November 12, 2003

Just Grow Up!

OK. I was willing to ignore it all, mostly because I have a lot going on in my life. But when Jim posts a bit of Kim Du Toit's piece of his version of Pinnocchio's "I wanna' be a real boy!" rant on his site, then I know the world has gone too far.

I like Jim. I usually agree with Jim. But if I get confronted by another guy who swears up and down that they have been "pussyfied" again, I will make sure I send penile erection spam their way. You guys are upset about being called "pussyfied"? Why? Don't you realize that you are just rising up, part of a mass hysteria? Do you think we women have ever felt the need to start a movement, based on the thousands of times we hear, in our lifetime: "Honey...are you on the rag?"

For Christ's sake, Kim-it's a cereal ad. You know what the message of it is? Buy cereal. If you see the message "you have no penis", then perhaps you are watching the wrong channel. I didn't see any of you "real men" complaining when the Swedish Bikini team commercials were on. Nor did I see any problems arising from the "real men" over Hooters commercials. Is it because you do realize you have a penis when those shows come on? Must commercials cater to your itty bitty egos?

Your section of your rant about rape:

"You know why rape is such a problem on college campuses?...It's a reaction: a reaction against being pussified. And I understand it, completely. Young males are aggressive, they do fight amongst themselves, they are destructive, and all this does happen for a purpose.

Because only the strong men propagate."

You know what? You can take all those young aggressive males and rope yourselves off in a separate territory if you want. And once you get there-you bend over and let them fuck you without your consent. You take one up the ass and then turn around, pet their heads, and say "Yup. As long as I am doing what's best for the men of this country, then all is well."

Your other statement:

"...the Press in Europe, because the process of male pussification Over There is almost complete."

If you're going to make statements like that, mate, you're going to need some hardcore facts to back it up. I live "Over There". I live, in fact, with a Real Man from "Over Here". He chops wood with an axe, even though we have a chain saw. He cuts down trees. They play aggressive sports over here, and fist-fights are far more common on the streets late Friday nights here than in the US because you can't sue people over here. In fact, my Partner Unit has far more right wing politics than his American partner (me).

Yup. You read that right. I'm more to the left than a European. And you know what? I do know what flight wings look like, and I will be damned if I EVER support the right of Dubya wearing them. My father wore them and EARNED them. Dubya will be the last fucking guy left on the planet and I will STILL turn to my battery operated toybox to get my rocks off instead of turning to him for some Georgie love. So you see...all of us weak-willed women are not always turned on by power.

Most of us go for personality. And most politicians, including Georgie, have had a personality bypass.

I'm sure you're a nice guy (Serenity thinks so, and I like Serenity's site), and a hell of a laugh to drink with. You seem to be moderately intelligent. I support your right to rant and that you want to get some views off your chest. But I think your post was full of useless crap and I don't support any of it, and I really get annoyed that you are presenting your post as some kind of unified male view. You get hot and bothered by a Cheerios ad? Sounds like you have your own issues to deal with. And your wife, who goes by "Mrs. Du Toit" stated on Kate's site that of course she backs you up. You're her husband.

Well, if my Partner Unit ever spews really narrow-sighted views like you just did, he would be on his own. I am not going to contribute to tearing him down, but I sure as hell am not going to pipe up and defend his views. He better be ready to do that himself.

If you will excuse me now, I hate being riled up, and I guess since you seem to think it is such a worry, I have to go safeguard my house against the Romany peoples. But my advice for you: it's a Cheerios ad, man. Pick up the pieces of your shattered life and move on.

That is ALL I am going to say about this.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:49 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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November 11, 2003

Heaven

A few years ago, just after I moved to Sweden, a movie came out that sounded extremely interesting. I was told about said movie by the slightly psychotic girlfriend of a friend of mine (she told me one evening that she could kill any woman that she saw talking to her boyfriend. Thereafter, I have never been in the same room as said friend without a few armed guards, a notary, and a master of Tae Kwon Do. Oh, and my therapist-don't leave home without one.)

Anyway, the film was a Japanese film about heaven, and the definition of eternity.

Now, I didn't go see this film as it was in Japanese and subtitled in Swedish. Seeing as how my Swedish was limited to me butchering phrases that could suffice in a grocery store environment, and my Japanese is limited to counting from 1 to 5 and saying hello and goodbye, I didn't think I would get much out of this film. It would be me there, giving in and talking for the characters (which I tend to do if I am bored, drunk, or hate the film), much like Mystery Science Theatre 3000. Minus the androids. And probably less funny.

The premise of the film, however, has stuck with me, and I think I am going to track it down now, seeing as my Swedish and I get along fine now. The film story is basically this: when you die, you get to choose your own version of heaven, your own moment to re-live forever. Now, the Kanji symbol for heaven actually translates to "a moment of pure and perfect happiness". It looks like this:

Heaven.bmp


And I should know-it's tattooed on my left shoulder. It's one of two Japanese symbols that I have tattooed-the other one is on my right ankle, the symbol for "eternity and endurance" (aka: "my drunk in college escapade").

The film chronicled the lives of several people who had died, and one story, in particular, got me-a young girl died, and she was asked to choose her moment of pure and perfect happiness. At first, she chose to re-live an exciting roller coaster ride she had at Disneyland. But when they (whoever "they" were) showed her a film of her life, they impressed upon her that this was forever, and she instead chose a moment as an infant, nestled in her mother's arms, nursing and being looked down at by her mother with an expression of rapturous love.

Ever since that film, I have wondered what I would choose if I died and got to choose my moment of happiness. I am not trying to wander into the macabre here-it's simply an interesting thought, and one which lets me float through my happy memories (and contrary to what it looks like in my blog, I do have them).

Like the movie "Solaris" (in which my mate Jim and I broke down and did our own voice-overs for the film, it was so madly boring and we were so madly inebriated), there is an alternate version of heaven. One in which people can go back and be with people they lost.

I thought long and hard about whether I would want to head into eternity and choose to be with Kim (for those of you who are a bit new here, you can find the story of him here). But the truth is, I am slowly coming to the conclusion that I have let him go. We had our time together, we are not going to spend our lives together, and we are not going to die together, and that's ok now.

I had someone I know tell me that it's her wish to die in her husband's arms. I can't think of anything more horrifying, personally. Why condemn the one you love to remembering the last, impotent moment when they watched the life float out of you? They will spend the last years of their life knowing that there was nothing they could do to keep you here, on this earth, with them.

Sorry. When I die, I want to die alone.

Anyway, I have been cataloguing happy moments in my life, and wondering if-should I die tomorrow and be exposed to the Japanese version of heaven (Hey! It could happen!) what memory I would choose to re-live.

Some of which came to mind:

- When I was a little girl, I used to sit in a crabapple tree and read books for hours. I climbed to the very top and would pick crabapples, muching them slowly, and read while the warm summer breeze rocked the branches.

- I sat alone on the beach once, and watched a sunset over Bali, the orange spilling onto a temple and chasing the shadows off of every single curve of the steeple, and felt so calm and at peace.

- Swimming in warm water, my snorkel in place and my body free in the ocean in Belize, and playing with a manta ray. We played tag for a long time, and I spent ages petting its odd, under-sided smiling face. Or when I was swimming in the Seychelles, I was circled by a ring of zebra fish, playing circling me and then waiting for me to follow them.

- In Stockholm on a cold and snowy night years ago, the painful image of a man, crying, as we hugged in the street and realized that we were in love and didn't know what to do about it. My forehead pressed against his, I knew that I could never live without him again.

- Some of the evenings I had with Mr. Y-moments of pure dizzy perfection, champagne, naked talks, touching, sharing, loving, reaching out my heart to someone and finding someone there to take it, and then falling asleep, his face curled into the back of my neck, his knees tucked up behind me, the warm presence of him making the world seem that all was right.

And anytime I think about it, what image I would choose, I get calm and warm. I still don't know what image I would choose, what memory to linger in, but I know that there is one central character to my forever, and it is with him that I would choose to relive eternity with.

What would you choose?

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:11 AM | Comments (17) | Add Comment
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Administrative Updates!

Luuk, for those that are new, is a fabulous little bear I bought in Belgium, have taken to France, England, the US, and Sweden, and now he is being shipped all over the world and hosted by bloggers and Internet lovers that want to show him their town and post pics. He is currently being hosted by "Snooze Button Dreams" and has just been shown a fabulous time.

His origins can be found here and here.

He goes next to:

Don
Jean
Simon
James
then either Joey or Kat (waiting to find out which order that one is, is up to James!)

If you are interesting in hosting the little guy, just say so!

And the other: the Judgment Day I keep mentioning (which is now 7 days away) is the day when the company I work for, Company X, will announce to each of us who has their jobs. Basically, 33% of my group is going. I may be on that list. For the record, yes-I am going mad waiting. You can read a bit more about it here.

Finally, my trip to the US next week has definitely been cancelled. One of my managers (I currently have 4) has a personal performance indicator set on some work that I am supposed to do by December 15. She felt that I would not be able to get said work done if I went to the US, so she went around me to my head manager and got him to cancel my trip.

Such is the political bullshit happening right now here. There's nothing I can do about it. Am I depressed about it? Yup. Am I pissed off? Yup again. Is her document going to be ready by December 15? I will be bleeding out of my ears first.

Revenge. The dish best served up cold.

-H.

PS-to my mother, father, grandfathers, and great-grandfathers-I am thinking of you on Veteran's Day. And proud that you did what you did for your country.

PPS-Remember that today is Armistice Day as well. At 11:11, we're all having a moment of silence to Remember those who fought and died. Maybe you can, too.

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November 10, 2003

Resilience

Besides the horrible experience I had with Michael, I have had one seriously bad relationship with another man. I met him when I was 16, and he was 28. I married him when I was 18. I divorced just after I turned 20.

Yup. I have a history of being a fuckwit when it comes to judging the opposite sex. Then again...who doesn't?

For those of you who have been here a bit and are doing the math, yes, he was my Pale Blue Tile man. The weightlifter, the test-drive model, the obliterator of innocence.

Let's call him Allen, shall we?

I left home, finished high school, and went straight into university at an early age. Allen and I moved in together. He proposed. It seemed like a good idea. I said yes.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

We were married a few months later, and it wasn't long after that in which things started to go downhill. We were very different people (and it was proof that people have no business getting married at 18. Good God. You don't even know your needs at 18, how are you supposed to know how to look after anyone else?) He hated the fact that I read books all the time. I hated the fact that the only culture he was imbued with was a lust for "Beavis and Butthead". He was Catholic, and traditional. I was lost from the Catholic flock (and stayed that way!), and far from conservative. We had nothing in common, save for a desire to make sure we wouldn't spend our entire lives alone.

The shower incident happened. I mostly forgave him, but couldn't really feel comfortable with him again. We moved to another state for his work, and I struggled to get a place in the local university mid-semester and find a job. We couldn't take each other. I tried to suggest counselling but that was unheard of, his ego bristled. We fought constantly, and I even told him I didn't love him anymore, that it was over. We should move on. We should go our separate ways.

He didn't listen. He never listened. I wonder if anyone ever does.

Two months later, I firmly told him it was over in a way that he would understand. And I finally reached him. I went to him in the living room and told him I was leaving, it was over. I was crying, I didn't know if I was doing it right. I had never broken up with anyone before, was there some protocol about breaking up that I was missing? A checklist I could tick off for the emotional waste-landers?

He was sitting on the couch. He looked up at me, and stood. In one motion, he had his hands on my arms, picked me up and threw me into the wall. I sat there, stunned. I wasn't hurt, but had to just sit there and shake my head, aghast. Surely that hadn't happened. Surely I had just imagined it.

He left the house to stay with a friend that night. I stayed alone in our flat. Looking back, it's funny-I can't recall a single thing about that evening.

The next day, I went out shopping for some house things that were needed. When I came back, the house had been cleaned out of anything and everything valuable. All of it. Everything was gone. My credit cards were reported stolen, my car was nearly out of gas, and all I had was the $100 I had in my wallet. He left me a note telling me he was locking me in this house, to give me time to think, to realize my mistakes, and to do the right thing.

I almost went crazy that night. The silence was deafening, not a radio, TV, nothing...Just my thoughts, whipping around my head, telling me that I would die if I stayed like this. It was that night, alone and in the dark, that I reached deep down inside myself and decided that I would not be beaten by this. By him. This was not the end of me.

The next morning I packed up my car. Fuck you, I thought. You want me to have some thinking time, ace? You got it. I was driving a little VW rabbit convertible, and I filled it with my clothes, my cats, and a few books. That was it. Everything else that I owned got left behind.

I drove to where he was staying, and met him in the yard. He came out, swaggering, and asked me if I was prepared to admit my mistakes.

I looked him in the eyes.

"Ever meeting you. That was my biggest mistake." I replied.

The smirk disappeared from his face. In one motion, he reached forward, grabbed me, and slammed me into a tree. When I got my breath back, I stood up and looked at him. I didn't even realize what was happening, I didn't understand at the time what was going on. I still don't. I felt an itch in my palm, and my fingers stretched out. My arm flew backward, and in an arc, it came forward and slapped him hard, across the face.

He stumbled backwards in surprise and fell to the ground.

"You don't have the right to ever touch me again." I said softly, feeling my face pound with fury and my body posed in battle stance. "Never. In anger or otherwise. Never. That thinking time you gave me? I figured out what the right thing for me was."

And with that I turned around, got in my car and drove away. I left him, driving away with only the contents in my little car, $100, and the hope that my future couldn't possibly be worse than the present.

I don't advocate violence, actually, despite my boxing work. I don't even think I should have hit him. Am I sorry I did it? No, not really. It was the only time I have ever hit another person, and as far as I am concerned, the only time I ever will do.

I know people think I have issues, and I do. Simon made a joke about it, and I have seen comments here about it. I have some issues, but it's about fucking time I started to deal with them. My issues don't own me. I own them. Some have made comments here that I am arrogant and self-involved. The truth? Sometimes I am so incredibly scared that it is hard to face the day. Is it bravery that makes me confront what is going on, or just survival? I don't know, but trust me when I say-if you think I am full of myself, you don't know me. The only thing I can get cocky about is my risotto recipe.

People tell me I am resilient. That I am strong. That I am brave. Personally, I think that this is just life. Sometimes it's true-I got the short end of the stick. Yes, I'm strong...but have I ever had a choice? Should I have broken down in the yard and begged forgiveness from a man I did not love and could not trust? Should I lay down and waste away?

Resilience. It conjures up images of heroes and battle-weary survivors. It's a romantic word, one that indicates choice and options (do I bend, or do I break?), perhaps neither of which I have an abundance of. To me, the word resilience means not letting what happens to you ruin you. And while it might seem that I may be one of the strongest women out here, I have one more secret that I will share, sometime soon. One last wall to break down and tell people the truth about. The truth about what I went through to learn what I am made of.

And when I do, I will be free.

-H.

PS-8 more days to Judgement Day.

PPS-in a strange twist of irony, I was chosen for Survivor.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:34 AM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
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The Luuk Update

My little guy has made it to Jim, where he was treated to an evening of doing shots with Jim before he got a massively cool experience with a Native American event on Stone Mountain. We are still awaiting pics.

Helen is impressed.

Next, the fabulous Luuk jets off to Don, who I am sure will love my little man. This is good-I think Don needs some cheering up. I am not sure if Don plans on merging efforts with other Munuvians in the area, I leave it up to him.

Then he goes to Jean, my saviour, who has not yet announced her plans for him.

Then Luuk gets a big adventure and is off to Simon and his compatriots in Hong Kong. For this, I am envious-Hong Kong is on my list of places I must go to, but haven't been there yet. I predict a racuous time for the Everyday Bear.

Finally, Luuk thus far pings back to the US to James.

If you are ready for Luuk after his trip to James in NYC, whack James a mail (and cc: me at everydaystranger@hotmail.com!) and just ask!

-H.

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November 07, 2003

The Volvo-Man Finale

I am defeated.

Volvo-Man has won.

Security met with Volvo-Man and his managers yesterday. Volvo-Man has miraculously managed to produce a list of three friends that were in the gym with him at the exact moment of our confrontation and can verify that I was threatening and attacked him. Security called one of said witnesses.

Guess what he said?
That I was threatening and attacked him.

This I find interesting, since he and I were alone during the beginning of the tirade, other than the appearance of a gym staff member halfway through. Maybe his friends are of the invisible persuasion. Maybe I should've worn my 3-D glasses. Maybe they were playing a warm-up game of hide and seek.

Or maybe they were. Never. Fucking. There.

Then he and security addressed the traffic accident. Apparently, I was driving dangerously fast and was wild. This is very interesting to me, since I tend to find it difficult to drive erratically when stopped in a traffic jam for 30 minutes. Maybe I have been doing traffic jams wrong all this time.

And that he would never have deliberately caused a car accident, since his wife (in the car with him) is pregnant. Also interesting, since they had a used infant carrier in the back seat, a newer model, which would imply she had already given birth. And the wife I saw in the car was very thin. Weird. She either is heinously prepared for the birth of her child in 8 months, or is able (and willing!)to get pregnant moments after giving birth to her other child. Hmmm...curious...

Security had to side with him-he has, apparently, three witnesses. I have none (since there were none!) Volvo-Man has been told he is to never come near me. This will not go in his personnel file. I told security to drop the issue now.

He is allowed back in the gym since their consultant company filed a protest with Company X to allow their employees to use the gym. This means his regular schedule of football with his mates will continue every Tuesday at 1900. Which makes me so happy, since I have boxing every Tuesday from 1800-1900.

And in one final "fuck you, Helen", he lives in my neighborhood. I found that out by looking up his car registration. The only way this could possibly get any worse is if both of my kidneys fail and it turns out he is the only possible match. In which case, I will be blogging via dialysis for a while, hope you don't mind. When that fails, I hope Jim picks up the slack left behind by me and spanks his inner child.

Finally, Volvo-Man wants to sit down with my Partner Unit and work on being friends. Not with me. With my Partner Unit. I can see that going over real well.

See, Volvo-Man is not Swedish, he is actually from a Middle Eastern country. I understand that it is their culture to handle things between the men,and although I don't like it, I do comprehend that culturally this is how things are done (if they met, I would walk by the windows a lot burning bras. Not my bras, since they are cute. Roseanne Barr's bras, maybe). I don't hold this against Volvo-Man, nor do I hold against him in any way, shape or form, his race (actually, I think I was a bit discriminated against by the policeman when I didn't take the discussion in Swedish. Huh).

What I DO hold against him is that he is a lying, conniving, bastard that changes the story as it suits and fortunately has a supportive community here that will lie with him.

It's only me here, and all I have is my word.
And it's not good enough.

This, combined with the 11 days left to Judgement Day with Company X have me so down I can hardly breathe.

It's 3:00 pm here, and I'm going home. Well, I'm going to the liquor store first, then I'm going home. And you know what?

I've just had enough of Volvo-Man. Karma will get him. I just hope it's in a really uncomfortable way (with visions of that masked guy from "Pulp Fiction" in my mind).

I've just had enough. So unless I have a wonderful "karma got you back" story, Volvo-Man will be Fox Trotting Oscar right out of my life and my posts now.

Or he will do after I make one last move, and report his car-again-to the police. That's on the agenda for tonight. Hell, woman scorned, and all that.

-H.

PS-I did actually have a nice and non-vengeful post today. Just scroll down a jot. There you go. That's the one-"The Little Things" Well done. Now you can read it, if you'd like.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 02:59 PM | Comments (19) | Add Comment
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The Little Things

People have been writing about love for millennia now. There is nothing here that I could possibly add, pontificate, or extrapolate that hasn't already been said. Billions of people, the world over, have felt love, and I am just another person who had my own brushes with love. Paternal and maternal. Passionate. The everyday. I am not about to try to put a different spin on love. I'm not so full of myself. It's all been said and done before.

And something Kaetchen wrote yesterday: Love means pain.

And you know what? She's right. Love is pain.

It's as simple and as complicated as that.

But love is also life, fire, hope, anger, broken, domestic, intoxicating, banal, and indispensable.

Love, despite what my advisor and personal Jiminy Cricket (I need one!) Howard says, can indeed be the stuff that Hollywood is made of. It can be fervour, and combustion. It can be the dripping romances that we all aspire to have. I know it-I have had two lovers of that calibre that I will never, ever let go of.

But love is also in the little things. It's in the Everyday. It's in the small gestures. I once had a fight with a lover since I felt he never, ever expressed his feelings for me. He turned to me and said:

'Don't you understand, H? I check your car to make sure the oil level is ok. I go out and warm it up on cold days. I don't say a word when your icy feet meet my legs at night, I just warm them up. I may not say that I love you, but I do, and I use the little things to try to take care of you like that to prove that I do.'�

I never complained again. I didn't even realize he had been doing them, I had just taken it for granted. And I never again was un-appreciative of the small gestures.

Love is sex, yearning, angst and faith. But it takes smaller forms, and it's important that I look at what happens and appreciate the little gestures, and recognize them as the important creatures they are. Forms of love and affection can also be, as I have found in my own bumpy journeys, the following:

- Making him a cup of hot tea every morning. Not because I felt I had to, but because he just appreciated it so much.
- Throwing up on his lap (not to be spiteful, I wasn't trying to do it. I'm not that vengeful!) and he wasn't angry. He knew I was ill. He just held my hair back and didn't yell at me at all.
- A sister's hug.
- Going to the emergency room with the other person, and just waiting for hours, without complaint. An ER is the most boring and horrible of places in the world. But to kept them amused, distracted, and to smooth their hair the whole time.
- Writing a small note and putting it in your child's lunchbox.
-Realizing someone is pulling away but not letting them go without a fight.
- Allowing me to cry, as I told him in a torrent, all of the things that had happened to me in my life. And then loving me even more for trusting him.
- Knowing how I like my coffee. And bringing it to me in bed.
- Sending text messages every time we fly. A welcome message that lights up the phone with a 'Welcome to (city name)!'� It's just a sign that someone out in the big wide world knows where the other person is. And cares.
- Looking over and seeing he had a bit of wax in his ear. And removing it for him, without comment.
- Sending a letter in the mail. Just because.
- A funny song to make someone laugh.
- Letting someone go because what you want in life and what they want in life are not the same thing. And missing them every day from then on.
- Taking all that you were and telling the story of it. At least, in the telling, the memory lives on. As long as the memory lives on, so does the love.

Those big gestures? God knows, I love them. Big romantic events with champagne and flowers? Well-just tell me where I can sign up. But when I look back on past lovers, it's not the big gestures I remember. It's the little ones, the small thoughtful movements and courtesies, that they thought went unnoticed. I guarantee you, they never did.

The Little Things. The small reminders of love that make the whole stupid scenario so worthwhile. Why we face the dragon, get scorched, and still go back for more. For me, it's not what I WOULD do for love. It's what WOULDN'T I do?

It's as simple and as complicated as that.

If I've missed something, let me know.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:20 PM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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My Cheddar!

From our mate Cheddar:

1. What good did you do in the world today?

I beat the hell out of Best Friend in a lunchtime boxing class. Really, it was for the best that I got it out of my system on a willing participant.

2. What fashion trend are you glad that's gone away? Or what trend are you waiting to go away?

Leg warmers. And feathered hair. Please make them stay away. I look like a fucking stork in leg warmers and I simply have too much hair for it to be feathered. That, and I can't be bothered with fixing it. Soon, can you make the thong hanging out of the butt look go away? I wear thongs, yeah, but showing them should be up to me, not up to my trousers.

3. What's your greatest sports moment, your own or one you've witnessed?

I had a brilliant pad save when I was an ice hockey goalie. It was a beautiful, airborne, flying perfect moment with 30 seconds left in the game, my team was ahead by one. I saved the shot, we won the game, and the team piled on me to celebrate. It was fucking heaven.

4. Who would you nominate for the most annoying person award?

Dr. Phil. Um...are there any other candidates?

5. What do you do to get yourself ready to write? Either blogging or other writing? (I.e. I'm a whiskey drinker and like to have a tumbler to sip from when I write fiction).

Nothing. It's called "booting up the PC". I try not to drink while writing blog stuff, since I get a bit morose. I save that for my novel, which will be distributed along with "The Bell Jar" and "Where the Red Fern Grows" someday as an example of suicidal literary material.

6. Mac or PC or Linux? Why?

PC. Don't really have a choice!

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:26 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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November 06, 2003

Stop What You're Doing

Stop what you're doing for a second.

Just listen to me for a minute.
Ignore your telephone.
Pretend your co-workers are not around.
Dismiss the Outlook meeting reminders.

Close your eyes (squint, really, so that you can read this still).
Just look at me.
Something occurred to me that I needed to do, and maybe you will want to, as well.

Imagine your childhood for one second. I don't know everyone's past, but I imagine deep down, even in the really troubled lives, you have a nice memory that involves your mother, or mother-figure. Think about what your favorite memory is of your her. Whatever image, no matter how perfect or how blurred.

For me, I love that I can make my mother cry. Not out of pain, although God knows, I have done that too, but out of happiness and a sheer total amount of so many warm emotions. When I arrive, when I leave, when I tell her I miss her, when I am feeling blue, she cries with me, for me, about me. Sometimes I think about that when I need to take a moment to figure what the point of my life is.

When I was flying back to Stockholm from San Francisco a few weeks ago, I had such a moment. One of those few moments in life where you really feel everything about where you are. I was tired, alone, dressed in comfy combat pants and a sweatshirt, and armed with only a book, Luuk, and my laptop. The memory of the horrible time in U.S., where I found out that the world moved on without me and I really, truly had become a Nomad, still fresh like a brand-mark on my stomach.

I sat in the airport, a beautiful, stunning, Howard Roark-worthy airport, and watched the setting sun over the bay. Opera was piping through the air, soft and sweet, "Nessum Dorme" wafting through my muscles and sinews and settling in a swirling pattern in my head. A glass of wine before me, sitting at a table before a wall of sheer windows, overlooking the water. We were all tinged a lovely orange and red from the reflection of the water. It was a moment of pure perfection.

I started to cry, and so I did what every adult women in the 21st Century does when she is feeling weak and vulnerable.

I called my mother.
And she made me feel that I was no longer alone in whatever struggles I was facing.

My mother sent me an email today, a long one, which contained lots of support and some questions I will be asking myself soon:

What makes life worth living?
What's missing?
How do I show love?
How will I be remembered?
Where is my fire within?

Someday, I hope to have a little girl (for I hope fate won't be so cruel as to give me sons). I will hold her in my arms and sing Sarah McLachlan's "Angel" to her. I will get angry with her, I will love her madly, and I will do everything I can to keep the world from hurting her. I will swear to never do some of the things my mother did, and then I will do them all over again.

Take a moment now, maybe, and write your mother an email. Call her. Just say hi. And if you are someone who has lost your mother one way or another, you can borrow mine for a minute.

She seems to have enough love for even her most broken of baby birds that have fallen far from the nest.

And if you don't want to do that, you can leave her a message here-in the comments or in a mail to me. It's OK. I'll see that she gets it.

Let me know how it goes.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 06:22 PM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
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The Expatriate

At what point is who we are based on where we are from?

Look around the blog world, see who's around. We always seem pretty aware of where people are from, and it more or less is grouped into two categories: "Americans", and "Others". For the Americans, it can become all very "flag-waving, Miller Lite and Bush-isms". For the non-Americans, it can become all very "those petty Americans, their awful beer, and their damn Bush".

And unfortunately, they are not referring to minge.

It's an ice-breaker, a commonality, a way to see if we all share something. Who are you? Where are you from? It's a starter. As an American who has moved away, I can tell you that I sit squarely on that fence between "American" and "Others". And sometimes, it really hurts my ass.

And my heart.

Let's break it down, shall we? Here are three cultures near and dear to my heart. I love the countries, and find great qualities about them. Plus, I have had sex with men (and a few women, actually) of those nationalities, so I am thus therefore qualified to comment (and yes, these are Helen generalizations).

Americans. Texans, to be specific.
Is a person from Texas an American? Or a Texan? As someone who lived in Texas for ten years, I can tell you that most would identify them as Texans first and foremost (in a trait which I find unbelievably cute in a slightly "Annie Get Your Gun" kind of way). Although I think in order to be a real Texan you need to fulfill one of the following criteria:

- a gun
- big hair
- a fondness for baked beans
- a big mother of an SUV that will never, ever go off-road
- an attitude of self-confidence that rivals Dr. Phil's.

The Land of Oz
Australians seem to be Australians the world round. Stick one in Sweden, Seattle, or the Szechuan Province, and they are still as Aussie as can fucking be (which I find endearing, if sometimes a bit overbearing). They swagger, grin, and are generally quite smug people with confounding personalities. They also can charm the pants off you, which you don't realize until your ass is hanging in the wind. I think in order to be a real Aussie you need to fulfill one of the following criteria:

- be able to hold your liquor
- know what the hell a billabong actually is, and why it is a swag man happened to be near one to begin with
- be able to hold your liquor
- live down the grief and horrible country representation that is the Crocodile Hunter
- be able to hold your liquor

England
Englishmen seem to morph into whatever environment they are put in, however offer them a bag of Walker's Crisps, and it's all very "Rule, Britannia" (by the way, the Proms make no sense at all to those who are not English. Just FYI.) The English have a self-deprecating wit like no other nation I know of, but make no mistake-while they are making fun of themselves, somehow they are also making fun of you. I still don't know how that's done, but suspect it's why the English find "Upstairs, Downstairs" so funny. I think in order to be a real Englishman/Englishwoman you need to fulfill one of the following criteria:

- be able to say the words "Her Majesty's Royal Postal Service" without sniggering.
- not only know what "Chancellor of the Exchequer" means, but never have at one time thought that it was a variety of super-size meal at McD's.
- think that the horror that is Cadbury's chocolate is good stuff.
- one word: Marmite. You can stomach that stuff, you can only be English. (It's the English comparison to American peanut butter. Aussie vegemite. Swedish Kalle's Caviar. Every nation has a weird paste-y type food that all other nations hate. It's some kind of rule)
- be able to go along with burning effigies of people and not feel the least bit voodoo-worshipping for it.

I wonder sometimes at what point you inexplicably become a child of where you are, as opposed to who was (or wasn't) around when you were five years old. What exactly, is the relationship between environment and genetics? Isn't that the great debate (well, that and if nuclear power is really efficient and how in the world we can come up with fat-free peanut butter)? Is there a point in our adult lives when we can incontrovertibly say that who we are today is on the basis of the things we have gone through in our lives, as opposed to the myriad of single cells strung together to form the scientific equivalent of who the hell we are supposed to be'¦

But I digress into too much Scientific Digest crap

Bottom line is, moving away from somewhere you have lived does not mean that you are moving away from who you are. You just absorb, like a sponge, and then drip little droplets of culture everywhere you go. That said, packing up your sponge and going away is far from easy. I wrote this almost 4 years ago, when I was headed for Sweden and a new life, and finds it still holds true today:

I am now on the plane bound for Stockholm. I have never felt this sense of absolute tumult before, never in my life. I am surrounding myself with one hundred thousand different feelings and images. There is no pattern to my life now, there is no echo of anything that I have ever known throughout any hallways inside. I have always been a master at reinventing myself, and this time will be no exception.

It may, in fact, be my greatest feat ever.

Today has gone by so quickly. I have been living in uneasy anticipation, feeling as though today would never get here, and when it did, that it would never end. My flight to Stockholm is half over now, and I reside in an uneasy state of restless hopefulness, all the while trying to memorize a million different memories to tuck into my head. Memories that besiege my every sense. When will I next get a warm cinnamon roll? How long before I see an up-to-date Time Magazine? And my favorite TV shoes, my American hobbies'¦

Is this the biggest mistake of my life, or my grandest adventure? And how soon will I find out the truth? How can I turn my back and walk away from everything that I have ever known?

I don't know when I'll be back to the U.S. to live as a citizen again. I don't even know if I will ever be back. My life has never been easy, never had a focus, a place to feel as though it was where I really belonged. This is all I strive for now, but I live in terror that my country will go off and forget all about me. It will forget me, as once I crossed the gangplank back in Raleigh, I gained a new title'¦expatriate.

An expatriate isn't necessarily someone who leaves their country because they're angry and they hate it. I picture expatriates as being people who fell in love with someone from another country. I picture expatriates (known as 'expats'� as people who have no real home, no real sense of belonging, no haven that makes sense to them. Well, I guess this would be me. But this is by far, the hardest thing that I have ever had to go through in my life.

The plane jerks gently. A vibration beneath my feet tells me that the wheels are emerging, and that we will soon be landing. I sigh deeply, and ignore the bustle of the overhead speaker and the flight attendants shuttling through the cabin. I pack all of my belongings, and clutch my backpack tightly to my chest. Before I know it, we've landed, and are taxiing up to the gate. At the soft resonance of the seat belt sign going off, I emerge from my seat, and head up the aisle of the empty plane.

Stepping out of the plane, I am startled by the cold air seeping through the gap between the plane and the gangplank. I wonder how I look. Can the others around me tell that I have just made the biggest decision of my life? Do I look different?

I head through the abandoned hallways of the Stockholm Arlanda airport. My feet pat silently through the halls, and my few fellow travelers pass me by in a rush of business suits and hang-up bags. I clutch my backpack tighter to me, and resist the urge to cry. The empty bar to my right'¦the silent tax-free shop'¦what do I look like to them?

I ride down the escalator, and present my passport to a clerk, who dutifully stamps it. Grabbing a luggage cart, I begin the traveler's vigil of waiting for my suitcases to appear. It always seems that the luggage time is proportional to how much you're in a hurry. In a rush? You've got a wait before the luggage appears. I wasn't sure what state I was in. I felt a mixture of adventure, terror, anxiety, and hope. My luggage decided my state for me, as it was spit out almost immediately, forcing me to confront the beckoning world outside the airport. I loaded my things on my cart, and wheeled past the customs people, curving around the corner. My heart was pounding, and my mouth was dry. This was the biggest decision of my life, and this is the culminating moment. I turned another corner and tried to stop and just breathe and tell myself'¦.

Everything is going to be OK. I can do this.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:02 AM | Comments (16) | Add Comment
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November 05, 2003

Helen Gets Her Revenge

Having already had Volvo-Man skewered, tarred, feathered, summarily dismissed from Company X and changed into a woman since she volunteered him for the "Sex Change for Meal Coupons at Chick-Fil-A" competition, Helen set her sights on the next two targets.

Don and Jim.

Knowing that both Don and Jim had been playing for her affections for some time, in a battle of wits which left other bloggers bleeding in a ditch by the wayside, she knew that he would never rest until she met with the winner and satisfied his...curiousity (as they call it in Sweden).

Moving up the hallway, she rubs one hand down her thigh, feeling the lace of the stocking beneath the shiny black sheath of a dress. She struts-well, as well as one can strut in flats, since her winner is only one inch taller than her-down the tiled hallway floor, headed to the elegant hotel room overlooking the Champs Elysees.

(Hey-it's my revenge story. I'm going to set it where I want to!)

She knows this was a battle to the...er...climax. There can be only one.

Suddenly, she wants to shag Christopher Lambert, but then dismisses it, since he's icky.

She reaches the hotel room door. She places a delicate lily-white hand on the door and pushes it open. She looks up. The room is awash with candles and lilies (her favorite). She sees the figure of a man, dashing in a three-piece suit (come on now, isn't every man dashing in a three-piece suit?) rise and reach out a hand.

She meets his eyes. They feel a burst of electricity. And at that moment, Don and Helen are in love.

A voice whispers in her ear: You have chosen...wisely.
Helen (confused): God? Sean Connery?
An arm reaches behind her and spins her around, forcing her to miss Don's outstretched arm that would take her into his embrace and make wild passionate love all night (as well as fuck a bit while trying to watch 30 second intervals of free pay-per-view porn). She whirls, and is confronted with...

...Jim

Helen: Um, Jim? Why are you wearing a bellboy outfit?
Jim: I had to do something to cover my horns, Helen.
Don (screaming): Damn you Jim! Damn you to hell!

Helen and Jim stare at Don.

Don (embarrassed): Sorry, I thought the three-piece suit called for some old-fashioned cursing. Sorry, my bad.
Helen: Jim, what are you doing here?
Jim: I had to prevent you from being swept away by Don. I had to have a chance with you.
Don (scratching his head): Am I being punk'd?

Helen reaches for Don's hand and holds him close.

Helen (passionately, swooning in his arms): I can't, Jim. My heart belongs to another! DOn't make me choose, I can never stand the pain. Never!
Jim (looking a bit confused): Er, ok, Harlequin Romance girl. You may like Don, but does he have a white creamy dip?
Don (embarrassed): I did once in high school, but I took some antibiotics. It cleared it all up.
Jim: No man, I mean I brought some artichoke dip. Helen is a veggie, after all. She loves rabbit food like that.
Helen: What?
Jim: What?
Helen: What?
Jim: Here, try this.

He reaches behind him and swipes a dainty finger into a silver pot of creamy white artichoke dip, and brings it to Helen's mouth. Don dives forward, trying to prevent this from happening. He grabs Jim's arm and shakes it, forcing the dip onto Helen's dress. In a continual slow motion move, he dives, screaming, and grabs Jim's other arm, forcing the silver dip bowl to go diving and splatters all over Jim's bellboy trousers and Don's head. Jim protectively covers his crotch, worried Don is going for a racking. He stays, panting and angry at Jim's feet.

A screeching voice is heard from the hallway.

"What the HELL is going on here?"

All three of them look up and see Simon, standing at the door. He is shaking and terrified, holding a Marmite sandwich. They look at each other and realize how they look.

Helen has a white stain down the front of her dress.
Jim is holding onto his crotch.
Don is between them, covered in a thick white cream.
Helen feels like an idiot and briefly debates going gay.

Don and Jim immediately decide they don't care how they look, since Jim is out of the closet anyway. Winning Helen is more important than looking like a tag team of whip me/beat me gay men (hey-it's MY revenge fantasy!).

Don and Jim stand up and circle Simon, worried about yet another contender for Helen's affections.

Simon (screaming in serious distress): Good God, good God! I'm just here for the BEAR!

They all sigh, and Don, in one motion, grabs Luuk, hurling him into the hallway. Jim, ever the demonic gentleman, goes running to catch Luuk to make sure he isn't injured. Don, seizing the moment, shoves Jim out the door and latches it behind him.

Don (putting his lips on her neck): Gentlemen always lose, Kitten.
Helen: Oh Don! Talk dirty to me!
Don: One hundred white horses fell in the mud.
Helen: Good enough!

And she kisses him deeply.

And Don took the whole night to prove to Helen the term: Winner takes all.

She in term taught him the term: multiple orgams.

-H.

PS-I have been nominated as a Hot Blogging Chick. Cool.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:40 PM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
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The Aftermath

Believe it or not, I had another funny, light-hearted post lined up for today, the same post that should have been posted on Monday about the strange happenings between men and women.

Then my life went to hell in a handbasket, and it has been postponed. Again.

All this, and my blog not only passed the 10,000 mark on site meter, but I achieved over 500 hits yesterday. I am not sure if it is my sex posts or more like "let's go view the nut in the nuthouse", but whatever it is, I appreciate it.

My Volvo-Man saga continues and has, in fact, gotten worse.

As you know, we had an accident on Monday which was not my fault but which the impotent bastard painted as my fault. I dismissed it from my mind, as much as I could, but I confess it still really burned me up, badly. When Partner Unit and I went to lunch yesterday, we tried to discuss it.

"I'm so angry about it, still." I said, eating my lesbian-er, Lebanese-food slowly.
"I know, but there's nothing you can do about it now." he replied.
"Still, if I ever see him, I'm going to kill him."
"No, you're not, honey."
"Oh yes I am."
"No you're not."
"Really, it's for the best of mankind that I do."
"If you see him again, remain calm, and we will call the police."
"Why? So that they can come and mock me again?"
"Because that is how things are done here."
"Well, I prefer things my way. If I seem him, I'm going to go after him."

I should be a fortune teller.

I went to my boxing class as usual. Best Friend couldn't go with me tonight, since he was busy with wife and child duties. So I went alone and partnered with a scary chick named Sara. As we neared the end of the workout, I was beginning to feel good. I was doing uppercuts, which I am very good at, and sweating like mad. I looked up, across the gym, and saw a man sitting on a bench tying his shoes.

My heart stopped. It was him. I knew it.

I dropped my pads and turned to Sara. "I'll be right back." I said, sprinting off, leaving her looking confused.

I walked up to him. "Excuse me, but do you drive a Volvo?" I asked nicely.
He looked at me and smiled. "Yes I do." he replied. Then something happened to his face as he realized it was me. "It's you, you fucking bitch!" he said.

"Yes, it's me. What's your name?" I demanded coldly.
"Fuck you!" he snarled.
"No thanks. What's your fucking name?" I demanded again.

A gym staff person, walking by, hurried up to us. "What's the problem?" she demanded.
He turned to her and started sneering, and told her, in Swedish, that I had caused a car accident, was crazy, and so on. That's when I realized what I had to do.

I looked at him. "If you ever come near me again, I will make you pay. Do you understand me?" I asked.
He looked at me "You're fucking crazy."
"You're going to pay for making me look like a liar. Just remember that."
"Fuck you!" he screamed.

So, we didn't really have a screaming match, more like "harsh words". Which was enough, trust me.

I ran up the stairs and used the phone to call Partner Unit and the gym called security. Both dashed to the gym to meet me. Volvo-Man walked upstairs and left the gym. I waited at the desk for security. Then, weirdly enough, Volvo-Man walked back in and stood there, staring at me. And he walked and positioned himself by one of the exits of the gym.

I took off running for the other exit, abandoning all my clothes and gear in the gym, and ran into the building where I work. I logged on, called all appropriate parties, and entered that blog from yesterday. I am still a mess, really shaky and scared.

But here's where it all gets interesting and my world falls apart.

Security is working on banning him from the gym, and due to the fact that I felt threatened, scared, and in danger, I can most likely file police charges against him.

Ooooh...and boy, am I going to. I have to be honest here-it is now my personal mission to make his life as difficult as possible. Were he not in Company X, you bet your ass I would've posted his name and phone number. Am I going to lost karma points for revenge? Probably. Do I care anymore? Nope.

He and his manager are getting phone calls today from security. I am likely going to tell my manager what happened, just to be on the above-board about it. I have nothing left to lose. 12 more days to Judgement Day.

I know his name now, and his car license number. I also know where he works, and it is in an entirely different division from me, so I am not scared of him interfacing me at work. Here's the really interesting bit: since I have his license, I checked it online. His car came up as "kör förbud", which means "forbidden to drive". In other words, it didn't pass inspection and is not even allowed to be on the road. If the police man had remotely been doing his fucking job and just run this guys plate, the whole incident of the accident would have been pointless-Volvo-Man would've been busted for driving a kör förbud car.

The further interesting bit: he is a consultant, working with Company X. Bad news is with the PC helpdesk, so I worry about my pc and internet/Outlook access. But I am now launching a campaign to get his contract terminated. I figure it's the least I can do. Especially since from now on I am to have a security escort anytime I work out at the gym.

Fuck with my peace of mind, and I will make you pay.

When we got home, Partner Unit wanted me to talk about my feelings. I didn't want to. He persisted. I didn't want to. He kept digging. Finally, I erupted.

And it was horrible. I was ranting and crying, not at Partner Unit, but how I had been treated. What had happened. The fact that it was so incredibly unfair and due, in a large part, to the fact that I didn't take the conversation in Swedish.

Partner Unit suddenly blew up. Screaming in my face about how I obviously blame him for everything, that he is not enough of a man to fix everything. I was totally confused. What was he talking about? I'd never said any such thing. I was just angry that the car accident stuff had ever happened. Partner Unit slammed his fist into a wall, and stormed away. I ran upstairs. He followed. The anger continued, and he did a few things he is not proud of.

Finally, little Helen burst.

"I'm sorry you feel I was accusing you, but in no way did I do that!" I said. "This is what my feelings look like. You wanted me to tell you how I felt, and this is it. What I feel inside of me is raw, unsophisticated, and messy. It comes from never telling people how I feel. EVER! You asked how I felt. You got it. It was a mistake on both of our parts."

He looked at me and immediately calmed down. "Oh God, H. I'm sorry." he said.

By then I was crying beyond belief. "Don't worry about it. I told you my feelings. I won't make that mistake again."

And we are now politely civil, but some big metal trap door in my heart swung shut last night. I know now, more than ever, that Partner Unit and I are not going to be together much longer.

My relationship hangs in tatters. I have a scary Volvo-Man making my life very difficult. I may lose my job in 12 days. I'm not entirely sure, but I think that things are at an all-time low. And I am really, really sorry that this post is such a downer.

Funny post tomorrow, barring any Volvo-Man stupidity.

-H.

PS-I (breath deep, Helen) entered Guiness's writing contest. A short bit of work of mine is posted there, so take a look and rant away. It's the one entitled "Starting Over".

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:22 AM | Comments (23) | Add Comment
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Luuk Lovers

Luuk is off to Jim, then to Don. Where he goes next is up to Don, but I vote for Simon, due to his eagerness!

Updated list of interested parties:

Joey in Atlanta-take photos Jim doesn't!
Don in Virginia-my favorite muppet.
Simon in HK-there's masses of cool ideas there!
Drew in NYC-I see funny shots coming our way!
David in Texas-Alamo, baby. You know what to do.
Ted in D.C. - Everyday Bear for Senator!
Tiffani in Cleveland-Rock and Roll Hall of Fame sounds GREAT!
Brass in Vail-one word: snowboard. Perfect.
Sue in Indiana-take one of your gorgeous country shots!
Robert in Jersey (the island) - one of my favorite places.
Kaetchen in San Francisco-wonder if Luuk will go to a bath house?
Jennifer in New Orleans-Luuk goes voodoo!
Pylorns in Austin-I see 6th Street drinking in Luuk's future!

If you're interested, just let me know, I will keep the list updated. To see who takes Luuk after Don, just email Don!

-H.

PS: Don loves me. Even if he cheats on me with Britney. And in a bitter show of "fuck you, Helen, fate is here to bitch-slap you", the other love of my life is cheating on me with Britney, too.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:33 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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November 04, 2003

Oh My God

Volvo-Man was at my gym, during my boxing class.

My company gym.

He works for Company X.

We had a screaming show-down at the gym. It was horrible.

I am shaking at my desk in my sweaty boxing clothes and security, Partner Unit, and Company X is now involved. Just in time for redundancies-I am sure Company X will not appreciate this from me.

I am a train wreck.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:10 PM | Comments (26) | Add Comment
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Inter-Active Bits

A few things:

I know, I almost never do this link stuff. But I have one or two things to say here. And since I wonder if I scared people off with my last post earlier today...(go ahead and read it and comment, my chickens. I know you have opinions. I like to hear them!)

First off, Wizbang is debating the idea of a Playboy for Blogging Chicks issue. LeeAnn and I have jumped on board. Feel free to share your thoughts.

And you guys thought I was sexual. The Bartender almost made me blush.

Also, my Best Friend and I have a common fantasy we share together when we are having a bad day. No, it's not THAT kind of fantasy. We have a fantasy about being able to start a bar on a desert island somewhere, far away from Company X and snowy Sweden. So we are taking suggestions. What should the theme be? The music? The locale? Any additional attractions? And if we ran a bar, would you come for a drink?

My boy and my other boy have been writing up a storm. Send them some love. I know I do.

Finally, Luuk is airborne as we speak, headed for Jim. After that, it is up to Jim as to where he should go.
Here is how I thought we should work this: wherever he goes, just pop me an email at everydaystranger@hotmail.com and let me know. Take some digital pics in places that you think he would enjoy. And sign his passport (I'm a dork, and made him a homemade passport. Write a little something in there!)

People who are interested:

Joey in Atlanta-take photos Jim doesn't!
Don in Virginia-my favorite muppet.
Simon in HK-there's masses of cool ideas there!
Drew in NYC-I see funny shots coming our way!
David in Texas-Alamo, baby. You know what to do.
Ted in D.C. - Everyday Bear for Senator!
Tiffani in Cleveland-Rock and Roll Hall of Fame sounds GREAT!
Brass in Vail-one word: snowboard. Perfect.
Sue in Indiana-take one of your gorgeous country shots!

I leave it to Jim. If you want to host Luuk next, just give Jim a shout. If there are others that are interested in taking on little Luuk, just drop a comment here!

I think that's about it now. Off to boxing class!

-H.


Posted by: Everydaystranger at 05:05 PM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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Sado-Masochism, or Will You Dominate Me Please?

Got your attention, I am sure.

I have had a very strange and fucked up relationship history. This is not a "poor Helen" tag. It simply is. It's safe to say that I dated a whole parade of losers (4) before I ever had my first orgasm (Kim, of course). And he was just via oral sex. It took several more in the parade of losers ( before I had my first penetrative orgasm (Mr. Y). And Mr. Y wasn't just my first penetrative orgasm. He was my first orgasm without even being touched down there.

That's right. Go ahead and be impressed. I sure as hell was.

A bit of history-I have had a rough time with men. I have had one or two that might have done some damage. And I have something about me which seems to drive men to want to hit me (so they say) as I have been hit a few times, which is a topic for another day. (And the next guy that tries to hit me will benefit from some of my boxing training. I kid you not.)

Anyway, one lover from my past, in particular, did some damage. His name was Michael. He and I and another guy lived together as roommates during college, in what basically boils down to a flat full of crack dens and cockroaches (hey-we were in college. Who has money for nice places then?) and he and I became more than roommates. The people in the flat below us were gang members, and sometimes fights occurred in the parking lot. They never bothered us, we never bothered them, and life went on.

Michael was terrible in bed (but although that's wildly humorous, let's not focus on that just now). Anyway, one night in bed we were rough-housing. Then we started to argue. Then, he did what no man should ever do.

He slapped me.
Hard.
Across the face.

And then he threw me out of flat, and locked me out.
And I was naked.
Locked out of the flat.
In our gang-infested apartment complex.

I flipped out. I started screaming and hitting the door. Then I started crying and pounding the door. Then I started whimpering and kneeling by the door. Until finally, Michael came and opened the door and let me back in.

We split up later after I cheated on him. Sorry, but I don't feel too bad about that.

I couldn't sleep naked again after that. I just felt my skin crawl when it touched the sheets, I felt an icy panic come over me, I felt a thousand fears that I was going to be locked out of the flat. I would have sex with my partners and then promptly put on my tank top and boxer shorts, despite their protests, and go to sleep.

Now, I am one seriously independent woman. I don't like being told what to do, what to think, or what to say. No one can tell me what to do ever, and if you try to force me, I will tear your balls off with my teeth and enjoy while you bleed to death. (Er...again, remember that I have a bit of an anger control problem.)

But then someone we'll call Mr. Y came into my life, and all bets were off.

Have you seen that movie "The Secretary", where the secretary is dominated by her boss (a very creepy James Spader)? Yeah. That movie spoke to me on so many levels it's unbelievable. It brought my memories and yearning back for Mr Y to a level of intensity that almost crippled me.

And it all came down to him putting one hand on the side of my face, on the very first night we hooked up. He massaged my cheek, looked me in the eyes, and said softly: "I would never harm you. Ever."

I think I loved him then.

The first night Mr. Y and I were really together he made it clear he was in charge. He let me orgasm when he wanted me to. He wouldn't kiss me unless he wanted me to. He decided what happened in bed.

Sometimes it would be rough and I would play the part of the whore.
Sometimes he made worshipful love to every inch of my body.
Sometimes he would spank me.
Sometimes the tenderness made me melt into a hot smoldering scorch mark in the bed.
Sometimes we fantasized about fucking other people, knowingly, and taunted each other with the visions of it.

One evening he took a pillowcase and put it over my head, leaving it very, very loose, rucked up mostly over my eyes. With this iron strong hands he held my arms above my head, and he would move the pillowcase to just where he wanted to kiss. He would ease the hem of it up and mutilate my neck with fiery kisses, leaving me gasping. He would further ease the pillowcase up and make me squirm as he teased my ears. Then he would lower the pillowcase and move down to focus his face on my perfectly trimmed minge, stopping just before I reached a screaming orgasm. Finally, he worked his way back up to my neck, easing the pillowcase up, and as his lips graced my goose-bumped flesh and his teeth gently tugged on red and yearning skin, I had a ripping orgasm that tore through me and came out in ragged gasps.

And he wasn't even inside me then.

One day, after a long bed session, he turned to me, and took my chin in his hand. He met my gaze evenly, and said softly:

"You are not going to wear pajamas in bed with me ever again."

And I didn't. I simply obeyed. It didn't occur to me not to.

And his gaze travelled down to the scars on my left arm, and he rasied his eyes and met my gaze again.

"And you aren't going to hurt yourself anymore. And if you feel the need to, you are going to tell me first."

And I didn't hurt myself anymore (remember, I have had a bit of a troubled life. I had been injuring myself, on the left arm, for many years, which was something I never told anyone. Don't worry-I have toned down the crazy dial since then). I didn't seem to feel the need to any longer. Some little whimpering, tortured, broken part inside of my simply vanished, and all my past, present, and future were laid on the line for him. He was simply crazy about me, and I was simply crazy about him. I was in no way degraded, held hostage, or reduced to something less than I was. He simply tried to strip me of any fears and neurosis.

I couldn't believe it, but once he said those things, I was mostly cured. I slept naked in bed, my body smoothed flat against the cold white goodness of the linens, my breasts and hips religious in their devotion to the sheets. Clothes were a burden to me, a hair-shirt in bed that I couldn't bear to feel. He set me free from the iron cage of my own neurosis, and where anyone else would have been told to Fox Trot Oscar had they tried to tell me to do something, his words unlocked a long-rusted padlock that centered in the middle of my brain.

I was free.

It was that relationship where I learned that all sense of control is an illusion in a relationship. That for years, all of the bars and bells and traps I had set for men and for myself were just a way of my trying to keep everyone at arms' length. That Michael was just a pathetic excuse for the male race, but that there were plenty of men out there who would help me lovingly wipe his memory away.

And it was with Mr. Y that I learned that although I am one independent woman, I also need to be dominated from time to time. Sometimes, my control needs to be taken away from me and handed to someone else. And sometimes, you just need to trust someone enough to let them.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:57 AM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
Post contains 1391 words, total size 7 kb.

November 03, 2003

Chainsaw Time

I had a funny post lined up for today. Something slightly raunchy, that would amuse and hopefully titillate.

Then I had a car accident this morning.

My funny post has gone out the window.

To say that my weekend has not gone well would be like saying the Titanic was a minor boating mishap. Yesterday I had a very horrible day, for reasons that I will spare you from (but to summarize they stem from horrible fights with both Partner Unit and Dear Mate), but suffice to say that I spent most of the day in a state of suspended medication. I slept all afternoon, then went to bed at 8:30 at night. Really, that was for the best. I woke up this morning with a sleeping tablet hangover, but at least I got some fucking sleep.

Driving into work this morning, I realized my veins were throbbing with icy fury and my heart had frozen solid. I had reached a new level of coldness. It may surprise you to know that people in my real life around me often accuse me of being cold, calculating, and uncaring. This, actually, is about as far from the truth as it gets. I take everything to heart and keep it there.

But believe it or not, I just never really tell people how I feel. Hard to believe, based on this blog, I know.

Anyway, I waited forever in a queue to get onto the highway to get to work. Monday morning traffic was bad, made worse by bad weather. A guy in a Volvo tried to get around me and cut into the queue, but I was having none of that. I had waited forever, he could wait his fucking turn, too. I wouldn't let him in. Volvo-man then tried to go around me in the breakdown lane. I wouldn't have that, either. Not ok with me. I went and blocked the way for him.

Then he got behind me, cut across the median, and zoomed onto the highway. He went across two lanes of traffic, then swung over and went into the lane in front of me, as I was merging onto the highway.

Then he slammed on his brakes and stopped his car. On the highway. Two feet in front of me.

I had been on the phone-I slammed on my brakes. I screamed. I hit him. My cell phone and hands-free kit went sliding onto the floorboard as there was a thud of my car hitting his.

Then I became a beast. I got out of the car and started screaming. In English. I was livid, and this guy made things worse. A police car came up behind me, and we moved onto the breakdown lane. I tried to explain to the cop what happened, in screaming English. I was shaking and loud. Very loud.

Volvo-man got out of his car and explained, in Swedish, that I was crazy and lying. I had hit him deliberately. I drove like a maniac and tried to cut him off. I was vicious.

And the cop believed him.

I explained what happened. The cop told me "People in Sweden don't drive like that. We help each other here. That man would never drive like that."

There was a loud thud as my jaw hit the pavement.

"Are you calling me a liar?" I asked the cop.
"You clearly don't understand what you are talking about." replied the cop. Volvo-man looked smug by the side of the road. I realized I was in real danger of hitting both the cop and Volvo-man and spending some time in jail.

The cop produced some insurance papers, since my car needs a new fender, but Volvo-man had no damage. I told him I didn't want to file papers, I just wanted Volvo-man to get the fuck out of my life, so the cop told me I was free to go. As I got into my car, Volvo-man looked at me and sneered.

"Are you single?" he asked.
"Why? You looking for a date, you fucking freaky loser?" I asked.
"No, you just act like it. It's part of your problem." he sniggered.
I slammed into my car and drove to work, Volvo-man following me the entire way.

And, I have to confess, I cried the whole way.

I am reaching my capacity for bullshit.

I will be taking the chainsaw out of the garage later and installing it in my car. And I am going Texas Chainsaw Massacre at the next person that goes after my driving. This little white chick has had enough of the freaky bullshit driving here.

-H.

PS-Jennifer interviewed me, and you can find it here. Thanks for the good questions, kids. Stay tuned, this site will be cheerful tomorrow (barring any more run-ins with Volvo-man).

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:15 AM | Comments (24) | Add Comment
Post contains 809 words, total size 4 kb.

November 01, 2003

I Got Them In a Knife Fight

Four years ago, I went to an outdoor concert in Raleigh, North Carolina. I sat outside in the warm summer sun in a backless shirt, relaxing on a blanket with some friends. One of them came up behind me and looked at my back.

"Damn, H!" she whistled. "You need to go to a dermatologist! That does NOT look right!"

I couldn't see what she was referring to, so she got out a pocket mirror. There, on the bottom of my right shoulder, was an inky black mark the size of a pencil eraser, only one side of it was a little bit crooked.

I had never seen it before.

One week later, I was in a dermatologist's office.

I was given a paper gown, and told to remove all of my clothing and wear only the gown. I sat on the cold vinyl of the dressing table, my bottom on the paper mat, the smell of alcohol in the air, and I waited in nervous trepidation. The seconds hand on the clock was deafening as it ticked off the time.

The doctor came in shortly and shook my hand. He introduced himself as Dr. Nash, and my guess was (based on his gorgeous creamy caramel coloring and very kind, dark brown eyes) that he was of Indian descent. He put me at ease right away and had me lay down on my stomach to inspect my back.

He opened the back of the gown and immediately said "Helen, I am really sorry to have to tell you this, but this is actually quite serious and needs immediate removal. You have at least three spots on your back that look to be pretty serious."

I took a deep breath, and nodded, feeling the paper on the table crinkle beneath me.

"I mean, they have to come off today. And they will need to be analyzed in the lab before we know if you have to come back again."

I nodded again. He went out and got a nurse, and together they prepped a tray for removal. First, I had to be photographed from almost every angle. These pictures would be used as reference points for any further patches that would appear. As I stood in front of a white sheet, I felt very, very small and extremely vulnerable. The nurse seemed to recognize this.

"Do you have anyone we can call?" she asked, squeezing my shoulder.

"Nope." I replied softly. "I am alone here."

Because I was.

And then I lay down on the table while they removed patches of my skin. I lay, a sheet draped around me, as the doctor carefully stuck my back with burning anesthetic and then stitched up. Occasionally I would feel a cold trickle places, and realized that it was my blood running down my sides, which the nurse hastily retrieved. Dr. Nash talked soothingly to me the entire time. He told me that the spots removed from my back would be scars, possibly large ones. He bandaged me up, and I actually felt ok, like there was no pain.

If tests proved that these spots were cancerous, that he may need to go back in to remove more. In all, he removed 4 moles and I got over 20 stitches.

And he did need to. Within a week I was back. Two of the moles proved to be cancerous.

It appeared that they had not gotten all of the cancer, and so more 'scooping'�, as I started to call it, was required around the sites that they had been. This time, I received over 20 stitches in one former site and 8 internal stitches in another one, which looked perfectly as though a cigar had been burned into my back. I arose, sore and bandaged, feeling a spot of blood trickle down my back. I was grateful I had chosen to wear black, however, this time my shoulders ached and nagged at me, aching in some deep way that not even a super powered aspirin could cure.

Doctor Nash smiled at me. 'You feeling OK?'�

'Oh, yeah.'� I replied. And I did feel OK, other than a little soreness.

'I'm sorry about the scarring that it will leave.'� He said, and smiled ruefully.

'No worries.'� I replied, picking up my purse from the chair beside the door. 'I will just have to tell the design houses that I am only to model clothes with backs on them." Oddly enough, I felt my face burning and my eyes hot with anger.

He looked at me and took my hand in his own. He looked kindly at my face.

"Helen," he said softly. "You are beautiful outside, but more importantly, you are more beautiful on the inside. These scars...well, they're marks. Big ones. But sometimes, it's impossible to hide something inside based on some white marks on the outside. You have something inside of you, an inner beauty, that most people never find."

He made me cry. I didn't feel in the slightest that he was inappropriate or over-stepping his lines. He was trying to tell me something I had never believed, that beauty really is only skin deep. That these scars that I bear would only be reminders of yet another chapter in the Book of Helen, an experience that I would survive and grow from.

I never saw Dr. Nash again, although he gave me a confidence I never knew I had. I am not beautiful, maybe I am just average. But for one second, this doctor believed in me.

I have had several more removals of spots here in Sweden, but it appears to have disappeared now. I have some nice-sized scars, and when I get asked about them, I laugh and tell people I got them in a knife fight. I got them pushing an old lady out of the way of a speeding car. I survived a shark attack. I can laugh about them and go about my life.

I owe it all to a kind doctor that held my hand and told me I was beautiful. He changed my life and my way of thinking, and for that, I will always owe him.

-H.

Some big changes are coming in my life.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 01:10 PM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
Post contains 1057 words, total size 6 kb.

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