April 22, 2008 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb, I Write About My Feelings

I like to be right. And I like to win.

(I know, this revelation shocks you.)

I want to tell him he’s wrong, wrong, wrong, point out all the ways in which he’s wrong, all the places where things could have gone differently, if we had but made other choices, all the ways in which what did happen was a direct result of the choices we, individually, made. And I desperately want to correct the assertions — explicit and implicit — from that last conversation and his subsequent e-mail. (Which is still unresponded-to, I might add.) Heck, I’d probably even tell him that he’s right about a few things, though it’s clear he doesn’t understand why those things are they way they are.

But I won’t. Because in this scenario, winning is defined entirely by my ability to not speak to him. And even more than being right, I like to win.

February 25, 2008 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb

This really isn’t what I wanted to write about today. First off, there are so many other things to get you caught up on, like why I neglect this place like an unwanted alley cat.  Second, I wanted to tell you about how, three years ago today, I met someone wonderful and, despite all the bumps along the road (and boy howdy, were there some potholes the size of Texas in that particular road), we were, amazingly, still talking, still seeing each other, still holding hands.  But this is the most newsiest news I’ve got, so those other things are going to take a backseat for the moment.

After three years of self-imposed patience, forced openness, and constant understanding, the unceasing support I provided, not to mention the overlooking of current and past sins — oh, so much overlooking — the mental begging, pleading, wheedling, cajoling, and willing myself to just hang in there, it’s worth it – we’re done talking.

The details aren’t important. I asked the hard questions. He talked. I listened. I left. As a parting shot before I left I quoted a line he’s used on me a number of times – a line I hate with a white-hot fury – because when somebody stabs me in the gut with a knife, I am, in fact, self-righteous enough to grab the handle myself and give it a hard twist clockwise 90 degrees.  Feels good, doesn’t it?

Then I left, in a manner not unlike what he claims is the best closing scene to a movie ever.

It’s not so bad, really. I’ve had worse. But the rendering meaningless of three years of my life isn’t likely to sit well with me. So, if you’re into this sort of thing, would you mind praying for a little healing for me? My liver’s gonna need it.

January 31, 2008 | Filed under: Because They Pay Me, Boys Are Dumb, DC! DC! DC!, Is She Still Talking?

So. Instead: New hair!

(Nothing to worry about, just a little more buffeting from the Universe today than my poor, delicate psyche can handle. A bottle of wine for dinner and hopefully I’ll forget all about it.)

(And Saturday better involve flowers, is all I’m sayin’.)

July 15, 2007 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb, I Write About My Feelings

I didn’t set out to write this. But here we are — it’s written and I’m about to hit “Publish.” I suspect that the timing is all wrong, but that’s been a hallmark of our relationship, hasn’t it? Why should today be any different?

I didn’t go looking for it. The box, that is. Steve made mention of cashing in his savings bonds, gathered at various childhood functions — spelling bees, science fairs, Christmas gifts — and I wondered where my stash of similarly-procured savings bonds was. Initially I thought maybe they were still at home, in the stack of stuff on Dad’s desk, at the back of the slotted organizer where the bills go, next to the electric calculator and the sheet of return address labels. I should ask him about that, I thought. But then I remembered looking at them in DC, in the dining room of last house I lived in, so that means they must be here, somewhere, in California.

Curious as to the whereabouts of those darn savings bonds, and coupled with the fact that I’m meeting my financial planner this week and need to dig out some financial documents for her, I went through my Drawer of Important Documents. Stuff in there doesn’t go back very far, most of it was from the first month I lived here — utility hook-ups, new cell phone plan, and a healthy collection of receipts, warranties, and related service plans — but there was plenty in there that could be tossed.

I went merrily along, opening envelopes with old bank statements, various bills that I’ve long since paid online, insurance policies that have expired or been updated. Into the trash went all the envelopes and return envelopes and envelope-stuffer advertising printed in color on slick, shiny paper. Into a pile for shredding went everything with my name, address and account number on it. What a waste, all those trees.

I yanked open the bottom drawer — old, sticky, built-in cabinetry that’s wood-on-wood, without the benefit of modern wheel-and-tray drawer slides — to retrieve the shredder, and that’s when I saw the box. Most days I forget all about it. Occasionally I’ll remember it’s there before I open the drawer, and I’ll flip it off or stick my tongue out at it or pointedly ignore it. Even more rarely, it doesn’t register and I can ignore it quite absent-mindedly. The box, however, always punches me in the gut.

The box. The Box of Us. The things you sent me. Rough drafts of some things I sent you. Ramblings, musings, questions for you written on the back of the lead pages of my print jobs at work. The symphony program — an exact match to the one that contributed to one of your countless breakups months later. The picture.

You kept the Box of You and Her. You packed the stuff up and put it on shelf, sure, but you kept it. Convenient for when you got back together, huh?

(And, oh, if this were not a public forum I would use her name right here, you know I would, because it makes you uncomfortable, I see you squirm at the sound of her name coming out of my mouth, how it forces you, for a split second, to not compartmentalize the two of us. Oh yes, that is not an accident. Very few of my word choices are an accident.)

You threw away everything I wrote, everything I sent, everything I didn’t think I could or should say but pushed myself to say anyway. It didn’t occur to you that I’d want me back. I didn’t need you to keep any of it, but I sure as hell thought I would get it all back.

I keep the Box of Us, despite the fact that it always punches me in the gut. No, I keep the Box of Us because it always punches me in the gut. I keep it not because I want to remember Us, but because I want to remember that I kept Us, while you did not. You threw Us away, literally and figuratively.

You kept the Box of You and Her, anticipating, perhaps, that she would remain in your life. You pitched the things of Us, assuming that I would cease to be part of your life. Well, I think, gathering up the shredder and slamming the drawer shut,
I can certainly make that happen.

I never did find those savings bonds.

June 13, 2007 | Filed under: Boys Are Dumb

The following took place within an hour of us meeting.

Him, joining a conversation already in progress: Oh really? When did you go to Niagara Falls?

Me, deadpanning: My honeymoon.

Him: . . .

Me: I’m kidding. It was Family Vacation, 1994.

Him: Well, it was a popular honeymoon destination for a while!