t want me harassing him about “the future” and some men are ready and thinking about “the future” themselves. That’s the population I’m looking at.

#3 Non-smokers, please.

I get up at the crack of dawn all summer long to train for marathons. I think smoking is repulsive and vile. I don’t want to kiss the mouth of a smoker or smell old cigarettes for the rest of my life.

#4 Why not put a little effort into your first emails to a woman?

My thinking is that in this internet age, those first emails are your first chance to make a good impression. It’s like applying for a job; you wouldn’t dream of sending a cover letter and resume with mistakes, or in all caps, or in text-message shorthand. A novel isn’t necessary, but why not observe the conventions of spelling, grammar and punctuation? Especially since the computer will do all that for you with a simple spell check?? Finding a mate has far more impact on ones life and ultimate happiness. Real relationships take some work. If a man cannot expend the effort to hit the spell check button, can he really be relied upon to expend real effort to keep a marriage satisfying to both of us?

I don’t think I’m being picky. Please note that I have no salary requirements, no height requirements, and no physical requirements. And I’m not asking for anything that I’m not willing to provide. If you’re not interested in me, I think that’s fine. I’m not trying to recruit or change anyone.

What I think is really funny is that I got a message from some guy telling me that I’m too picky. There were several things about his profile and message that were incongruent, and after thinking about it for a while, kind of funny.

#1 He is a self-described “Christian.”

F***ing Hypocrite. Let’s get out the Bible and see what it says about passing judgment on others.

#2 He’s 50 and never married.

But I’m 37 and too picky? F*** you again. When you’re 50 and never married, you obviously have some kind of issue with real intimacy. Or, am I being judgmental? For the record, I am a great girlfriend. I can get a reference from every one I’ve ever dated attesting to my flexibility, open-mindedness, kindness and acceptance. Can you?

#3 He also states in his profile that he is looking for marriage.

But when I indicate that I want a serious relationship with the possibility of marriage, I’m being discriminatory?

I’m not even going to go into all the requirements of his profile. I’m astonished at the hypocrisy. I just don’t totally understand why he felt the need to write to me and tell me what he perceived as being wrong with me. If he is not interested in me, why not just move on? Something about my “requirements” ruffled his feathers, and I wonder if it was the bit about proper spelling, grammar and punctuation? This is stuff we all learn in high school; it doesn’t require advanced study. I am thinking maybe he’s intellectually insecure. So he’s going to be one of those guys that make fun of a woman for doing crossword puzzles. He’s going to be one of those guys that will sulk when he loses at Scrabble. He’ll complain about buying books, and complain that she’s not spending time with him; i.e. sitting on the couch watching the mind-numbing inane crap that passes for prime time television viewing. Or maybe he prefers to watch a backlog of garbage on TiVo. Everything that a woman does becomes a statement about what he does or doesn’t do, and because he’s an insecure f***, if she wants to do something different, she’s wrong. She shouldn’t attempt to improve herself unless or until he’s interested in his own self-improvement.

And the funnier thing is, I think I’m approaching 40 and single because I haven’t been picky enough. On the evening of my 25th birthday, I went to a bar with a work friend, and met a guy. I don’t remember what his name was. I remember him being boyishly cute. But mostly, I remember sitting with him for hours–literally, a bare minimum of four hours–and just listening to him talk. He just talked at me for hours and hours. He never once asked me anything about myself. I’m embarassed to admit that I thought that if I proved myself a good listener, he would surely ask me out. [He didn't.] I wanted him to ask me out to the exclusion of my self-respect. In exchange for the perceived affirmation that a requested date represents, from this stranger, I was prepared to be a doormat, on my birthday. This remains one of the most humiliating moments of my adult life.

 

Unfortunately, it took me over 10 years to figure this out, because I’ve continued, in my adult life, to exercise no standards whatsoever with respect to potential dates (of which there have been remarkably few). It doesn’t take a psychology degree to figure out that my self-worth was reflected in the men I made myself available to.

The subtext I got from this guy was that because I am too picky, I deserve to be alone. It’s true I think he’s a hypocrite and a f***, but I still hope he finds his person out there. I hope there is someone who accepts us as we are, for every one of us.

Reading challenges

It is cold and gray today, a perfect time to stay inside and read.

A couple months ago, I replaced my couch and chair with my neighbor’s lighter-colored furniture. He was starting over in San Francisco, and taking nothing with him. I loved his living room, and mistakenly believed that it would be just as beautiful in my apartment. He has a sense of style I don’t. This doesn’t look bad at all, but it’s not the same. And it’s still better than the large, heavy furniture I did have. This apartment is too small for big heavy pieces of wood.

The only thing I somewhat regret is that this new couch is shorter, while neither my dog nor I have become smaller. We are crammed on here together, with her legs dangling off the edge. I really like this time with her, though, so I’m reluctant to toss her off the couch. It’s like quiet-sleeping-with-my-pack time. Later, it’s bring-a-saliva-covered-toy-to-my-packmate-with-the-thumbs time, and I will be expected to toss it into the hallway for her retrieving pleasure.

It is moments like this that I remember Ben, the first dog. Their personalities were quite different. Right now, I am resting leg alongside Ruby, and while Ben was keen to nap on the couch, he did not appreciate being touched by my lower extremities. To do so would often elicit a grump. And he never fetched. Not even once. Ben was not entirely a dog, at least not in his mind. He most often looked at me as though I was the crazy lady he was charged with watching over. This was especially evident when I expected some dog-like behavior, like fetching. He would watch the trajectory of whatever I was throwing with little interest, then look at me, as if to say, “And . . . ?” 

She’s enormous. I’m struck by this sometimes, how big she is. Ben was also large, but he had short hair, without a bushy undercoat, so when he laid down, it was often in a tight little circle. Ruby seems to have several coats of fur, not including the copious amounts on the floor, and I think she spreads out because it gets a little warm. Right now, I’m pretty sure she’s not really comfortable. She wants to spread out a bit more, but there isn’t any more room. She sometimes resorts to resting her head on the arm of the couch, which is very awkward looking because the arm is somewhat high. Poor giant beast.

 ∞

I’ve been pouring over booklists and reading challenge sites for the past few days, as well as finishing my 101 things to accomplish list. Developing these reading lists is like creating a syllabus, and I’m really enjoying it. I have identified nine reading challenges which should keep me on top of my goal of one book per week.

Can I be catty for just one second? Thanks. I can’t believe I’m accepting a reading challenge from someone who watches soap operas religiously. I had to get that out of my system.

Got up early today

and did not die. What’s more, it did not feel like a waking death. I raised the blinds to let in some natural light, which, just like it’s supposed to, helped me get up. I really need to stop staying up until 2 or 3 in the morning. No good can come of that.

Maybe there is hope for me yet.

It snoweth

What I find most discouraging about these days is that I have lots of time to do anything I want, but I really don’t want to leave the apartment. I should be doing sprint workouts, logging distance miles, working on my goal of doing a freakish number of push-ups all at once, reading a book a day . . .

Or at the very least, taking the world’s best German Shepherd for a well-deserved long walk. I feel guiltiest about shortchanging her. So tonight I rallied and we went further. She is clearly more comfortable in the cold weather.

It is snowing steadily; everything is covered by a nice layer of snow, which covers the grime, dirty and grey inherent to this time of year. As we walk down the street, I admire the houses we pass, admiring what I see through their front windows. Lit windows always look inviting on cold winter nights, before the holidays have really set in and lost their allure. There is still the possibility of happy holidays.

And, of course, newly single as I am, I walk past these houses and feel a sense of wonder: how do people find each other in this world? I know some of these people only have a shiny, happy exterior. What’s the divorce rate? Over 50%? So let’s says half these houses have unhappy residents, couples who brace themselves before walking in the door each evening for another several hours of barely tolerating each other. Couples who endure for the kids, or their financial situation, or out of fear of loneliness.

But lots of houses shelter happiness, couples who still genuinely want to come home to one another, people who want to hang out with their kids, families eating dinner together.

I spent many years proving that I am very capable of total independence. I’ve proved that. I don’t need something specific from a partner, like financial assistance or entertainment. I just miss that human interaction. Specifically, I miss my ex’s sense of humor; he was kind of dry generally, and I found it hysterical. I miss his general presence. When I came home the other night, I missed knowing that someone cared whether I made it home or not.  Of course, the dog cares deeply, but without opposable thumbs, she is powerless to alert anyone else to my absence.

∞ 

When I was growing up, we had a mutt named Lucy. She was some kind of malamute mix, and a great dog. She had a more reserved personality, you know, not effusive and adoring, like a golden retriever.

For some reason, most likely based on a combination of sale price and coupons, my parents brought home a bag of dog food called Tender Chops. The kibble was shaped like little, moist t-bone steaks. It was aesthetically very pleasing, red and white. And Lucy loved it. She begged for it, harassed my father for it, and this was easily the most effusive behavior she demonstrated her whole life.

Lucy passed on the summer before I left for college, almost 20 years ago, and almost immediately we renamed her Saint Lucy (probably because the dog they selected three days later was a rather decidedly bad dog). As a family, we still laugh about Lucy and the Tender Chops.

Several months ago, the former BF brought over some dog treats; they were these dried chicken strips, and it is no surprise that Ruby is very fond of them, to the extent that I think we’re having a Tender Chops moment. It’s a little harder to tell because German Shepherds are generally more talkative, but now that we spend so much time together, she wants something unsatisfied by attention, toys, ear scratches, trips outdoors.

Oh, I also have to keep the bags of these things on top of the fridge; she helps herself if left on the counter top or the table. (She’s large.)

Here she is again. I need to go engage in our evening ritual of exhausting all other possibilities before I relent and fork over the chicken strips.

honesty

The boyfriend (now ex-boyfriend) and I talked tonight. We started talking about the final argument, which at first seemed like a pointless rehashing, but led to a productive conversation. I had this idea that we were breaking up because of a stupid argument, something ridiculous and fixable. The real issue though, is that when he is being honest with himself, he does not feel like we are a long-term match. He didn’t want to get married, then want out later. And I don’t want that either.

I cannot describe how much better I feel. I feel like there is closure because I know the truth. I didn’t destroy a perfectly good relationship because I was too stubborn to say I’m sorry first, or do all that I could do to make a wrong right. To not have that indescribable feeling that you’re with “the one”–that’s unfixable. You have it, or you don’t. And I think you need that bit of unprobable optimism when you commit to someone.

I thanked him for telling me the truth, which actually seemed to confuse him. I am not lying when I say that knowing the truth is the best-case scenario. I feel like I can move on. I understand why we broke up, why we won’t work out. I’m not angry, and the sadness will pass. I really want to be with someone who really wants to be with me, which is what I believe we all really want.

Life after NaNoWriMo: Day 1

When I got home last night after 1:00am, I wasn’t ready for sleep, so like a big geek, I logged onto the website to see if Chicago had indeed reasserted our lead over New York City. Kudos to NYC for their 11th hour rally. I’m always impressed when the underdog rallies.

On the train home, I felt oddly bereft of a project that has occupied me for the past month. It also felt a little strange to come home after the successful completion of this goal without the boyfriend to celebrate it with me. And now that the novel is done, I don’t have any distractions from thinking about our recent break-up.

But I tried. I found several cool projects to fill the void, and I fiddled around with this blog. I’m still experimenting with different formats and colors.

I stayed up until 6am just putzing around with potential new projects, but that left me pretty tired today. I’ve slept most of today away, aside from an hour of therapy. Precious hour! I have to be honest; I’m pretty depressed. Tonight, I took a bath, and the process of pulling on pajamas and finding matching socks was almost too much. It’s not even 8 o’clock, and I’m feeling a tiredness around my eyes.

mission accomplished