September 17, 2011
Still alive (sort of). Still sexy (sort of).
Still trying to make sense of the bad decisions I’ve made as a result of being untethered (no, really).
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Posts tagged as:
cats are people too
July 28, 2011
I’ve been told a lot of things about Vagina Drum and myself, especially now that I haven’t been around as much. A few examples:
1. Change your name, people will judge you.
2. Never talk to that ex of yours again.
3. You need to write more.
I’m sorry to say that I can only fulfill number three. I’m doing that right now.
As far as ditching Vagina Drum – it’s not going to happen. I realize it’s not the safest choice but it’s mine and there have been a lot of wonderful things that have come from it. Like my job, for instance.
But the point of this is to talk about my ex and the relationship that, despite its best efforts, never had a chance . In doing so, I will be as honest as I possibly can. Because everyone reading this deserves that. I deserve that.
I haven’t been healthy enough to cut him out of my life. I haven’t been level-headed enough to actually write about all of it. But I can now say that he’s out of my life. My self esteem and self worth may be absolutely shot from three years of ‘You’re wearing that?” and “No, this is why you’re wrong.” but when he recently told me, with a smile on his face, that I was too ‘harebrained’ to successfully kill myself, something in me snapped. Not in a violent way. Not even in an angry way. I was, in that moment, given the perspective I needed to realize that this person doesn’t love me and this person doesn’t care about me. That’s okay.
I am admittedly having a hard time writing about my feelings and experiences regarding the relationship. Because every painful memory, every comment made to second guess myself is followed by his voice. A voice that ultimately invalidates me. A voice that let’s me know that I’m wrong to feel the way I feel. A voice that uses my own actions to impale myself on my own less than stellar actions as justification to be treated poorly.
Speaking of which, I’m not perfect. I’ve slung plenty of mud. I’ve cursed and yelled and belittled in order to save myself from falling over the crumbling skyscraper that was our relationship. I am absolutely not without fault. My only goal in writing this is to not do that anymore. There’s no need for it. There never really was, sadly.
I will freely admit that the relationship saw a lot of laughter, love, travel, growth, and shared interest in feeling better about our lives while watching Cheaters. I wouldn’t be writing Vagina Drum if it weren’t for him. I wouldn’t be in San Francisco if it weren’t for him. I wouldn’t have an impressive collection of vibrators if it weren’t for him.
But I also wouldn’t have serious doubts that anyone will ever love me consistently and without contingencies. I wouldn’t worry that I’m only attractive while wearing something form-fitting or low cut. I wouldn’t worry I’ll never be good enough for anyone.
He’ll likely never see this or truly realize the depth of the scars that have been inflicted. That’s not the point anyway. They’re mine to deal with now. I just need an opportunity to be listened to. To be truly listened to. To know that I’m not crazy. To know that I have a reason to be hurt. To understand that, despite my sometimes deplorable behavior, he has issues that are not mine to talk about but were made mine to feel bad about.
Still, that doesn’t eliminate the fact that part of me still holds on to this fantasy that he’ll show up to my office one day as I’m leaving, look at me sincerely and tell me that he’s sorry. Maybe he’ll even have one of those foil balloons shaped like a house cat, comically whipping around in the wind as he gives me the only thing I’ve ever really wanted from him. To finally be respected by him enough to have the recognition that my pain from the relationship is not entirely my burden to carry.
And then once he turns to walk away, maybe I’d let the balloon go and watch it haphazardly cut through the sky.
Because I’m no one’s house cat anymore.
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April 19, 2011
One time, I read a quote popularly attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt that said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” I was around 14 at the time and thought it would ensure lots of dates somehow, or at the very least, get people to stop thinking I was a foreign exchange student from Eastern Europe.
But for the most part, it’s a guidepost that has worked well for me. Mostly because everything aside from television scares me, so I’d otherwise lead a life solely dedicated to figuring out which Desperate Housewife has had the most plastic surgery (Teri Hatcher) or why that chick from those Olive Garden commercials seems familiar (Haley from Modern Family).
In addition to my ‘Hell yeah I’ll try that cinnamon roll frozen yogurt’ attitude is the fact that I am brutally honest. Now, when I say that I’m brutally honest, what I really mean is that I probably have some sort of social anxiety disorder where I say things I shouldn’t and then get the urge to eat a lot of french fries.
So, given that information, here’s where I expertly set myself on fire with my brain playing the part of the kerosene soaked blankets and technology as the torch.
Saturday night, I went to a comedy show put on by a group of very nice guys who wear neat hats, make fresh juice and use their apartment (specifically, attic) as a venue for intimate events. My friend* curated a group of comedians from San Francisco and LA to perform and took it upon himself to host.
I was taking somewhat of a risk, since I hadn’t technically met him in person and there was a possibility that he could be completely unfunny. Then I’d have to be one of those assholes who, in response to something utterly humorless, says, “That’s funny” instead of actually laughing. I didn’t want that. But, as it happens, I did want something else.
When the show started, he got up on stage (two rugs stacked on top of each other) and did his warm up. He was actually really funny. And most of his material had to do with his dick or sex or a combination of both. Those three things together, for reasons most likely related to my late night viewings of Shipmates, really turned me on.
And I thought, “I’d fuck him. No wait, I’d totally fuck him.” So that’s what I told him. In an email. I know. But the show was in progress and he was hosting and there was this Serbian guy next to me who kept asking, “What do you like to be doing in the city of San Francisco” and I couldn’t find his phone number so I could do the right thing and call him to whisper it into the phone so I’M SORRY but I emailed him.
He didn’t email me back immediately, but I was okay with that. What kind of freak would do that, right? We talked after the show and I kept thinking, “Does he know about how I want to see his penis and maybe hug it with my mouth a little? Does he? I mean, I thought I saw that he had a smart phone but maybe he has one of those older flip phones that can’t receive email. Yeah, that’s it – he just hasn’t seen it yet. OH BUT WHEN HE DOES, IT’S FUCK CITY FOR ME.”
And anyway, I couldn’t further embarrass myself by asking him something like, “So…did you get that email I sent? You know, the one about how I said I would fuck you and then HA HA I joked about being sweaty? I mean I swear I wasn’t actually sweating because that’s not sexy but I guess this is technically an attic so it wouldn’t be completely unheard of. Anyway, what’d you think?”
An hour or so later, I got my answer. He texted me and said, “Nice to meet you. Have a good night.” Allow me to translate what that actually means:
“Wow so I just got your email and what the fuck is wrong with you? First of all, you’re too tall and I bet your boobs are kind of saggy, too. That bra isn’t fooling anyone. Beyond that, I don’t even know you. Also, you look like the kind of person who listens to Hootie & the Blowfish and that alone makes my penis want to tunnel inside of me and press itself up against my belly button until you move to another state. So, thanks but no thanks. Have a good night.”
In hindsight, I guess I understand that he didn’t directly address the email. If I got an email like that from a creepy internet half-stranger who I had just met, I’d probably run home, put my phone underneath six pillows and then not look at it again until I got the urge to take a picture of my cat sleeping in a really cute position like this:
Either way, I’m pretty sure that when Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do one thing every day that scares you” she didn’t mean, “Offer your body to someone you hardly know just because he is funny and talks about his dick.” It’s not like that’s going to stop me though. I mean, she was probably a lesbian anyway.
*We follow each other on Twitter
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March 29, 2011
If you’ve ever wondered what it looks like for a grown woman to stage a wedding for her cats and stuffed animals, offer them a round of alcohol (Pepsi) and then encourage them to “make babies” then your day just got way better.
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March 26, 2011
Up until a month ago, this was the closest thing to a cat that I had:
Pillow cat
But now, I have a real cat that purrs and everything. And when I feed him, it actually goes in his mouth instead of just falling from the pink stitching and hitting the floor. Sorry, pillow cat, you’ve been replaced.
When I brought real cat home from the SF SPCA, he almost immediately started suckling pillow cat.
At first I thought, “Okay, it’s a new environment for him and he was a stray who was likely taken from his mother at an early age. Normal enough.” But he kept at it. And then he left a large wet stain on it and even though I was totally over pillow cat, part of me didn’t want to face the possibility that maybe I was the one who had been dumped.
Real cat (Frisco)
Things didn’t get much better from there. Frisco spent most of his day on a towel rack in my closet. The only exceptions were normal cat things like eating, making me feel inferior in every way possible and of course, a quickie with pillow cat. And there I was in the background – out of focus and watching from afar.
I was jealous of a pillow and he knew it. I think it fueled him. Because as soon as I decided to stop pulling him away from the pillow to pet him or ask him what he thought about my outfit, he began to wean himself. He started sitting in my lap, following me around the house and (slowly) accepting my presence. He actually liked me. Maybe.
However, this is also around the time when he started prompting me to Google things like “Xanax for cats” and “Is NyQuil safe for cats if only using half a cap?” Being off the synthetic tit changed him. He started staying up for most of the night and playing with all sorts of cables. But he only really focused on the ones connected to the things I love the most – the TV and my computer. He nearly knocked an entire cup of cranberry juice on my keyboard and made numerous attempts to push my laptop off the desk. He sits in front of the TV right as I’m trying, for the third time, to figure out why Ron and Sam are fighting. He chews on my headphones. He tries to interrupt anything I do that doesn’t involve napping with him.
I distracted him from what he loves and now he’s doing the same to me. I’m in a codependent relationship with my cat. When he’s not sitting near me, he perches himself in a place where he can watch me. Sometimes, like right now, he drifts off to sleep and I’m able to get online.
But once he figures out how to disable the router, I’m fucked.
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