February 26, 2004

All That For Some Nice Beads...

An update on my real life tomorrow, but I realized that this week was Mardi Gras week, and that takes me to something that I probably have never told anyone-but what the hell, you only live once. That's right-I have a wild Mardi Gras story.

I went to Mardi Gras in New Orleans twice when I lived in the U.S. Once when I was in university, and once when I was a grown-up working for a stockbroking firm. Both times, I went with Kim. And on the trip where we were in university, man alive did it sure seem like it.

Since we were poor college students, we had to take it as such-so we stayed two nights in Kim's minivan, parked in an underground parking lot. That's right-we really roughed it. The amazing thing is, we even had a portable toilet in the minivan with us, so it was all the comforts of home.

Minus a shower, of course.

I had been to New Orleans before and absolutely loved it. Kim had never been, so during the day we toured the French Quarter and the surrounding neighborhoods. Of course, we did this starting off with an Egg McMuffin and a Hurricane-and if you're not familiar with Hurricanes, they're one part fruit punch, one part Rum, and one-part Everclear (a grain alcohol that is something like 80 proof). So we-like the rest of New Orleans, really-walked around with an unmistakable red mustach and pink colored tongue for the duration of the party.

Mardi Gras is all about floats, and Crewes, and beads and alcohol and food and dancing. It was wild and out of control and yet happy and friendly all at once. Kim kept an eagle's eye on me the entire time-always protecting me and keeping me safe, yet glowing when he looked at me.

At one point, we used a line of porta-potties outside on the street. New Orleans becomes one big urinal otherwise, and so this was the best option. I walked into one, trying to hold my absolute desperate fear of those things in check. I fucking hate porta-potties, they fill me with horror that I or one of my belongings will fall down the Nasty Hole. As I started to hover above the Nasty Hole, the porta-potty rocked slightly. I screamed. It rocked again. "Don't fucking move this thing, or I swear to God I will kill you!" I screamed. I hustled the urine out of my bladder faster than I ever had before. People were trying to tip the porta-potty! I was going to be covered with the nastiest of the nasty! I kept screaming to leave the porta-potty alone, and I threw the door open before my jeans were even buttoned.

Outside, a crowd had gathered looking confused. Kim was convulsed with laughter. It turns out one of the support blocks under the porta-potty had moved slightly, so it was only a tiny bit out of balance.

No one was trying to tip it over. I had just been banging about in there like a gerbil on crack.

Humiliation.

At night, Mardi Gras gets even wilder. Some streets I found I could just pick my feet up and get carried by the heavy masses of crowds. Others you would spend dancing down the street, the sounds of beads, broken plastic cups, laughter and kisses ripe in your ears. With our stomachs full of incredible Cajun food and our brains full of Hurricanes, we spent time getting beads from the floats, me on Kim's shoulders, trying to look cute.

And, of course, flashing my breasts, too. I had no problem with it-after all, I think my breasts are fucking perfect. I had abandoned my bra to Kim's coat pocket ages before that, and the shirt got rucked up with regular abandon, to which I was always rewarded with some nice beads.

And so it was that it happened-pretty much fully intoxicated by now, it was late at night and the party raged on. Kim and I walked down one street, and I saw a middle-aged man wearing the nicest set of beads I had ever seen-silver, blue and white, with little silver King Babies on it as well. I knew I had to have those beads.

I stopped to talk to the man, who it turns out was a doctor from Ohio. He had gotten in to New Orleans late that evening, and so had bought the beads from a store for $10, having missed the parade. I offered him some of my masses of beads for his beads. He said he wasn't interested, what else did I have to offer?

I stood there thinking, then I heard Kim's voice pipe up.

"How about if you feel her up?"
Doc's face lit up.
Seemed fair enough to me.
They started negotiating the amount of time the doctor would be allowed to feel me up. Doc started at 15 seconds. Kim countered at 5. 14 then 5. 12. 5. 10. Kim relented and gave 7.
I whipped up my shirt, and doc's hands came out, cupping my breasts.
Kim stood beside me, counting off.

"One Mississippi!"
Doc's hands underneath.
"Two Mississippi!"
"Three Mississippi!"
Still just massaging me.
"Four Mississippi!"
They started moving upwards.
And so on, until 7. At which point, Kim hollered out: "Bonus second! 8 Mississippi!"
Doc's face lit up and he kept massaging, until Kim got to "Bonus second 10 Mississippi!", at which point he stepped forward and pulled my shirt down.

The doctor, a big grin on his face, happily removed his beads and placed them around my neck. I grabbed a whole chunk of the beads I had and placed them around his, along with a kiss on the cheek. We went our seperate ways then, and I Kim and I made out like madmen on the street then, hands all over the place, while we struggled to get to the minivan. Once we got there, we discovered we were too drunk to fuck, so we passed out in each other's arms.

I still have those beads. I will always have those beads.

-H.


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February 25, 2004

The Weight of the World...

...is off my shoulders.

Thank you guys so much for all the wonderful well-wishes yesterday. I really mean it-I am amazed at how many people were rooting with me in my battle for the visa. Thank you.

After posting my blog yesterday, I spent a good two hours just sitting in the chair, crying. Not crying tears of hopelessness, fear, anger, and utter destruction, but for once I was crying rivers of tears of relief. I called my mother, waking her up at 5 am her time.

"Mom?" I choked. "I got my visa. I'm going to survive Company X after all."

"Mm-hm, that's nice dear, I love you." replied my dozy mom, aching to go back to sleep. So I let her.

I do have some contact with Mr. Y, only it's extremely limited. He got a message from me that said only: I got the visa. I was rewarded with a phone call, as he headed to the beach in the ninety degree weather. Here, it was -5 and almost blizzard conditions. I am so envious.

I talked to X Partner Unit, and he was very happy for me, even presenting me with a small bottle of champagne. We started boxing and removing belongings last night, and there was no fighting or animosity in it-we seperated the books (I am giving almost my whole collection away), and I turned to the shelf of our travel books from the places we have been together-Malaysia, the Seychelles, Turkey, Greece, Ireland, and others. I asked him if he wanted any of those books and he said no, but not in any mean way. He hugged me, turned to me, and smiled, looking into my eyes.

"You're going to be just fine, Helen. You're going to be fine."

"I survived." I choked to him, eyes welling up again. "I'm not so bad. I survived."

And just like that, the move out begins. My gorgeous dog is moving to X Partner Unit's mother's house, in the countryside. A retired couple who dote on him, I know he will be wildly happy (happier than if he lives in a flat in London with me), but that won't fix the whole in my heart where his wagging tail used to be. My two cats are going to the vet next week-I am vaccinating them and preparing them for a possible move to the UK. In case X Partner Unit doesn't want them...I will. Badly.

I am taking things slowly now, for fear that I will react like I did physically last night-after weeks of a daily eating routine of only coffee, yogurt, and one small meal, we celebrated and I had a whole personal pizza...which alsmost caused me to toss my cookies. So I'm going to slow things down a bit. I have booked myself and X Partner Unit massages on Saturday (we need them). There's a Japanese spa in town that I will go to next week, and spend a full day in the water, by myself, just thinking. I am also going to have an aromatherapy body scrub, another massage, and a facial while I am there.

Just because I want to. Just because I need it. And just because now, I will have money.

I have no start date yet with Dream Job but expect to work that out today. I plan on being in the UK by the end of next week-I have to visit various embassies now for permits, etc. before I go, and I have a lot of packing to do.

But for the first time in...well, I don't know how long...the weight of the world is off my shoulders. I have hope now, where once I didn't dare to for fear of falling too flat on my face. I am a cynic at heart, really, with the idea of being an optimist when I grow up

And so it is that 4 months after losing my job, 2 months after agreeing that Partner Unit and I should split, 1 month after getting my Dream Job, I finally have clearance to try to start over again, to put 2003 (and the worst year of my life so far) behind me.

My God, I have survived so much.

So now, it's time to lay Life Number 5 behind me. I am officially preparing to start Life Number 6 now, and it will kick off the day my feet enter Arlanda airport, ticket to London Heathrow clutched in my hand. Life 6, the Life of a Cat, where I land on my feet and find myself dependently independent.

I survived.

-H.

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February 24, 2004

Innocence

Last night was spent in a frenzy of faxes and phone calls to try to get more info to the visa department. I am exhausted, on edge, and I think I have no stomach liner left. I took some of Kat's advice, though-had my hair in a ponytail, danced around the living room singing (including dancing on the coffee table-a forbidden when you're a kid, but when you're a grown-up? Fuck it-I own that coffee table), had a big hot chocolate (sans the whipped cream) and watched a little Kiefer Sutherland.

And sometimes, just on rare occasions lately, you can find me not stressed and depressed. I can be found in a gentle and relaxed state, a state that one ex-boyfriend called: The only state in which Helen looks innocent.

Dick.

And when I am in this state, my stress levels are down, my breathing is calm and regular, and no way in hell does a delicate flower like me snore.

Sleeping.JPG

And I am going to be in said bed, with a good book, my cats, and a happy, happy smile.

My visa has been approved.

-H.

PS-35 comments from 3000 now.

PPS-with deep gratitude to Larry Conley, who got me a laugh through the afternoon yesterday. Thank you so much.

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February 23, 2004

And The World Falls Down

In Sweden this week it's a holiday called Sportslov, which is the Swedish equivalent to Spring Break. The point is to take off and spend time in the outdoors, move around, and be one with nature.

It's currently -5 and snowing absolute bucket-loads. I'll pass on the being outside bit. Mr. Y is flying off on holiday today with his kids in a sunny tropical U.S. location for two weeks (my God, I am going to miss talking to him). My therapist is also off, enjoying one week holiday. I am still waiting for my visa information.

It's going to be a long dark week, in other words.

I found this website about job loss, and read it a bit. Although it's filled with touchy-feely crap like getting in touch with your "emotional waves", it's otherwise pretty good. Losing your job is considered the number 1 most stressful event in an adult's life. It's followed by divorce, moving, death of a family member, and illness.

Wow. Except for the death of a family member, it looks like I'm all set up for morbid levels of stress.

Let's take a look at the levels of stress in a job loss, shall we?

They are thus:

Stage 1: Shock and Denial
Stage 2: Fear and Panic
Stage 3: Anger
Stage 4: Bargaining
Stage 5: Depression
Stage 6: Temporary Acceptance
Moving On

Right. Stage 1: Shock and Denial. Aka, when it happened Helen went comatose for a good 24 hours, sitting crying on the couch underneath a fleece blanket. Basically, I sat there and I thought: Oh. My. Fucking. God. It's the end of the world.

Stage 2: Fear and Panic. Aka-my money runs out in May. When the money's out, the money's out. I can't find a job here in Sweden. I don't want to go back to the U.S. yet. What did I think? I thought: Oh. My. Fucking. God. It's the end of the world.

Stage 3: Anger. OK, on this one, I have to say that I still bounce back to it alot. Whenever I see, in the newspaper, that Company X is doing well in the stockmarket, I go into a rage. The paper gets thrown into the fireplace immediately. Mr. Y and I got into a terrible argument-I told him I wished the company would go bankrupt, he called me childish and petty, since people I love work for them (like himself, X Partner Unit, Dear Mate, and Best Friend.) I think they are clever enough to find other jobs. While I would never actively do anything to attack Company X, I sure wouldn't mind if they didn't do well in the industry anymore. What did I think? Leave me the fuck alone, Company X, and never contact me again. I hate you.

Stage 4: Bargaining. I'm not sure that I ever felt this one, other than the bargaining that I have been doing with myself: If I get the visa and get a new job, I will never do (insert sin) again. If I get the visa and get a new job, I will start doing (insert atonement here). What did I think: I do feel a bit like I could do with some good luck.

Stage 5: Depression. Now, this is the one that I am on still. Sure, I bounce back and forth to anger sometimes, but I am otherwise on this level. It's about the most humiliating and self-esteem destroying thing in the world to lose your job. It's true-I don't want to leave the house, I feel embarassed-like I have no right to show my face in public. Like people will laugh and point at me. I don't want to do anything, not even eat (the sweatpants string that I knotted two weeks ago no longer fits, the pants slide right off my hips).

Maybe my blog is a bit boring lately since I have been so down. But I am only writing what I am honestly feeling. I got an email recently that said, in essence, that I should "snap out of it", as my depression is "so unbecoming".

My blog isn't here to make me look cute. It's here to write about my feelings. So if I am currently unbecoming...well, pick up the shattered pieces of your life and move on. Or just skim my blog entry-if it seems depressing, skip it and wait until I am happy again.

According to the website, I am supposed to feel:

It's all my fault.
You had it coming, hotshot.
They gave me enough rope, and I hanged myself.
If only I hadn't done that.
I'm worthless.
This is the end of the road for me.

And you know what? Those sound about right. Hey man-I excel at beating myself up.

I sometimes bop into the next stage, Stage 6: Temporary Acceptance. I did it from the get go, when I started sending off my CV and job hunting the day I lost my job. Although I am depressed, I am trying to do something with my career-the money runs out soon, the hourglass sands are falling, I have to do something. I guess I can say this: I need to put this behind me. I need to work now. I need to believe in myself again.

And in the meantime, I will sit by my window, watching the thick and fuzzy snowflakes hurtle to the ground, and simply wish that I could have some positive answers soon. Last night in the snow, I wrote the word: Please. It's some sacrificial prayer to whatever gods may care about me.

I also wrote the word: Hope. That one was for me.

-H.

PS-the latest Best of Me symphony is up here, including one from me.

PPS-I am 65 comments away from my 3000th comment.

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February 20, 2004

The First Time Ever I Saw...

Well, I am sitting here with my second cup of coffee and the shakes like I am in day 2 of detox after a decade of the drink. I had Kafka dreams all night last night about being made redundant again (although I did dream about also getting a yes on the visa), and I haven't heard from Mr. Y since last night, when he was partying away at Carnivale in Aachen (a little town in Germany on the border of Holland) with, among others, one of his exes (I trust him, I really do...but I sure would like to hear from him), so after a quick round of self-relations this morning and before I completely flip out let's talk about something else.

The First.

We all remember the First. And, almost without variation, the First was a terrible experience. Over in seconds, sometimes painful, often messy, usually embarassing.

That's right-I am talking about the first time you had sex.

My first (well, my first with a guy. Come to think of it, my first with a girl was pretty lousy, too. But my second time with a girl...oh my...) was when I was almost 18 (I was a late bloomer. Then when I bloomed, it was like a jungle plant out of control. Fucking Tarzan could swing from my vines, baby.) He was 27 (I have always had a thing for older men). He was also, incidentally, the first, only, and as far as I am concerned last man I have ever been with that was shorter than me.

We had met at a theatre that we had both worked at. He was a bit of an odd-ball, living at home (and had never left, actually), still driving the same car he drove in high school, and a complete fanatic of the music of the early Genesis. He was Italian, swarthy, and he was my First.

We were in the living room of his parents house, late at night. It started off as the bump and grind that occurs over clothing. You know, the guy gets a stiffy and decides the best thing to do is to rub it against you in his jeans.

'Cause that doesn't cause the woman to chafe at all, you know.

Pretty soon it was clear what he wanted. And I knew, anyway, that I needed to be able to check this box off in my head-Done that. Check. Now on to solving world peace. So I shrugged and nodded and pulled my jeans off.

His face lit up like a Roman Candle. Fumbingly, he said the only condom he had was in the glove box of his car, would I mind waiting while he ran out and got it?

No, sure, go ahead. I love lying here all trussed up like a naked Thanksgiving turkey with your parents in the other room. You go on and take your time.

He dashed out like a wild puppy and ran back inside with a plastic square. Ripping the package open, he slid it on himself...and it broke within seconds.

The condom, apparently, had been languishing in a remote state of wishful thinking in his glove box for about 6 years. Combine a little ol' thing like an expiration date with a little ol' thing called 100 degree Texas summers, and that condom had as good a chance of working as I would have getting an orgasm out of this experience.

He looked at me stricken. Would I mind if he just went inside a little bit, and he'd pull out when he got close?

And like a thousand other mindless women, I said that was ok. So he eased in and started moving. I felt no pain at all, I had no bleeding at all...in fact, I honestly had that thought in my mind, the one thought that makes men's blood go cold and their willies go colder, the one thought that will stop the action like nothing else can...

...Are you in yet?

About 20 seconds into the whole affair (I am being honest, not uncharitable), he pulled out quickly and let it fly all over his mother's Winter Wheat colored carpet. He blushed wildly and I observed the whole thing rather coldly and clinically.

Box checked. My work here was done.

We later got into a debate-he said I was his Second, I said I was his First. It turns out his idea of a First was when he was making out with a woman 6 years prior (hence the sad and lonely prophylactic in his glove box). However, before he even entered her he popped his cork and made a mess. I said penetration was needed before it counted as sex. He said the presence of the other person made it sex. I said if that was the case, most men lost their virginity in Junior High, but whatever. It's your call.

We stayed together a while, and in fact I even married the guy later on (it seemed like a good idea at the time). This, despite the fact that he refused to go down on women since their parts were "generally unclean", although he would be the first to grab my hair and plunge my head down his way.

We lasted a year. No big loss.

I have yet to meet someone that had a wildly romantic and beautiful first time, with prancing ponies and orgasms galore. I think it's just not meant to be. The First is the ground-breaking ceremony (no pun intended). You start mixing the concrete and laying the foundation the next few times after that. And after some time (and some good partners), over time you will have yourself a fantastic baseball stadium, worthy of the greatest home runs.

-H.

PS-Dear Sam-Regarding your comment about Kim's death: "Yeah, people come and go, what'cha gonna do about it, eh?"

What am I going to do about it?

I'm going to ban your sorry ass, you git.

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February 19, 2004

Options

My visa still hasn't moved an inch, but inspired by what Courtney wrote in a comment some time ago, I have started investigating other options for moving to the UK should my visa fail. Mr. Y and I discussed it briefly on the phone. I asked him if he would be willing to move to the U.S., and he said it's something he could consider. I was flabbergasted-I had firmly expected a no. But that's even further back an option than what I have figured.

Namely, I have been considering if maybe I should go back to school.

I don't really have so many other options. I can't stay in Sweden-it's killing me here, and anyway I am about to be out a place to live. If I don't get the visa, I can't work in the UK. And if I go back to the U.S., I must start from the beginning again-buy a car, get a flat, get a job, and I will lose all my possessions. Not to mention that I am just not ready to go back right now.

But if I don't get the visa, can I accept just going back to school? Can I be ok with it if I am not working, not feeling a part of the greater picutre? Not sure. Some soul-searching needs to be done on that, I think.

So I have found a website that will help me with the applications, as an international student, now I need to find help figuring out what schools I can get U.S. financial aid for. Amazing-I managed to pay off a staggering amount of student loans 5 years ago, now I am facing it again.

And it wasn't until I was walking upstairs with a cup of cranberry juice and university wafting about my mind that the subject I should study came to light, the chance to understand myself and others.

Psychology.

I want to study psychology.

So it's back to the Internet drawing board again. I will check on financial aid, etc., and see what I come up with. And although this is the action plan for what happens if the visa fails (which will kill me), a part of me thinks a bit of part-time schooling might be in order, anyway.

Yesterday was a better day for me. I spent the morning re-doing the bedroom floors. The house is 100 years old, and the filling between the wood floorboards is missing, so we have been working on filling it again with this "wood in a can" filler stuff.

I love that. It could solve all our re-forestation issues. Need more trees here? Get the can.

I did all that, walked the dog, and then needed to shower, as therapy beckoned in the afternoon. I headed to the shower, looking forward to a good long sudsing up, and once in there I realized I had a problem.

We were out of shampoo.

And the fact that I hadn't washed my hair in four days (hey...welcome to depression) and that it was filled with bits of wood in a can didn't help. So I did what any industrious, fast-thinking adult would do and solved the problem.

If my therapist noted I smelled like my dog's Hertz 3-in-1 Flea and Tick Shampoo, he didn't comment on it.

Woof.

-H.

PS-had an erotic dream last night about being rescued by a Marine. Anyone know where I can get one of those?


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February 18, 2004

Much Ado About Something

I will spare you from me discussing my great distress about the visa (I understand it is boring, and anyway there isn't any progress anyway, only further complications.) Instead, let me tell you something about myself.

Cause...you know...I never talk about myself here.

I spent the entire day yesterday sitting in a green armchair that I have in the study. I didn't read. I didn't login. I didn't turn on the TV or radio. I just sat in the chair for the entire day and thought.

Monday was a bad day for me, really. My therapist had, with three sentences that he uttered, unlocked a part of my memory that I had sealed out for many, many years. Suddenly, things that I had very successfully welded shut came back to me in floods, breaking open the pipeline and engulfing my mind, and it was all I could do to strap my hip-waders on and grimly decide to get through it.

And I found myself like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, trying to flip open my opera glasses. Ummm...Mine are Broken! In one afternoon, I lost my ability to disassociate. I had never known it had a name, this thing I did, this ability to step outside of myself. When the going got rough, or even just very emotional, I would be able to step outside of me, to be able to watch what was happening to me much like I would watch a TV show. It wouldn't be real, what I was thinking or feeling. I wasn't there. I hadn't known that this had a name until I read about it on Sedalina's site, and I found out that other people step outside of themselves, too. Armed with a name for this, I talked to my therapist about it. And it is one of three things that is wrong with me.

But since my therapy visit, my transporter is broken. No more beaming off this ship! I am stuck facing an intergalactic war, but at least I armed myself with alien liquor before getting on deck. My aim may be off now, but at least my phaser practice will be hilariously fun.

Losing my job has devastated me so much for one singular reason (well, other than the humiliation of losing my job and the loss of income, but let's forget that now, shall we?): there is only one thing that I believe in myself in, and that's the fact that I think I am intelligent (and I am not being uppity when I say that). No matter how rough my life was going in other areas, I knew that I had my job because I worked like a madman and I was clever (I also believe I am a fabulous sex kitten, but that has nothing to do with my job. No really-it doesn't).

We're not talking uber-Mensa here, but I do think I am smart. I don't know everything about everything, but I can hold my own in debates and I read like a maniac. But the problem is, I am filled to the brim with utterly useless knowledge. In university, I used to be able to name all the Egyptian pharoahs, their dynasties, and their birth and death dates.

You know...'cause that's info that I can use in my daily living.

If I was in a desperate flight for my life with a handsome CIA agent, running from some bad guys in a gorgeous half-torn chiffon dress and cute but reliable strappy shoes (well, at least that's the way I picture it in my head), we would get to a garage and he would draw his gun, panting heavily and looking out for more bad guys.

"Helen!" he would bark. "I need you to-hot wire this car so that we can drive out of here and live happily ever after!"

"Ummm...right." I would reply, shuffling from foot to foot and hoping I looked cute. "Wouldn't you rather discuss Greger Mendel's studies in genetics? I'm can do that one."

People can tell me that I am unattractive (which hurts, but I understand that we all have to be different-I mean, I think I have rabbit-like front teeth and a big round face)), people can tell me that I am fat (which really hurts and makes me not like that person at all, but it's true, I could stand to lose a few pounds), but if someone calls me stupid, then I feel strong enough about myself to know that's not true.

Hmph...I have some pretty mean people in my life.

And one other big realization I had was: I loved my grandfather so fucking much because he was the only one in my life who loved me just as I was.

Now that's a gift.

-H.

PS-Luuka (now airborne to the lovely Brass in Colorado) has been having the party of the century with Simon, working and travelling the Far East. That lucky cow. Get the pictures here!

PPS-The latest Bonfire of the Vanities is up here.


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February 16, 2004

Paper and Sealing Wax

Friday at 4:00 pm my recruiter called, spurred on by Mr. Y. The UK government had made a decision, he said. Call them immediately.

Ten minutes of busy tone and one heart attack later, and I get through. My heart is in my mouth, my voice sounds shaky, and tears are in my eyes.

We've decided we need more information, the man tells me. Clarifications on your case. Once you get those back to us, you will go back to the 5 week pile, only now it's an 8 week pile, unless you point out to us that you have a real job offer.

Fuck.

My visa manager (for I am investing a whopping 900 pounds to get help securing my visa) called me after that-it turns out the government wants faxed documentation from the company that I worked for before Company X-a letter saying that I was employed there and what I earned.

Problem is, the company went bust 3 years ago. I googled the fuck out of it, but only got the story from my friend, and former colleague (whose name I presented as a contact to prove I worked there): They were merged with two companies before the entire former staff of the company I worked for was laid off, then they were merged twice more. So if I can't get a faxed letter, I can provide them with court documents and trade journal articles proving that they did exist.

I called my stepfather for his advice, and he mentioned one thing to me that had slid right past me, since I had been out of the U.S. way of working for so long. Did I have a W-2 from them? Send that.

And I do have copies of every tax form I have ever filed. I did have it. So X Partner Unit and I raced to Company X (bad, bad company X) where he faxed it for me.

Hopefully I will hear something this week. The stress is killing me. I have been popping ulcer tablets and taking a spin at the oven rack frequently. I have been drinking pots and pots of coffee in desperate attempts to not eat. Despite my desire to stay away from alcohol, I only managed one night this weekend to do so.

And my heart is feeling bruised in other ways, too.

I did have a Valentine's present for X Partner Unit, which I bought way back when I was solvent. I gave it to him on Saturday-just a fuzzy fleece robe-and he looked at me.

"I didn't get you anything." he said. "I hadn't even thought about it."

"No, it's cool." I replied. And it was. "I just thought you needed a new one, and bought this for you ages ago."

At least (so far) we are still friends in this long and drawn-out breakup. I guess it's only a matter of time before the gloves come off. Gloves always do, after all.

Mr. Y heard from his brother Adam (the one who first told Mr. Y about what Y's family had been told by Her about me) on Thursday. Adam had spoken to Mr. Y's soon-to-be-ex-wife. According to Adam, said female told him on the phone something that was incredibly unsavorable to me, along with the usual I assume-that I am crazy, evil, building on Mr. Y's naivete, etc. etc.

But Mr. Y won't mention these negative phone calls to Her, and nor will he generally confront Her when She comes after me (historically, there have been a few occasions where he told me he didn't defend me as he didn't want to get into an argument with Her). He doesn't want to bring up issues if he doesn't hear about it first hand. He doesn't think it is constructive to pick up the phone and ask people to cease and desist if he didn't hear this to his face. On the one hand, I can understand this-it's a bit childish of me to ask him to be my rabid attack dog if no one is coming to him directly and telling him these things. On the other, I am struggling with feeling exposed, and worried that a few times in the past he hasn't defended me.

In my real life, no one is allowed to bad mouth Kim or Mr. Y. Ever. If anyone so much as starts to get that way, I become one of those spiky puffer fish-poof!-and you can't get near my lovers to save your life, better to just swim away and search for other sushi. And even here, I would ask that criticism be constructive. But in my real life, tearing these men down is like tearing me down-these two men are the ones that I will never let go of and never get over. If you hate them, then you hate me.

I feel like I am defending my life, and I feel like I am doing it alone. Don't you understand? I want to ask Mr. Y. If you don't defend me, then how do I defend myself? Don't you know that I am out of resources for this kind of thing, that my piss and vinegar levels are pretty low these days? Do you know how much I love you? If I'm the love of your life, shouldn't you be the one who watches my back? Do you know how much I need you to stand up and fight with me and for me?

Combine this with about the roughest therapy visit I have had so far today (he made me cry for the first time yet...and I still haven't really stopped, 4 hours on) and I am painfully aware, more than ever, of just how much anger and issues are brewing underneath the Helen-like surface. I'm a nut, man.

My self-esteem is dwindling to a mere teaspoon's worth, and I fight every day the same way-by rote, by struggling with the freezing and barren temperatures, by completing a list of things that X Partner Unit sets out for me each day (once upon a time I would have been affronted by this, but now it just gives me something to do), by hoping that there is something more in the world to live for.

-H.

PS-Margi, ever the trendsetter, bought this shirt. I saw it, knew I had to have it, and bought one too. I should have it in a few weeks' time!

PPS-Joey got a job! Now send some happy thoughts to Abs, Light and Dark, and Amber, among others.

PPPS-it occurs to me that I should mention my blog-ettiquette. If you comment here and have a blog, then each post you comment on I go and check your blog (although some blogs, like Vikkicar and Pylorns, are almost impossible to load on my dial-up connection). A number of others I try to pop in on from time to time. And if you leave a comment with no blog, then in general I don't email you-I think it's a bit intrusive (although I don't mind if people email me back if I leave comments.) I assume that if you wanted to hear from me via mail, then you'd mail me (and I owe a few mails there, too So if I seem a bit unresponsive-believe me, I am listening, reading, and taking it all in.

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February 14, 2004

Just a Quickie

...Since I am capable of those, too, to say Happy Valentine's Day to all the lovers out there.

I know, I know-Valentine's Day is a product of American marketing machines and Hallmark Greeting Cards, but I must say it is nice to know that there is a fallback day for those that are maybe not always so good at registering and showing romance and love.

Plus, I am a sappy romantic at heart and love days like this.

My day will be spent working on the floor in the study, grocery shopping, and maybe a film tonight. My beloved Mr. Y gave me a beautiful Cross fountainhead pen (I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen.)-a great gift for someone like me, that still believes in the value of handwriting and snail-mailing love letters to people I love. I enjoy the fastidiousness that writing a letter entails-thinking about it in your head, writing it out, licking a stamp and then posting it. Then I love to imagine someone's face when they get a letter-does it light up like mine does? I just think that being able to hold something tangible in your hands, evidence of the fact that someone took the time to write you and to love you, can heal even the saddest of hearts just a little.

Now go smooch on those you love-and give them an extra smooch on my behalf, since I don't get to smooch anyone today.

-H.

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February 13, 2004

Spooky

Thanks to all of those that posted nice comments-I read them all several times and am happy to report that I have indeed dragged my ass out of bed...for now...and will attempt to lay off the slosh tonight. Mr. Y intervened again, and found out that if my recruiter faxed the UK government board about my impending Dream Job it may (emphasis on the may) speed up the application. This has been done, but I have no idea on if it will work or not. And I can't ask Dream Job, since they were clear that they cannot sponsor these visas-in fact, in other divisions they are laying off. The lawyer I also can't do, since if I wanted them to deal with my app, they would've already have had to sponsor it.

Unbelievable-I have survived so much in my life (and have the brownie patches to prove it, thank you), but losing my job is the one hitting me the hardest. Anyway, visa fuck-wittage aside for now (else I will grab another bottle of booze and go back to bed).

In the Spring of 1998 I was living in Dallas and working for a financial services company. I was required to take all of these SEC exams and get certifications so that I could work as a stock broker. The office was full of young 20-somethings all busting their ass all day on the phones to provide support.

I fucking hated it.

That, and I was up to my ass in debt, Kim and I had broken up, I was drinking like a fish, and life basically sucked a clown's ass on every possible level.
So I did what all others who are at the end of their chain do.

I went to a psychic. I know, I know...what's the point? But lemme' tell you, when no matter how many times you turn around you can't see daylight, you really don't have anything to lose. It's like believing in God so that you can hedge your bets, I guess.

I went to an apartment complex to see her. The apartments were dark and imposing, and old in their design, style, and residents. I stepped out of my car thinking that this was a terrible mistake. How could I have trusted someone in this situation? Surely she was a cackling old lady, plotting what to do with the money she scammed off of stupid people like me, who trusted their fate to a stranger. Well, not really trusted their fate. More like needed some good news to get out of a funk. After all, how many people go to a psychic because things are going so great? That's like asking fate to swing an axe and end the good times, having your boyfriend ditch you, your house to burn down, your car to crash, or any other assortment of ailments that you might find in country music.

I mounted the steps to her apartment, and was met by an older, grandmotherly woman and her blind sheepdog. She was charming and sweet, plump with a pert blond bob, and her house smelled of ginger and orange blossoms. A candle, burning in the middle of the table, seemed to be the only acknowledgement on her behalf of her ability, and we sat down into easy conversation.

For while everything she told me about my job, my travels, and my location were true, she was wrong about the man that I would be with forever. The truth is, I met the man she wanted me to be with. And in meeting him, I met the man that I would rather spend my life, my time, and my heart with. Do you suppose this was deliberate romantic sabotage? Divine intervention stepping in to see how much control I really have over my own destiny? Will I ever have these answers?

A soft popping noise happened occasionally, as the dog ran into a piece of furniture and then sniffed indignantly. Little blind dog, keeping it real for me.

She told me that I would be taking a new job within 3 months, and that I would move away within a year to a new location. She said that the men I was dating at the time were of no consequence'¦none of them were the ones that I was to be with, but that 'he'; was coming. I would meet "Him" through another man, but when I met him then I would know.

She told me that I would meet this intermediary man before Christmas 1998. That I would be at a place where people dressed a certain way, a place that required I buy a ticket. The ceiling was full of lights, and it was cold there. She said that he would see me, and wouldn't let me leave without getting my phone number. Then she said it would be a very short time before the He I was looking for would be together forever. And to be on the lookout for "Him", with his amazing blue eyes.

She also said that I would be moving to a country that started with an "Sw". Switzerland was her guess, since she saw it as being so cold. That I would work very hard, and would meet "Him" there. That we would have two children-one wonderfully talented and in the arts, and one quieter and with a heart problem as a youngster that would be no problem when it was an adult.

Pop went the dog again as it concussed itself in the bedroom.

She told me that I would live close to the sea, and that no matter what career path I chose, it was writing that would make a difference. Be a writer, she urged me. That's how you will make a difference.

Finally she told me that she could see a bit of my other lives, my previous lives before this one. She told me that I was a very, very old soul who had, for the most part, had very, very sad and short lives.

Ah. Now there's something to live for.

She told me that I had my first life in ancient Egypt as a slave, but died around the age 14 in an accident. The other life that stood out prominently was when I was a baker's wife in 1700's France. I was fat, my husband was fat, we had two fat children, but apparently we had a lot of laughs, or at least we did up until I dropped dead of a heart-attack in my mid-30's.

And she smiled at me as the dog ran into the table in the dining room and told me that this would be my last life. All the lives I have lived up until now would become part of my collective conscious when I passed away, and since I was a very old soul, I would finally be allowed to rest.

I left there feeling conflicted. This was my last life? Strange that I am so self-destructive and self-abusive. You would think a part of me would know this is my last life, and at least save up interesting stories to tell my poker buddies when I get to wherever I am going.

I drove away from her place, and I could actually never find those apartments again, nor could I find the piece of paper with her phone number. I don't know if this is due to some divine intervention or the fact that I am fucking useless with directions and organization, but there you have it. I don't even remember her name.

How did her predictions pan out?

Two months after seeing her, I left the financial services company and took an abrupt career change to where I am today-telecom. A chance comment from someone brought me into that realm, offering me a job change, a massive pay rise, travel, and I haven't looked back since.

On December 2, 1998, I was away from home on a business trip. I went to a professional hockey game in Raleigh, North Carolina, with lights and the jumbotron hanging from the ceiling. I wore my Dallas Stars jersey, and from several sections away, I noticed a man staring at me. After the game, he leapt over several sections to speak to me. He didn't let me leave without getting my phone number.

I extended my business trip to see him more. Three months later, I moved away from my home, family and friends in Dallas to start a new job...with Company X.

I dumped that guy in April, 1999. I started dating the man who became my Partner Unit (now ex) later that year, but not before my lovely Y (with his lovely blue eyes) was in my life. I moved to Sweden in November 1999.

And the rest? I don't live by the sea, and I don't have children. I don't currently actually have a job, so I have no idea if writing is what I should be doing or just something I really enjoy fucking around with.

I don't live by what she said as doctrine, but that one day in those apartments, I found someone who gave me hope. Hope that was much needed, as is the need for it today.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go read a book for a while. You know-it's my last life and all. I'll want to come across as being smart, wherever I go.

-H.


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February 12, 2004

The Perfect Man

Solomon recently asked what my picture of an ideal man is, and I actually had a thread about that some time ago, which is here. Basically, I posted a list that I had made as a fresh-faced and naive-albeit very, very drunk-chickie that had just broken off one of the most significant relationships in her life.

But you know-in light of my now busted-up relationship with my now X-Partner Unit, the fact that I have begun to be open about my seeing Mr. Y, and just the fact that since I wrote that original list, and even my post on October 30, I have found that my life has been exceptionally dark and down, and perhaps one of the most black periods of my life has allowed me to see what it is that I am looking for in a man. That list then is still valid...only I have learned the deeper things that are needed.

This list is not all-inclusive, and may change, by the way.

So here goes.

- Will listen to me talk about my problems, and remember the difficult ones.
- Will want to tell me all of his, from the small to the large.
- Wants to be hands-on in my life. Knowing where I'm going to be, what I'm going to be doing.
- Understands that, like the Velveteen Rabbit, I have spots of my fur that have been loved off, and will calmly love me in those areas, too.
- When I am 48 and undergoing chemotherapy (for I will be, I am sure), you will stay by my side, and read to me, and hold my hands when the pain gets too bad.
- Knows me so well that he can look at a menu and know what I will be having...and be right.
- Also knows me so well that he knows when I may be trying to lie to him, and will call me on it.
- Feels as passionately about me as I do about him. Because I don't listen to the detractors-passion can and does last in some special circumstances.
- Knows that some battles I will have to fight alone, and others I will need his help without prompting.
- Will defend me if my character comes under attack, no matter what.
- Knows that I like to run over the men in my life, so he keeps the upper hand for most of it.
- No matter what, he will never, ever hit me, push me, emotionally beat me up or physically scare me while he is angry. Arguments need to happen. They do not need to happen in a way that makes people cower.
- He will be my best friend, and the one person in the world that I simply cannot live without.
- He knows and understands that I have some problems, and they are problems that he carefully knows about and pays attention to, all the while tiptoeing around them.
- And, above all, he is the one that we talk about everything with together, the good and the bad, the deep and the shallow.

All these things are what my ideal man is.

In return for my ideal man, he will get this:

- A woman who screams with laughter at the smallest things, although she is crap at telling jokes.
- A woman who loves to sit down quietly and watch WWII documentaries just as much as she likes to watch "Buffy the Vampire Slayer".
- A woman who, although she may be awkward sometimes, all she wants to do is help and ease the burden.
- A woman who isn't done seeing the world...and wants him to see it with her.
- A woman who-when she loves someone-she just can't stop touching him.
- A woman who will never fall out of love with you, if you are the right man.
- A woman who will nurse you through the most desperate illness, and tease you out of the slightest cold.
- A woman who, if she loves you, feels her heart skip a beat just from taking one glance at you in a crowded room. And then she lives on that feeling for hours.
- A woman who will fight for him, defend his honor, and never offer anything less than all she is.

There are lots of other peripheral things that I would like, of course. I want him to love to read, I want him to love to travel, I want a family with him, I want him to be sexually adventurous and I want him to be furrier than a Muppet.

But if I want a partner who will be there for the long haul, then there are bigger issues than if he drops his dirty laundry on the floor. If he likes to eat crackers in the kitchen in the middle of the night. If he occasionally goes out boozing with the boys and comes back shit-faced. Those things have nothing to do with him not being there if one of my family members dies. It has nothing to do with him believing in me if I am ever laid off work again.

My lists have always been interesting, perhaps. But now I can see that the things that I need in someone for the long haul, the things that I will need to make a real partnership work...well, I can see my lists have been missing those.

Maybe my list is a work in progress. Kinda' like me.

-H.

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February 11, 2004

What I Just Won't Tolerate

There are a lot of weird quirks and differences that make people interesting. Since anthropology was my field of study in university, I like to think that I am more open to these differences since I studied human nature (that, and I am full of crunchy-granola goodness, too). The truth is I didn't pursue anthropology since I am not only not interested in a career that includes the words "Would you like fries with that?" on a daily basis, but I also can honestly say that I am not good at not interfering with things I find troubling.

Anthropologists in the field are supposed to be observers. To interrupt or put a stop to something would be impressing their cultural ideals on another culture. So anthropologists are expected to stand and watch anything from gardening in 100+ degree weather, female circumcision, to older practices like sacrificing and executions.

And should a group of tribal elders approached the business space of a beautiful young girl with a leather thong and a sharp and scary knife, I just couldn't have stood by and done nothing, so I knew pursuing a Master's and a PhD in anthropology were not for me. That said, I would love to go back to school for a Master's (in something not so scary, like history or English lit) and think I will do if my visa comes through.

But there is one thing that I simply won't tolerate around me. The friends in my life and loved ones I have been with will not do this. It's a brand of culture so deeply ingrained that many see it as a societal norm, and many others see it as their cultural right.

Racism and xenophobia.

Not ok.

In any form.

I get especially wound up when I hear members of my beautiful country (it's mine. I own it.) say things like: We should bomb all of the Middle East. They're all evil! Or: We have every right to invade every country in the Middle East, or anywhere where they're Muslim!

Ri-ight. Things like that make me feel glad I left. When people talk like that, it really doesn't make them any different from those they are opposed to, does it?

It's strange that I am so viciously against racism, since to be honest I grew up in a very racist environment. My mother's parents (and my very precious grandfather) are as racist as the night is long, and were getting worse as they got older. My grandfather had apparently had some horrible times in Basic Training in the army under a sergeant who has black, and until the day he died his disdain and dislike for the black population was patently clear (lemme' just say that watching the 5 o'clock news with him was always uncomfortable). They always went by the "N" word (which I will not allow on my blog, but suffice to say it rhymes with one of these words: "Super-size your meal, bigger value for your money!")

And the word in there isn't "Super-size", 'k?

My grandmother is the same way-she has a pretty healthy dislike of all minorities, and you can't say anything to her about it, since it just winds her up and makes the situation go to hell. You have to leave the room and ignore her. She's just bitter and it comes out that way. But she doesn't stop to think that her grandchildren are of mixed-race as well (it's weird-I hadn't realized I came from a "mixed family" until a friend pointed it out when I was 15.) More than once my grandmother has made a nasty comment about Asians that registered as fleeting pain across my sister's beautiful olive-complexioned face.

My Japanese father's mother (my grandmother) is racist as well. She's re-married to a nice Portuguese man with a big heart, but she herself is the most glassy, brittle woman I know. There's one thing to know here-The European Union is a union of commerce and finance. EU members are not all sitting around a table with no problems, drinking Italian vino and eating French cheese (only the UN does that, or holiday-makers in the Alps, anyway). There are massive fractions in the EU alliances. The same with the Asians-thinking of Asia as a united area is a mistake-it's only called Asia as a geographical linking. The splits in Asia are even broader than in Europe. The Taiwanese seem to not like the Chinese, the Koreans seem to not like the Chinese, and every Asian country seems to hate the Japanese, which is ok since the Japanese seem to hate everyone else as well.

I remember driving through neighborhoods with my grandmother and father, and my grandmother would sniff: "Roll up your windows. We're travelling through a Korean neighborhood."

Right, grandma. 'Cause they might come attack the car with Kim-chee.

Again, you just had to ignore her racism-she will not change, cannot change, and saying anything to her about it will only wind her up.

So it's with a sad heart that I hear horrible things about "all Muslims" and "all Arabic nations". I feel sad when I hear about the tumultuous state of affairs concerning refugees, and the miserable existence they live. I just don't understand what state of affairs makes one nation hate another, one religion hate another. To my way of thinking, there are extremists everywhere, and maybe we should just lock the extremists in a room and see which group comes out alive. I remember in Turkey, talking to a Muslim man while the Islamic prayer call came out over the loudspeaker, and he told me that the Koran was a matter of interpretation, that some people interpreted doctrines and hate where others interpreted guidelines and love.

I just feel we have a lot we can learn from other cultures, whether we approve or not. It's part of what makes everyoen unique and different. But then again, maybe this is a bit of my bleeding heart coming through again or something.


-H....still visa-less. But luckily seeing her therapist this afternoon.

PS-check out this week's Carnival of the Vanities, for your compact edition of interesting blog topics.

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February 10, 2004

The Life of a Cat

On Thursday and Friday it was all falling apart again. Horrors and stresses about my visa, depression and gloom at home due to the fractured relationship, which hemmorhages still. I started getting so stressed and depressed that I was back to my old haunts again-abusing myself with the oven rack, leaving a nice shiny picket fence of burns down the flesh of the left hand. Yet another topic for my therapist and I to work on-why do I head for physical pain when I am suffering emotional pain? Because it's pain that makes sense. It's real, it's something that you can understand.

Hello, my name is Helen, and I'm auditioning for the part of Lead Fruit Loop today.

I did what I could only do to try to save the fragile and straggling remnants of my sanity-I decided to address my visa head-on, get some help with it, and find a way to survive this. I am headed towards my 6th life, which I have in my head as the life of a cat. I will be dropped from a top story building and still twist around and land on my feet. I will chase the mice, get the cream, and weave myself around my loving owner's ankles. I will be keen, coy, and survive.

So I flew to London for the weekend.

I left early Friday morning on Ryanair, the low-fare airlines. It's at a tiny airport outside of Stockholm, but their flights are cheap and they usually get you to your destination well on time. You don't get seat assignments, all food and beverage cost, but if you are like me and brought a bottle of water, a packet of Starburst and a book, then the flight is no problem...especially if the flight is half the cost of the other airlines.

Once I arrived to London Stanstead airport, I hurried outside to find what I was waiting for-tucking my gym bag over my arm, digging my head inside my pea coat to avoid the deluge of rain, I stood there and waiting, knowing that my salvation would be here.

And it was.

Striding along the pavement, there came Mr. Y in the car, all smiles, kisses, and hugs. He wrapped me inside the length of his coat, his warm and solid body against mine, the smells of him-eucalyptus, for the drops he likes to suck on. A dash of cigarette smoke. A mint, from the pocket mint he just had. A warm, spicy scent of the face lotion he uses, and the undeniable maleness of him.

We drove back to his flat, and once there he got on the phone and called my visa people to find out what is happening, notebook at the ready and list of questions in his head. He found out additional information that made me feel better, that calmed me down. He sorted out some things, and while I sat next to him, just listening to him calmly go through things, I realized what a fucking release it was to not have to handle everything on my own anymore. To be on the battle front and have someone beside me, who has my back.

After the phone call, he turned to me, grabbed my hand, and led me to the bedroom, where we proceeded to make love and re-acquaint ourselves with the hills and valleys of the topography that makes us. We made love, both of us coming quickly, as though the urgency of our lives transcended what would normally take us hours. We then had a nice dinner. Champagne. We watched "Will and Grace" (which he didn't like) and "Sex and the City" (which he did). I loofahed his feet, spending time spreading a warm lotion on the bottom of his heels, and then we curled into bed, solid and warm, and had each other again, before being ensconsed in his arms and falling asleep.

In the morning we had another round of loving, and then decided to hit the road-the town he lives in is quite dull, and he wanted to take me away somewhere, so we headed for the most southwest area of England, called Devon. We drove along the seaside, my feet propped up on his dashboard and my thoughts of the visa just slightly twinging my head, and decided to try an unusual hotel in Exeter for the evening-Hotel Barcelona, which was a former Victorian Eye Infirmary that has been remodeled into a fabulous hotel. It was done in extremely avant-garde precision although was well done, if a bit creepy-it was strange to go into your room and know that it used to be a former ward, where sick and injured people slept.

Talk about a place with ghosts.

We made ample use of the bed then, before heading out into the town to scrounge up some dinner. I have no idea what the industry is for Exeter, but the place was hopping-it was packed in every restaurant (including a Moroccan one we really wanted to try) and so we wound up at Pizza Express, with no other options. We had a nice meal there, though, and then went to a few nice pubs to relax with some decent ales. Mr. Y took hold of my left hand, examining the weird toothpick-like lines down the side of the palm. I knew it bothered him, I knew he didn't want me to do it, but I think he also knew that I am falling apart now, and had no other form of relief.

We then headed for a trendy bar in our hotel, fitting in easily with the crowd of youngsters, professionals, middle-aged, the scantily clad and the jeans-wearing. We fit in well and felt comfortable, and as we headed towards the bar to get a drink, his hand went round my waist-hoving there, holding me and guiding me. We got our drinks and headed in to where a man was singing in a strong and assured voice-"Mad World", he sang, a song that bridges both my generation and Mr. Y's. As I sipped my martini, his fingers laced through mine and he pulled his face close. When Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" came on, we sat down and he pulled my chair nearer, smoothing my collarbone with one hand while clutching a beer in the other.

And then we went to bed, and made love again.

The next day we drove through Dartmoor Forest before heading back to where he lives, taking time in the car to talk, to fantasize about what our lives will be like if I get the visa. These dreams, they are dangerous and intoxicating-to find myself on the edge of being able to right myself and land on my feet, and to find it with someone I love so much, seems like the kind of karmic Christmas that I would never be allowed to have.

Sunday evening we had a bit of a struggle talking about his children, and I can see this is going to be a heated point in the future. I don't feel I am allowed to give my opinion, and I give my opinion only as thus: I was a child when my parents divorced for the final time, and not far from the age his daughter is. I know what it's like to be there, and I know what happens when divorces go wrong, as they often do-it all goes to hell quickly when the hurt and anger of a divorce comes through. I would just protect everyone from that, but I can see that my views and opinions are not popular, or perhaps it is all still too sensitive to him, so either way I will try to remain opinionless unless asked.

The evening was salvaged by a curry and Mr. Y's fervent hugging and hoping that I was ok and happy. This night would be our last chance to see each other for at least a month, since he is taking off the end of February for 2 weeks with his children. So we reconciled any tension and sat on the couch, touching, talking, laughing, relaxing, and when we went to bed we made love for a very long time, catching up on years worth of missing kisses.

And yesterday he spent the day with me, holding me and talking to me. I put food in his fridge and left my sweaters in the bottom drawer of his bureau, as a beacon and reason for me to come back for them. I felt so fucking calm around him, so relaxed, and so sure that this kind of love is the kind of love I am supposed to have. The ability to slink myself around his ankles appeals, and I will purr for him and the saucer of cream he offers.

I am home now, and since my flight arrived very late, I haven't spoken to Partner Unit (should I start calling him X-Partner Unit now? Hmm.) I think I will be moving all of my things into the guest room now-the two little eggrolls that we have been in the bed now can be single-served into different beds. Regardless of the visa, I know this relationship at home is over, and so does he.

I await news of the visa with pins in my stomach and an ache in my heart. I know that people think that my job doesn't define me-but once again, it does. And I know that people think what life offers me is what was meant to be-but for the first time in so long, I have seen something in life that I want. Something has woken me up, brought my senses to life, and for that I can't ever go back to sleep again. I am riding on the edge of the cliff now, and on one side is the dramatic dreams that I need to dream to live. On the other, is the end of life 5. And Life 6. And there is nothing there but darkness and decay.

And my daily fear continues about the visa-some bureaucratic glitch could come in, forcing me to lose it. I could be deemed not worthy. I could fail. I continue with my daily mantra...."Please. Please. Please...."

-H.

PS-to my anonymous benefactor, thank you. It's a wonderful, fabulous gift that will get me through the week now, since I finish up Band of Brothers today. Thank you, thank you, thank you-you made me smile and gave me a reason to face the day.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:29 AM | Comments (27) | Add Comment
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February 06, 2004

So Proud I Could Burst

When I was in the US over the holidays, I got to attend one of the games that my sister was working at. My sister is a professional cheerleader, you see, and this was the first time I would be able to see her in action, so to speak.

I was very nervous, actually-she had to be at the game an hour ahead of time, so Partner Unit and I made ourselves at home walking around the arena, checking out the shops, and indulging in a drink at the bar. We had about 45 minutes to just knock off-they would be announcing the cheerleaders (including my sister) 15 minutes before game time.

15 minutes before game time, we rushed to our completely fabulous seats, and lo and behold there it was-the cheerleaders were posted on the jumbotron one by one, to the wild cheers and catcalls of the audience. They went through the team one person at a time, and there, second to the last, was my little sister.

And-as they say-the Helen went wild.

Here was my little sister. 7 years my junior, she was always the world's most precious thing to me when we were younger. When our parents split up the second time, my mother had to work her ass off to support us both since my father decided that child support wasn't really his thing, so it was up to me to take care of my little sister more often than not.

And in time I grew to be like her second mother-putting her to bed, making dinners, spending time after school together. When my mom was dating and I was 14, sometimes my mom would stay at her boyfriend's (the man who is now our stepfather), and I used to curl onto the couch all night and watch the same videos over and over again-"Goonies" and "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom". I just stayed up watching it, watching over the house, watching over my little sister.

And when the fights would get bad between my folks as we grew up, my goal was just to get my sister out of the house. Away from it. We would shuttle ourselves in my room, turn the music up to drown out the screaming and yelling, and just try to make ourselves immune. When I was able to drive, we would hustle off as fast as possible to the local ice cream shop, making a cup of ice cream last as long as possible in an effort to dawdle, not wanting to get back to the House of Pain.

I always simply wanted to protect her from everything. I didn't want anyone or anything to get close enough to hurt her. I remember spending time dressing her up. I remember us playing "Taxi" using the porch swing. I remember giving her airplane rides out on the side lawn (wildly enough, she used to scream with laughter when I would let her go, letting her fling onto the lawn).

She was my little sister...my painfully shy, painfully reticent little sister.

Things weren't always rosy. In a tribute to the environment around us, sometimes fights would get ugly, and would get that way fast. I remember one day she flung a drawer of steak knives at me. But then another day, I remember empyting an entire rack of tupperware glasses at her. And you could never wake her up in the morning-she is one of those seriously NOT morning person types-we're talking World War III level histrionics here. We would get into blistering fights that would be all done by the time Mom got home.

When I left home at 17, my sister and I started to drift apart. When I moved back to the area, she and I had a standing Friday night movie date. We went to the films every Friday, even if nothing interesting was on. It was our tradition. We shared books and music. I stole her clothes, she stole mine.

But since I have left the U.S. we have really grown apart-not making the time for each other in our lives has brought about the loss of one of the most important people in my heart. We don't speak much, not even by email. And sometimes I find that I miss her so much that I can't stand it.

So it's at this game that I found my sister has grown into something so different. Her shyness is gone. She has gusto and bravado. She takes masses of time and care with her makeup and hair, and is hyper-conscious about her clothes. She even wears tight clothing now (so I no longer borrow her clothes-I am not about to attempt to wear an XS, thank you very much).

And during the game break, when she went out there and performed with her squad...I felt so proud of her. So happy for her, and so amazed at the person she has become. It's as though she is finally coming into her own, and I love that for her.

The little girl in the row ahead of me turned to me and showed me a picture in the program. It was the cheerleading team, and she pointed to my sister.

"She looks like you." she said softly.

I was stunned-what a remarkable gift for a little girl to have. She is only the second person in the world ever to remark that my sister and I look alike-my sister has the olive Asian skin, and I have the white-on-white European looks. But this little girl saw through color, and went right to what's at heart.

"That's my little sister." I said proudly. "That's why I am here tonight."

And after the game, I hugged my sister and listened to her talk and gossip for ages about the team, about women I didn't know and wouldn't know. But I was just so happy for her, just so thrilled at the person she had become. She had come out of her coccoon a much better person than I am, and I love her for it.

The next morning I had to wake her up, which I dreaded, knowing the row it would (as usual) induce. So I sat on her bed and grabbed her toes.

"Hey you," I said softly. "I just wanted you to know how great your game was last night, and that I am so proud of you that I could've bursted last night. You looked so beautiful, I am so proud of you."

And my very precious little sister sat up in bed, smiled, and we went downstairs together.

-H.

PS-delay of one week to my work visa. I am literally eating myself up inside with stress and worry about it.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 06:07 AM | Comments (18) | Add Comment
Post contains 1138 words, total size 6 kb.

February 05, 2004

I'll Have What She's Having

I am still reading the Ladder stuff and plan to completely rip it apart sometime very soon, but in the meantime, there is a topic that I want to address, that I want to fling open the doors on:

Orgasms.

Cause...you know...I never talk about those here.

I recently read an article that described orgasms as thus: "If the female orgasm is a Ferrari-termperamental, powerful, and in need of delicate handling, then the male orgasm is a tractor-less intense, dependable in adverse conditions, and so simple to control that any 14-year old farm boy can take it out for a spin."

Right on.

Here's the mechanical breakdown:

A man's orgasm is a pump. A series of muscular contractions at that perfect moment forces between 2cc and 5cc of happy juice out of the urethra. These muscular contractions occur at 0.7 seconds apart (actually, the same rate that women's orgasmic contractions occur). Men can fire semen up to three feet if they have abstained for a while (watch out! She's going to blow!) but the average is a rather respectable 10 inches. I have asked partners how they felt about their orgasms after they had them, and it ran anywhere from "Whew...I needed that." to "That was really, really great."

I like to think thats a judgment of just needing to put it away, versus my performance.

A female orgasm is a swelling of the vaginal tissue, as the organs become engorged with blood. Scientists say that orgasms produced by oral sex are usually more prolonged and intense (and to that I'd just like to say: Amen, my brother). A female orgasm usually occurs when the muscles tighten and constrict, and some theories are that these constrictions allow safer passage of semen, in order to aid reproduction. Women have what may appear to deeply puzzling bits-anthropologist Donald Symons in fact reported that the clitoris was a useless appendage, and the female orgasm was of no consequence as it is "an unneccessary anatomical and physioglogical phenomenon".

Proof that the sad little man never got a girl off, in other words.

Anthropolgist Helen Fisher disputes this-she says that an orgasm not only satiates a woman, promoting her to lay down (to help fertilization), but satisfactory coitus promotes a woman to seek further sexual intercourse with that partner, promoting conception. This is just a fancy way of saying: you satisfy us, we will come back for more.

I love Helen Fisher.

Women are also lucky in that we can have multiple orgasms (depending on the partner, or at the very least the battery life in your duracells), whereas men are more limited. However, a Rutgers study recently had a man manage 6 full ejaculatory orgasms in under 30 minutes, with no loss of erection.

Hmm...wonder if he was drinking Red Bull.

A number of sites, including the lovely Emily's, have discussed faking it recently. The amusing thing is, some women swear that they have never, ever faked it. Just as some men swear that they have never, ever interfered with themselves. I don't think I believe either group, to be honest-that's like telling me you read Playboy for the articles. Right. And I go shopping to listen to the piped-in elevator music.

I think almost every woman has faked it, and possibly a few men, too. I know I certainly have-in fact, up until Mr. Y, I had faked it with every single man I had ever been with. I really tried to have an orgasm, honestly I did, but some men find it their personal search for the Holy Grail to give you one-they just keep going until they get some kind of ego soothing. So what else is a chafed pony to do, but to fake it?

I used to get rather elaborate with my faking, too. With one partner I would scream. With another I would pretend to pass out (saved me from having to talk to him, too). And with the others I would say some kind of complementary things.

And they always bought it.

My first orgasm was with Kim, and I never looked back after that. I also learned, in the time I was with him, how to satisfy myself. And after thousands of hours of training later, I would say I am an expert.

Faking was something I did in the early days, I am happy to say that as I have grown older, I have told partners what I do and do not like in bed. And in return, I am more honest. I prefer to not fake an orgasm with partners, since it only means I am cheating myself out of a good time. As I get older, I am less bashful about saying: Look, it's just not going to happen. Thanks for the pony ride, but save your quarter.

And apparently tests show what some of us have known all along, from Fisher again: Women tend to climax when they are relaxed, when they are with men who are sexually attentive, and with longtime committed partners...Perhaps this orgasmic fickleness is a mechanism women unconsciously evolved to distinguish a caring, patient Mr. Right from a cavalier, restive Mr. Wrong.

Same goes for men. According to author Philip Hodson, masturbation in men produces a less intense orgasm and less intense ejaculation than in making love, especially in mature men. "The 44-piece orchestra is missing. There isn't the same physical and emotional arousal or tension building."

Proof that all we want in life is a good cuddle, a good orgasm, and to have both with someone we care about.

Awwwwwww...

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:44 AM | Comments (31) | Add Comment
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February 04, 2004

The Good vs The Bad

In light of my sudden hankering for Kiefer Sutherland, I thought I would put aside my extremely mental worries and concerns about my visa and write about something that Best Friend brought up.

Why do women go for bad boys?

Best Friend is a good boy (er...man). He is nice, sympathetic, worries about the woman's needs, etc. Yet somehow he never seems to get the girl. Which leads me to think about the 4 men in my life that consitute my closest friends and (in a tribute to the comments discussion yesterday), I will say this: they are all men, and not one of them am I sexually interested in. And they are not sexually interested in me, either. All 4 of them I met at work and quickly became friends with, all 4 of them have had turbulent or non-existent love relationships...and all 4 of them are good guys.

First off-what constitues a good guy versus a bad boy? Using the two objects of my lust, John Cusack (a good guy) and Kiefer Sutherland (definitely a bad boy), let's compare. Again, these are just my observations and are very generalized-there are men that cover the spectrum in both examples, I leave it to you to illustrate what I've missed.

Good Guy (John Cusack):

Well educated.
Attentive.
Sensitive.
Concerned about the female well-being.
Hyper-conscious about right versus wrong.
A good listener.
Someone who you can take home to mom.
Someone whom you can ask to go to 7-11 in the middle of the night when you simply must have Cheese Doodles.
Someone you can share your demons with and have them hug you and try to help you.

Bad Boy (Kiefer Sutherland):

At some point, he's been broken. Big time.
Smokes, drinks, or both. And not just socially.
Has a few tattoos.
When you tell him how you've been hurt, he nods and pushes the bottle of tequila closer to you.
Is sensitive, but unable to talk about it.
Is sexually adventurous.


Again, these are stereotypes. I mean, I would have said Partner Unit is a good guy, but then good guys don't have tempers like he has. And Kim I would've said was a bad boy, but he didn't drink, smoke, or have tattoos and he was educated. But Kim was very fucked up himself over the death of his first love, and he was also a paranoid gun freak. He had an AR-15, a few .9mm, and a very impressive and shiny shotgun. I think he counts as a very bad boy.

Good guys make the best friends. They are warm, loving, and understanding creatures. They can talk about their problems, and let you talk about theirs. And as Roger said, if they are comrades-in-arms at work, even better-not only are you friends, but you have people to help you fight your corner no matter what.

I find friendships with men (in general) more satisfying than friendships with women, as we are not competing and men (in general again) are quick to forgive and move on. On the other hand, women are good for gabbing to about problems unique to women. I can't possibly have a discussion with Best Friend, for example, on how dry and rough a tampon feels after Day 4 of my period, mostly since he never has had a cotton cork stuffed up him and so has no basis for comparison.

I think there is one thing that makes women go for bad boys, and it is thus: they are broken. Women (in general) like to fix broken things. We are all-nurturing, earth-mother, blah blah blah. We see a broken boy and think: Right. I can help him. I can heal him. I can restore him back to a loving, perfect being.

Ri-ight. The truth is, when someone is broken, no one can try to fix them. They have to be fixed over time and of their own volition. I should know-I am broken, and the only one who can fix me is myself, with munitions support from the Man in the Armchair twice a week (aka my therapist).

I think the same works in reverse-good guys like bad girls. Bad girls are projects to fix, souls to save. They have had rough lives, and good guys want to be the ones to provide them with good ones. Also, I have noticed one resounding theme: bad girls make good guys feel alive. You are with a free spirit, one who says what she thinks, does what she wants, cultural norms be damned. She makes the air more vibrant, the taste more succulent, and your adrenaline pounce.

Plus, she's into al fresco sex.

Something else that attracts women to bad boys-they make us feel safe. Picture it like this: who would you prefer to be facing a mugger with: Colin Firth or Bruce Willis? Colin (whom I also am keen on) would hand over his wallet, eyes downcast, and speaking slowly. Bruce would (in the movies, anyway), try to fight his way out of the situation, or at the very least have a snappy comeback as he handed over the goods. Bad boys make women feel like they will protect them, save them, and should the world end, be the ones to help keep them alive in our post-apocalyptic society.

It appeals. You know-all that rippling testosterone.

These are generalizations, perhaps, but just meant to show how I see the world. The thing is, my first crush on John Cusack appeared years ago in a little-known movie called "Fat Man and Little Boy". He's a nuclear scientist that gets the fuck irradiated out of him when he saves the whole desert from a possible nuclear melt-down. All this, and he secretly loves nurse Laura Dern, too.

What a good guy.

I stayed with Johnny boy throughout his career-crushing him even more after "Grosse Point Blank", where he finally becomes a bad boy. Then I really crushed on him.

So what's up with Kiefer? Perhaps it's as Dane said-I just have a new cast of characters in my life, so I have new dreams. Or perhaps it has to do with watching a lot of "24", including the making-of disc where Kiefer stage fights a stuntman and they show off his luscious tattoos on his upper arms (umm...give me a minute here, ok?)

Whew...ok. Kiefer is definitely a bad boy and definitely broken. I checked out his stats: dropped out of school at 15. Married 3 times. Publicly dumped at the altar by one of my least favorite actresses. Lives on a ranch alone. Reformed alcoholic.

Yup. Bad boy.

So if you want to score right away, become a bad boy/girl. It's a simple as that. Otherwise you get moved into the "Friend" or good guy/woman scenario, and you will stay there while the object of your affection gets burned by someone else. However-you can be there to help clean them up afterwards, to hold them and cuddle them and fix them. And when you are there, at some point, the woman/man may realize how loving you are.

And you're in. If you're patient, that is.

The truth is, after a woman is burned by a bad boy, she goes to the good guys. I know it may make you feel like a consolation prize, but the truth is, it takes a woman to get burned to realize that we can't change a guy. We can't heal him, we can't help him. All we can do is follow our heart and hope it takes us in a good direction. It's the same for men-you have to suffer through the emotional firestorm that is a bad girl before you know you want a good woman. Someone calm, stable, and loving in an "I-don't-hate-myself" kind of way. And maybe those of us who have loved a bad girl/bad boy look at the sunsets just a little bit differently, maybe we remember the wild love that we had with a bittersweet smile, but at the same time, we look at our good men/women with a loving and nurturing smile.


-H.

PS-And Mr. Y...anytime you want to get that tattoo, that will be fine with me.


Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:17 AM | Comments (46) | Add Comment
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February 02, 2004

I Want You

Sitting on his lap, I feel so utterly secure and safe, as though we are the only people on earth, and should anything happen I am wrapped in the safest arms in the world. Curled on the couch in front of the fire, hazy and warm from a nice meal and a good bottle of red wine, I feel pure and utter contentment just resting there. It's cold outside the windows, and I hear the door shut as some of our last remaining guests leave-we were clearly craving some together time, just he and I. Thankfully, the guests got the message.

I feel his face hovering in the simple curve of my neck, and I reach out my left-hand and run it through his hair, marvelling not only at the thickness of it but at the shiny ring on my finger. A symbol of our commitment, our love, our desire to spend every minute inside of each other. Smiling, I take my other hand and caress his whiskered cheek, revelling in the coarseness of it.

He kisses the palm of my hand. He moves up my arm, kissing the inside of it, tasting the dip of skin in my elbow, up to my shoulder. He nuzzles his face into my neck, and starts to layer tiny kisses up and down my neck, to my jawline. I start to ooze with the electric current of those kisses and I melt on his lap. I tilt my head back to allow closer and deeper access. I feel my heart catch in my chest and my heartbeat explode, as little gasps escape me.

I lean forward and provide the complimentary-I take my lips and gently swish them on his earlobe, hearing him gasp in satisfaction. I smother his earlobe gently for a moment, and then proceed down his muscled and perfect neck, tasting the whiskers and drinking his scent. He takes a hand and smoothly lifts the bottom of my satin dress, easing the leg of it up so that it exposes the back of my leg, and the gartered stocking. He lightly slides one finger in between my leg and the satin strap of the garter, running his roughened finger on that stretch of skin shadowed by the garter. His touch makes me ache, but he goes no further nor any deeper than just those two inches of flesh. I am absolutely in heaven. I have never been touched so sensually or so lovingly in my life.

I continue kissing his neck and he nuzzles my shoulder, taking his other hand and just skimming it along the top of my nightgown, allowing the pads of his fingers to caress the skin just hidden inside. I sit up and head directly in for a hard, strong kiss, with only the slightest motion of tongue just over his lips, tasting the scent of red wine on the tip of his tongue. He removes his hand from my leg and my neckline and soaks them into my hair, holding my head firmly but gently.

Wanting more, needing more, I sit back and look at his face finally

...and it's Kiefer Sutherland.

I awake with a start, more than turned on and very embarassed, as I realize I have had my first ever erotic dream about a celebrity. I have clearly been watching too much of Best Friend's borrowed Season 2 of 24.

I have got to get that on DVD as soon as humanly possible.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:43 AM | Comments (20) | Add Comment
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