Dysfunction Junction

I was talking with Karli today on her commute home. In honor of the upcoming Super Bowl this weekend, we’re getting rain and a cold front. So, with this fun development and all the Canadians and other miscellaneous visitors on the road, driving anywhere right now is a challenge and takes about twenty minutes longer than usual.

Karli and I spent this extra time talking about this man we know. Oh, let’s call him Bob. Bob used to live with Karli’s neighbor, Sara, when Karli lived a bit farther north. Yes, it is a very small world.

Apparently Bob and Sara had a very dysfunctional relationship. They were on-again, off-again for a year or so after ending a live-in situation. The relationship finally dissolved after he moved here to the Tampa area. Within a year, he met and married a very sweet woman. They have new baby, and whenever I see either of them, they’re smiling.

Karli is telling me how crazy Sara was during the time she was with Bob. After he’d moved out, Sara and Bob still dated, and when she knew he was away, she’d go over to his new place, break into his house and search his computer to look for... Who knows what. A reason to go? A reason to stay?

I feel so incredibly sad for this woman. Do I think she’s crazy? Yeah, a little. But who knows what she was thinking or feeling while this relationship was ending? Who knows what he was telling her? Who knows what she was reading between the lines? And I wonder how must it have felt to Sara when she found out that after spending so many years with Bob, going back and forth, that he’d managed to move on so thoroughly and so quickly?

But, you know, when something’s right, it just works. You don’t have to think about it. You meet someone, maybe the stars are aligned just right, and you fall in love. You don’t have to question it, and it’s not such a struggle. Life just clicks into place.

And, no, nothing is ever perfect all the time, but when you’re breaking into your boyfriend’s house to find out if there’s someone else, I’d say life’s not clicking into place in a big way.

You can try very hard to make something work. You can build your entire life around it, dress it up in your favorite colors. You can do all the right things, and you can even put your name on it.

But God help you when you’re up to your neck in this thing you’ve put everything into, and one of you meets the person with whom everything would have just clicked.

Daddy's Girl

My parents divorced when I was very young. I’m the second child, and while my older sister, Sadie, was firmly bonded to my mother, I was a Daddy’s Girl. I adored my father. I remember very clearly, when Sadie told me we were moving away with Mommy to live somewhere else, the question I asked her was, “Then, who’s going to take care of Daddy?”

Shortly after the divorce came through, my father helped my mother move us from Albuquerque where we lived, to Los Angeles. My mother had rented a little cottage in West Hollywood. The house was sandwiched between a storefront and an alley. Between the garage and the house was a yard with rose bushes and a lemon tree. I’m sure I remember it being much quainter than it actually was. From the perspective of a five-year-old, though, there was a world to explore in that backyard. My own little secret garden.

We were standing in that garden, my father and I, before he left for the airport to fly back to Albuquerque, when I had given him reason to scold me. I can’t for the life of me remember what I had done, but I do remember what I told him when he tried to discipline me: “You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my Daddy anymore.”

I never saw him again.


Life moved forward. I got older. When I was nine, we moved from California back to Florida. My mother remarried when I was in my teens to a man she dated off and on for many years, and he adopted my sisters and me. I call him “Daddy” now. And we’re good. I love my family. I’m happy. I’m all grown up.

But even though I'm older now, and I understand life and love and the ties that bind with the wisdom that only time and experience can give you, I’ve still never forgiven the little girl who told her father that he wasn’t her Daddy anymore.

Tethered

Let me tell you about my good friend, Ashley.

I’ve written about her before, so you might remember the name. She's the chick with whom I pee in the woods. I met her when we had a golf tournament for Omnicorp in November. As the only two girls there, and the only blondes, as well, we pulled our golf carts side-by-side and exchanged digits after a brief chat. We've been texting each other ever since.

She has a degree in Sports Management but because of the current state of the economy, she works for a charity getting people at the golf course to donate money. She earns a dollar for every five that is donated. She’s lovely and sweet and very young. She’s one of those petite little blondes who dates a huge football player. Do you have a picture of her in your mind?

We go to dinner and for drinks and the occasional basketball game. She’s always a blast to hang with, and she totally cracks me up. Well, Ashley got us both on the list for this hot new club, Aja, opening in Channelside tonight, and I bailed on her. And she’s not completely furious with me. I love this girl.

I know it would be a good thing to get out and mingle with the natives and all. It’s just that I’m feeling very homemaker-y. Not sure what this is about or what brought it on, but I do know it’ll quickly disappear with a hangover. And I’m enjoying it.

Today, I’ve cleaned the house from top to bottom. Gotten all the laundry not only washed but also dried and folded. Written two pages of a short story. Gone grocery shopping and to the library to return my borrowed items on time for a change. Caused the woman at my dry cleaner to lose a bet by actually showing up after she went to the extra trouble of putting a rush on my order. Thrown together my grandmother’s recipe for potato salad to go with tomorrow’s lunch. And made a huge casserole of homemade beefaroni for the boy who periodically asks me, “Mom, do you ever wonder if I eat?”

I like getting this stuff done. I’ve felt so untethered for the last six months or so. Honestly, it’s been since I got back from my month in California back in June, which was really the first time in my adult life that I was on my own with no other responsibilities. I’m not feeling so restless now. I’m beginning to feel engaged with the world around me again. And it’s good. I’m good.


Now, if I can just find those Blockbuster rentals I took out in October, I’ll be all set.

WTF?

I go to my writing workshop. I need to provide 40 pages of material.

Oooo. Easy.

“Can I submit my blog?”

Yeah. That didn’t fly.

So I’m staring at a blank screen.

Nothing to talk about. Nothing to say. No words will come. And I have to go back and face a room full of budding authors, all more gifted than you could imagine. Wasn’t I just saying that writing was like breathing?

Ah, hubris. Isn’t that Greek for “total ass”?


So I write.

About the totally awesome coffee I got at Starbucks on my way to class: grande 2-pump vanilla breve latte with cinnamon-dolce sprinkles.

"The foam, it tastes like cinnamon. And vanilla."

I’ve got nothing.

Well-Adjusted Blogger Stalker Seeks Same

I can’t tell you how elated I was when I found I had my first non-familial blog follower.

Well, I can tell you, actually.

I jumped up and down and called my best friend, Carrie to share my good news and tell her all about my new friend. (By the way, thanks, Vodka Mom! You were my first… Never to be forgotten.)

Weird, isn’t it? You don’t think anyone who doesn’t love you would give a crap, and then, you find yourself craving the following. It’s a little like heroin... Well, I imagine. I got my first taste, and now I’m always on the hook for a new fix.

I’m proactive. I search for new bloggers I admire. The one’s who make me laugh. The one’s who make me think. Then, I court them. First, I follow. Then, I comment. Then, I wait. And wait...

"Why won't you follow me back?!"

I’ve become a blogger stalker.

It was bound to happen. Believe or not, I’m relatively well-adjusted in other aspects of my life…


Got into a huge fight with my work-husband this week. I’ve known this guy for almost twenty years. In the course of which, some boundaries have been crossed. As in, we have none.

A minor disagreement turned into me making the statement, “We need to discuss this offline.” Without witnesses.

So I leave work for the day and head straight home to wait. He calls about an hour later, “Are you alone?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Me, too.”

And, then, World War III broke out. No holds barred. Let me tell you what I really think of you.

Oh, it was ugly. It was the kind of argument you can only have with someone you know very, very well.

How did it end?

“Good fight. I’m glad we talked.”


See what I mean? I’m very well-adjusted.

Now, I just need to figure out the best way to execute the midnight stalker drive-by in India.

The Life and Times of Paige

I have the television on for background noise, and it’s tuned to this show called “The Life and Times of Tim.” Have you seen this show? It’s an adult cartoon on HBO. Very funny.

Here’s what caused my ears to perk up: Tim works for a company called Omnicorp. Devotees will know this is the fictitious name of my company. The writers totally ripped me off! (Not really, but that would be cool, wouldn’t it?)


Speaking of fictitious names, I actually called someone by their blog name the other day, and then, had to cover. This is the danger of talking about people in a public forum. There’s always this fear that they’ll find out. Now, I don’t think I’m ever deliberately unkind, but there are people who may not enjoy having their personal lives plastered across the internet. Fools! There’s nothing better.

I just figure I can reassure them that, really, it’s just friends who read about them. Friends who don’t know their real names… Until I mess up and use their real names on the blog, which I’ve done, or referred to them by their blog name in real life, which I’ve also done. Oh, the line between life and blog is so thin!


Went to see my girl, Kahlua, yesterday. I was totally impressed with her manners as I was tacking her,.. Until I realized she was being so good because she smelled the apple in my pocket.

Yep, she’s a big apple whore.

I’m extremely happy to learn this, because now I know how to get her to do what I want her to do. Manipulation is a wonderful skill to hone. If only I would use my powers for good.


Speaking of my visit with Kahlua. I can’t sit today. I can barely walk.

I got to do this fun trick called “posting” yesterday. It’s where you do squats in the saddle (the hard, hard saddle), as the horse trots around the arena. Or, rather, that’s what’s supposed to happen.

In my case, I did my little squats while my trainer yelled herself hoarse (puns are fun!) from across the arena:

“Heels down! Don’t arch your back so much! Watch where you’re steering her!”

Good God, Woman. Usually when I’m doing this move, arching my back is a good thing.

Made it through my lesson and got this as feedback:

“So, do you think you could start coming in to lesson twice a week?”

That can’t be praise.


Am I going back?

You bet.

Am I going to wear a giant maxi-pad to protect my hoohah next time?

Absolutely.

Collateral Damage

Went to see Sharon yesterday for my monthly facial.

“You have no butt,” is what she tells me.

Okay, her whole statement was, “You look fabulous, but you have no butt.”

You know all I heard was, “You have no butt.”

Since I stopped eating meat in August, I’ve become the incredibly shrinking woman. I feel awesome, but my clothes all hang off me. It’s becoming an issue.

Luckily, my good friend, Sharon, is a personal trainer, so she’s offered to train me - for free. Bless her heart. I’ll go see her this week and will be on my way to a new and improved butt in no time.


Got a text the other day: I think I have a crush on you.

Ohmimotherf*ckingshit.

My response: Well, how’d *that* happen?

Seriously, how does that happen? I mean, come on. I have no butt. Still, he’s a super guy, and I, as usual, am thrown into a tailspin.

I agonize over how to handle this. I can deal with crushes with four-legged animals. The two-legged crush always scares me. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I don’t want to lose a friend. I’m just not equipped to handle spending time with anyone who wants more than friendship right now.

Josh weighs in, “Wouldn’t it be worse if they didn’t want to date you?”

Yeah. Sure. Of course. But why can’t we just be friends?

Carrie, “You just need to find the right guy.”

Lynn, “Most women would kill for your problems, Paige.”

I just want to crawl into my bed and pull the covers up over my head.

Are you rolling your eyes yet?


This is so not a real problem. Real problems are poverty, hunger, genocide, the economy, the environment... But this is my problem. It’s what I worry about, because I’m afraid that the fact that it keeps happening speaks to a fundamental lack of self-awareness on my part.

I’m lucky. I know this. I do. I just wish,.. Who does it work out for? Does anyone ever get to be with the person they’re crazy about? Shouldn't we get to be with the person we’re crazy about?

My grandmother has said, “Don’t marry the one you can’t live without. Marry the one you can live with.”

Wha-a-a-t?

Well, yes and no.

I’ve written before about how I ask people how they met their significant others as sort of an icebreaker. I would say that four out of five times, the story I hear involves the man having been turned down by his girl the first, and sometimes second and third times, he asked her out. (Weird, huh? Yeah, I’m some sort of dating anthropologist now…)

Everyone tells me love grows, that the person you’re wildly attracted to almost never works out, that you have to give people a chance to grow on you. Well, everyone has to grow on you. Even the person you’re crazy about.

This is what scares me, though:

What if I settle down with person who just kind of grew on me, and then, I meet the one I’m crazy about? What do I do then?

I think too much.

And I have no butt.

All Grown Up

Is it already Sunday? Where has the weekend gone?

Went out Friday night to a friend’s restaurant with a couple of my girlfriends. My friend retired from the Coast Guard after twenty years and opened up this very laid back little bar and grill. People of all ages hang out, and there's always a live band on the weekends. It’s tucked away in Palm Harbor in this little enclave with a bunch of other little bars. If you’re ever in the area, check it out: Boyle’s Backyard.


Hung out with one of my favorite little girly-girls yesterday. We walked the dog, watched cartoons, and went to the library to check out some books. Froggy Goes to the Doctor was a personal favorite of hers, so we looked and looked until we located a copy.

Then, I spent the evening at the office playing catch up before coming home to eat junk food and fall asleep on the couch way too early.

How is this my life?


My beautiful baby turns eighteen on Monday. Weird. I remember lying in my hospital bed with him in my lap, just another teenager with a baby, and making him all kinds of promises to make up for the fact that I was completely without any of the skills or maturity I believed it took to be a good mother.

His father and I were both children ourselves. We knew each other enough to know we wouldn’t make it, though, so I guess that was a gift. Everything hasn’t gone as smoothly as I would have hoped, but my boy has turned out okay. He’s got friends and a girlfriend and plans. I just sent in the deposit for his college – my alma mater, University of Tampa. I couldn’t be prouder of him.

Well, if he’d start getting his dirty clothes into the hamper instead of somehow creating that little clothes flower around the edges of the hamper, I’d be a little bit prouder, I guess.

For his birthday, we’re playing hooky from work and school to drive over to Orlando and go to Disney World. We’ll ride all the rides, act like kids, and I’ll forget for a few hours that soon he’ll be all grown up with a family of his own.

Then we’ll come back to our little home in South Tampa. I’ll go visit Kahlua and take her that apple. I’ll hang out with friends, go to work, write, and just live, Baby.


This is my life.

And, you know what?

I think I’m pretty lucky.

Lazy Boys and Commitment

The only successful romantic relationships I’ve been in, I’ve been tricked into.

By successful, I mean, the relationships just ran their course, and, when I think about the relationship, I remember contentment and happy times without that pang you get somewhere in the pit of your stomach (or is it higher?) when you think about the ex or hear their name.

The last one started like this:

Him: Hey, do you want to go out with me?

Me: We have so much fun together now. Why screw it up?

Him: Okay. Hey, do you want to go check out this movie Friday night?

Me: Oh, yeah, I’ve been wanting to see that movie.


Four months later:

Me: When did you move your Lazy Boy into my living room?

Him: Last weekend when you were out shopping. Don’t you remember when I asked if I could keep it here because I need the room at my place?

Me: Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.

Him: Hey, do you mind if I keep these clothes here? I don’t have time to swing by my place before I go into work.

You get the picture.


Were I a crustacean, I’d be a crab. I never go at things directly. I move sideways. I zigzag. Especially when it comes to relationships. Even friendships.

I’m notoriously hard to get close to. Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m a people person, baby. But while I let a lot of people near, very few get close. When I do love, I love unconditionally… As long as I feel like I’m free.


The reason I bring this up is that I’ve been accused of being some kind of “Runaway Bride.” Apparently, I throw away perfectly good men because I have a problem with commitment. Now, I’m not sure if it’s a fear of commitment or a fear of abandonment. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

So, I rented a copy of the movie, “Runaway Bride,” to see what this was all about.

First, let me say, I like the movie. BUT I absolutely have not gotten to the altar, ever, only to run off like that. Never. I usually bail way before it gets that far. I have far too much dignity, not to mention, respect for the other person, to put either of us through that kind of humiliation.

Something did ring true, though. (Oh, Spoiler Alert!) When the Julia Roberts character goes to the Richard Gere character at the end of the movie, and she makes that speech about how these guys didn’t really know her because she never knew herself. That makes sense to me.

My mom tells me, when we have conversations about the lack of a permanent partner in my life, that once I’ve done all that I feel like I’m supposed to do, when I finally feel like I can unpack my suitcase and be still, I’ll find the right man to be still with.

Well, I hope so.

In the meantime, those Lazy Boys will probably keep materializing, magically, in and out of my living room. And, every time they do, I’ll probably still be amazed that I never noticed I was in a relationship until it’s time to leave it.

Girl-Crush

I have a big, fat girl-crush.

She’s got dark brown hair and big brown eyes, and she’s really tall. She’s kind of a bitch, too, which I completely dig. It’s all about the attitude.

Her name is Kahlua, and she’s the most beautiful horse in the world.

We made a deal today that if she would put aside her bitchy ways for me, next time I see her, I'd bring her an apple.


I’m riding at this barn out in Seminole, which is a bit of a drive, but the trainer’s really cool. She’s youngish and is exactly the kind of woman I’m a little in awe of for the way she just takes control and commands respect.

I met with her last week after talking with her on the phone a couple of times over the holidays. I think we’ll work well together. She’ll keep me safe, if for no other reason than it would be a huge hassle to her if I got hurt. I kind of dig that, too.


I went last week to get fitted for my chaps and buy a helmet. Had so much fun shopping for horse stuff. The folks at Foxwood Saddlery are completely cool, if you’re in the market.


So, I woke up this morning all excited for my lesson today. I totally felt like it was the first day of school, and it kind of was. I jumped out of bed at 5:30 and dragged the dog along for a run. Of course, I already had my shiny new helmet and kick-ass black suede chaps packed and in the car the night before. Then I went to work and spent all day with a huge, goofy grin on my face. As soon as 4:00 rolled around, I was out the door to go hang with my new crush.


The beginning of any relationship is just like a constant adrenaline rush, isn't it? You can't wait to see the object of your affection. Everything is perfect. Everything is new. The whole world is better, somehow, for allowing that part of your life to exist.

Hanging with Kahlua today was awesome and absolutely worth the pain I’m going to be in tomorrow from using all those muscles I'd forgotten existed…


It's not love, yet, but I'm definitely in deep smit.

Not It!

I spent seven hours on the phone with a friend of mine the other day.

Yes, really.

He’s going through a break-up and is somewhere near the acceptance stage.

“You need to find a nice girl to just have fun with for a couple of weeks. Nothing serious,” I tell him.

So, we went online and posted his profile on a bunch of dating sites. I haven’t heard from him in a couple of days, so I’m hoping he got some hits and is on his way to having fun with someone who won’t stomp on his heart.


Break-ups suck. It’s a death, of sorts. A life dies. You have to go through all the same stages of losing a loved one, and yet, they’re still breathing, dammit. And, no, you don’t really wish they were dead. Of course you don’t. But it would almost be easier to accept that end:

“Oh, we were so happy together. We had plans. We had dreams. We had a great life together. But then (choose your gender) died.”

There’s no self-doubt. There’s no crushing ego blow. There’s no division of assets and friends and pets. The pictures of happier times can go in a box to be treasured, not ripped to shreds and burned in the sink during a drunken pity party hosted by your best friends.

There’s no hope for reconciliation. That phone’s not going to ring. They’re not going to suck you in again only to toss you back to the curb once they realize that the person they missed is still the person they really didn’t want. (Something that happened to another male friend of mine, quite recently.)

The relationship is just over. So sad. A tragedy, really...


Somewhere between getting to New Guy’s house and ten o’clock on New Year’s Eve, I bailed.

Earlier in the day, he’d said something that had weighed on my mind, and I wasn’t able to let it go. He’d said:

“I’m looking for The One.”

Not it!

Seriously, that’s the first thought that popped into my mind.

So the whole time I was getting ready to meet him, all I was thinking was: I’m not it.

While I was driving to his house: I’m not it.

When I got to his house, a cute little place across from the beach: I’m not it.

When he suggested we meet a bunch of his friends and their wives for a house party: I’m not it.

When I thought about the kiss that was going to be required of me at midnight: I'm definitely not it.

So, I bailed - right after the lobster ravioli. A girl's gotta eat, right?

I’m pretty sure he won’t be calling again, and yeah, I feel bad. And I feel bad that I felt so relieved as I was driving away. Still, isn’t it better I left sooner than later?

I don’t want to be the person he’d rather believe was dead than just absent from his life.

Besides, if I'm really honest with myself, I have to admit that even though I'm pretty happy on my own and even though I don't look at dating as just a means to an end, at some point I'd also like to find The One.

And he's simply not it.