I don’t remember all the lyrics or even who wrote it or when it was written and I’m too friggin lazy to look all that up.   The voice in my head says, “Wrote a little song about it.  Like to hear it?  Here it goes….”

I can see the choir room.  I can remember the feeling of the chairs and the carpeted steps – who built that room? It was hip.  I sat in the back row of the alto section.  I think this is about the time I began to develop my love/hate relationship with singing songs in English.  Italian is so much more fun & most people round these parts have no idea what the f*(& you’re singing about.  Heck after the first year of opera, I really didn’t either.

Anywho.  The song in my head:

If a picture paints a thousand words

Then why can’t I paint you

The world will never know

The you I’ve come to know

After this, I just remember the alto “ahhhhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhh” part.

I’ve been thinking of how everything in the world is related in one way or another.  One thing spawns another and it just goes on and on and then BAM!  Karma or juju’s or whatever bites you in the arse (sometimes in a fun way, but not always).

I’ve also been thinking of feng shui.  My feng shui has been shit for the past however many years.  Oh, I know, feng shui sounds like froofy magic to scare away various toadies and magical beasties.  I think it sounds perfectly logical and since I’ve actually seen it work in an ex-boyfriend’s house many moons ago. I’m totally cool with people thinking I’m high on peyote.

So, why was my feng shui not?  This may sound a little odd, especially considering my actions in recent past, but I was trying to respect dude’s space.  When I moved in, he was still reeling from kicking his sweetest girlfriend in the world out after I dumped him.  He had shortness of breath, heartburn and frequent hiccups.  All I could really do is try to teach him how to control his diaphragm and slow down his breathing…and not mess with his stuff.  Oh yeah, I figured his roomie/girlfriend/it-was-over-months-before-I-even-met-you was really still his girlfriend, as far as she knew.  I knew the situation was seriously fucked from the beginning, but I was busy trying to be selfish & stuff.  I thought I could compartmentalize and keep him a neat little box without the commitment, without the hassle and without the guilt.  After all, I wasn’t the one who pinky promised her the world.

Nope.  That so doesn’t work for me.  I wish I’d known before.  Oh well, lesson learned. 

Also, I’m an all or nothing person when it comes to some things.  When I tried my whole orange scented blessings and organizing, I freaked out dude.  We fought over moving some vhs tapes when I was getting ready to try out the carpet cleaner.  I didn’t know if they would be damaged.  They seeme like they could be messed up.  Ugh.  So not worth it.  Who in the world fights over stuff like that? 

Honestly, I was totally going to zing him via this post one last time, but then I was distracted by pretty things.   Sometimes I finally pay attention to details and am struck by the sheer beauty of the world.  Strange what my brain focuses on.  I’ve gotten to the point where I know I will never know everything.  “The more I learn…the less I know.”

I pay attention to things I like.  I pay attention to things that interest me.  I pay attention to things because they’re right there, on the table….!?!?!?!  Whateva.  I pay attention to those I love or those odd peeps floating into my poor vision (people are friggin fascinating).

On the other hand, sometimes it’s better if I don’t know some things.  Margaret Atwood wrote a kick ass short story called Blue Beard’s Wife.  Maybe it was Black Beard’s.    Basically it was a couple of people deeply in love and everything was like totally peachy.  She moved in and he told her that his home was hers and that she could go everywhere she wanted except this one room (can’t remember if the door was locked or not).  Did she just enjoy the rest of the house?  Hell no!  It bugged the crap outta her.  She’d look at it and think basically, “….oh, what harm can be done?  I LOVE him SO much.  Nothing I could ever learn about him would change my opinion of HIM!”  Bitch opened the damn door.  Can’t remember what was in the room.  Dead wives?  I dunno.  Something that horrified her.

While I don’t know if things I learn horrify me, I do know I yak a lot.  Blah blah blah top secret  information on radio signals from a manual I picked up and read when I was married.  What can I say?  It was friggin fascinating.  Wanna know when a particular ship is heading out to sea and when?  Go to a bar near a naval base and sit next to a drunken sailor and/or a sig other of sailor who’s wookin pa nub and talking about how friggin relieved he/she is that their arsehole _____________ is finally GONE.  The latter is also known in WA as either a Bremerlo or Bangorilla.  It’s a fucked up lifestyle.  I’ve never seen so many people cheating in my life.  Then you have to deal with the whole weird adjustment of having someone you love incredibly well suddenly under the ocean or out to sea.  I totally lucked out on that, as far as I know, because when they’re trapped under the ocean and unable to go to foreign ports, they’re not cheating on you with another woman.  They’re writing 30 page love letters and recording compilation tapes.  They’re bragging to their friends about how great you are.  They’re telling their friends friggin EVERYTHING.  They’re getting nervous when they don’t receive family-grams.  They’re laughing when they find out the other crew’s radiomen are prank calling you and messing with the messages so that “enjoying the new job” becomes “enjoying the new knob.”  Maybe I’m addicted to the constant drama and attitude like everything is life or death. 

The point is:  Sometimes knowledge is a power I don’t want.  Would I want to accidentally tell someone who could do harm to those I love something that empowered them?  Fuck no.  It makes life too complicated.  I’d rather bop along thinking everything is magical and precious and imagine all things in my life are strange coincidences.

Few years ago, I thought about why I liked the kazoo song Snow Patrol did on their Final Straw album.  Hmmm…it’s a song about a stalker.  Hmmm….dude’s like all in someone’s house going through stuff and leaving notes.  Hmmm…in his kinda strange way, he’s showing her affection.  Guess the song didn’t bother me because the stalker didn’t end up killing her.  Seemed sweet to me.

It’s a relief to be known and still cared for.  I like believing in guardian angels.  I love the freedom.  Makes me happy to just be able to enjoy the fun stuff.  I seriously don’t care if someone way more intelligent than I am is all up in my bidness & doing sweet things. 

Thank you to the freak of nature who busted into my puter and toyed around with my itunes.  I needed that.  I don’t know what else you’ve busted into, but I’m not worried.  I trust you.

Random thought?  Sometimes really LOUD sounds emanating from the bedroom are made in an effort to hurry the process along somewhat.  I give great head resonance.  Some guys are into that.  Unfortunately, I’ve ended up with a nasty habit of saying things during.  I used to cringe at that and now I just say/DEMAND stuff.  Who knew?

Time to get organized.   Can’t worry about the documented proof of my lesbianismness (so many people wish they were all up in April’s boobages like I guess I was the other night).  Greyhounds ROCK!  Love me some lesbonese and couches that catch ya when you fall.  After looking at the receipt, I don’t think they charged me for everything.  It was a good night.

I go through the kitchen stuff.  Where are all the mugs?  Did two break?  Oh, yeah.  They did.  Didn’t I have 5 of those? Oh, there’s the rest of the set.  Are these golf balls mine?  Yes.  Those are, but not those.  Did I get all the cookbooks?  Think so, but wonder where the recipe cards are.  Oh, here are more pics of the princess in the cupboard above the Fridge.  Oh yeah, here are all their magnets he never threw out or gave to her.  Might as well put them back on the fridge.  Was that his or mine?  Hmmm…his.  Matches that potato peeler.  I remember when we bought those.

These basic thoughts lead me back to things I haven’t thought about in a while.  How we used to go golfing together at Blue Heron and how nice it felt to be out in the sunshine, drinking and golfing terribly.   How he used to always let me drive the golf cart when we got one.

My mind wanders to the hikes we used to take in the gorge.  How the forests smelled.  How nice it was to sit by a stream and dip our toes in.  How I was always so scared to fall on my arse walking over the slippery rocks to catch up with him.  How warm it felt to suddenly hit a patch of sunlight and to just look around at all the beautiful things. 

I remember sitting beside him in the car listening to Snow Patrol and the unsensored Liz Phair as we drove up the 101.  Singing along with my feet up on the dash and just feeling so happy to be with him.  I remember the beaches, the wind and the spooky darkness of Forks.  I think of how wonderful it felt to be wrapped in his arms.  I’ve no idea how he did it, but somehow I felt completely enveloped in love, warm and safe. 

I think of how he used to pick me up in the giant truck.  He used to turn the seat heaters on before I even came out and when I climbed in, he’d hand me a latte and newspaper.

I remember how strangely warm his body always felt when I climbed into the freezing bed.  He’d just say, “Come over here.  I’ll warm you up…” and then he’d let me snuggle into his chest.  It felt like home.  I thought I’d found where I was supposed to be.  I didn’t care what was going on in the world just as long as I could be with him. 

Some mornings we’d wake up and he’d talk to the dog.  She’d get so happy when he talked to her.  He always made me laugh on mornings like that.

I hate going through this.  I know he’s being generous and staying away, but I hate this.  After packing up my office and bringing my box of personal stuff home, it just feels wrong to be moving again so soon.   My life just feels like it’s in a thousand tiny pieces.  I’m just trying to keep everything together.  Keep in touch with everyone in PDX and WA.  Let them know where I am.  Change all the addresses for all the accounts.  Get one last oil change with my mechanic.  Say goodbye to being able to take off for my fav beach on a moments notice.  No more pretty Portland.  Good luck getting a hold of my short little friend when I’m gone.  Get final appointments taken care of here.  Get borrowed books back to former co-workers.  Figure out how much will fit in the Honda.  Wonder if I should put a blanket down?  Should I haul furniture and kitchen stuff together? Figure out when I’ll be home.  

Figure out where home is.

It’s been a full day.

I got the ok to use the head of the company I worked for previously as a reference.  It meant a lot.  I was so happy that yes, again I cried.  I think he’s even going to call the person I recommended, which in a way says he has some respect for my opinion.  Validation?  I dunno.  I just know I’m very grateful to said head of my former employer.  I always looked up to him and he was always very good to me.

Another highlight:  For some reason THE boy is being nice to me.  He even sorta invited me to go out with him in public, kinda.  I’ve felt hidden from his world for so long.  Anything like that seems promising.

On the other hand, it’s not like there were declarations of love and fidelity.  Last night wasn’t a picnic.  It wasn’t terrible, but it stressed me out and made me sick to my stomach. 

If you haven’t tried it, you should.  It’s a fabulous way to lose weight.  If I can stay sick to my stomach another week, I’m bound to go down another size. 

I know I don’t want to be scared.  I’ve no desire to keep repeating mistakes of the past in which my fear played a leading role – more like a show stopping cameo.  Can we say drama?  NO!  ‘Cause we’re in denial, bitches!

I’m tired and goofy.  I’m probably over analytical because that’s how I roll.  Don’t be a playa hayta (how in the hell does one spell hater without the “r”).

Mental note:  Give up any hopes of sounding supacool.

Maybe it’s because I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s either a train or my 40^th birthday.  Either way, whatever it is, I wouldn’t mind if it slows down a bit so I have time to stop walking the railroad tracks.

I still can’t shake the weepies.  I should be mentally high-fiving white guys, but I’m not.  I’m grateful.  That’s a plus.  I know how fortunate I am.  Maybe I have to dig for it sometimes, but it’s there, my fortune.

Sleep’s prolly not a bad idea.  Wudda day.

I know why.  I feel like the people closest to me are not close at all.   Those I love and know love me are far away.  Those I love who don’t really love me are nearby but I want them closer, want them to love me and want them to make me a priority.

It makes me feel lost.  There are some easy steps I should be taking to right the situation.  It’s really the second situation that has me hog-tied.  This is the problem closest to my heart for whatever reason.

Call it obsession.  Call it self-abuse.  Call it whatever makes sense to you when you try to understand.

Yeah, it’s a man.  It’s the same man that infuriates me and makes me want to beg for mercy at the same time.  I know the situation.  I’ve seen the patterns – the peaks and troughs – repeated several times.  I’ve played the games. 

What I don’t understand is my own reaction.  If I do something nice or am proud of the job I’ve done, why is it I expect to be slammed by him?  Why does he slam me at all?  Why do I get a kick out of sounding sweet while I’m subtly smacking him down after he does this?  When he’s lost the tiny verbal duel, why do I want him more?

I spent a weekend at the ocean with him this month.  I could tell he was trying to set me off so he could get out of it, but I let him say the snarky things without comment or retort.  All so I could get him to focus on me for the weekend.  The room he said he would pay for completely, well, he paid for half.  As with everything, we go in close to equal dollar-wise, yet he insists he’s doing me a wonderful favor and I’m sure will one day believe he paid for everything.

When we get there, it’s not about joint enjoyment, it’s about his pleasure.  He’s done all these wonderful things (bought booze, KFC, some groceries & paid for one night) and so he spends a large amount of time dropping heavy handed hints about getting sex & serviced.  Gotta make it worth his while to spend this kinda money.  And let’s face it, it’s not like he isn’t fun in bed.  It’s a two way street and there are definitely worse ways to spend one’s time.

Ironically, this is closely tied to his number one complaint about women:  They’re all whores because they’re just with guys for the money.  What more could one expect when they demand sex after paying for anything?

Shocking:  You buy a girl a sandwich or drink and then demand sex in return.  You’re treating her like a whore.  Oh sure, they all have their different prices.  Some want the Fairmont in Banff while others show their goodness by demanding Motel 6.  If women are whores, the girl silly enough to request a motel 6 is just a cheap whore.

There are whores of both sexes.  They’re just bartering for different things and the only time, by his definition, someone may not be a whore is if they do something without wanting anything in return.

Here’s the funny part:  Any time I’ve done something out of love or just because, above and beyond his own efforts, he freaks.  He can’t accept it at first.  Then he behaves as if he’s doing me a favor for taking whatever.  Not gracious at all.

For someone so hung up on the amount of money spent and what he gets in return, what is it about receiving something from someone who loves him that makes him so skittish?  Is he afraid he can’t pay back whatever in kind?  Maybe.  Maybe he sees it as something un-whorish and feels like he’s lost control.  Granted, I’ll admit to wanting appreciation.  If I spend days knitting a cashmere scarf and then I’m treated like I’m a total cold hearted biatch, my panties bunch.  If my love is questioned, that pisses me off too. 

But truly, the thing that really drives me mad is when he holds me for hours, kissing the top of my head and squeezing me.  Acting as if he loves me and then saying, “You keep pushing me away.”  All the while I’m snuggled in tight against him and happy.

I guess I just had an epiphany.  I know why I still love him and why I want him in my life; he’s a challenge.  Granted, he’s said more than once that chicks are attracted to arseholes, but that’s not entirely true.  We go for these guys because they challenge us.  They make us think they’re worth it and regardless of what anyone says, they’re not entirely evil.   Trust me, it would be easier to believe they were 100% spawn of Satan.

I’m attracted to him for many of the same reasons other women are attracted to him.  He’s smart.  In good ways & in bad, he’s smart.  He’s creative too, which just about trumps the smart card.

I can act goofy with him.  I can sing stupid songs.  I can hug him and that’s just the beginning, but I’ll avoid getting too blue on that last thought.

I’ve never met a man I’ve had more in common with or felt such joy and I kick myself for two major things:  1) moving in with him and; 2) being too guarded.

The first one is because it messed with my head.  He’s the only man I’ve lived with who was not my husband.  It freaked me out.  I felt I lost a certain sense of independence.

The second one is more complex and probably the worst.  If I’m going to jump in whole hog, why bother worrying about tomorrow?  Why worry about all the things that can go wrong?  No one lives forever.  There’s no shame in loving someone completely, so why was I so defensive and worried he might screw me over? 

Ok, I guess it’s the way it is.  Anyone over thirty who hasn’t gotten hurt in a relationship is either in denial or seriously lucky.  Blindly jumping into anything doesn’t make sense and there’s no use pretending the world is a Technicolor dream filled with love and all things good.

Still, had I been more gentle at times instead of raising D-fence (I’m pretty sure those goofy football fans with their goofy signs are cheering ME on), things would be better.  Maybe if I hadn’t been scared to talk more when he asked me if I wanted to work it out a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t be here.  Maybe I need to remember to cut him some slack because he gets defensive too.

There must be a way to balance the whole thing.  There must be a way to not be afraid.   I have to realize he may never understand what he means and has meant to me.    

Be kind.  Be impeccable with your word.  Nothing good comes from negativity towards others.

I need to remember those things.  I need to zip it when I feel snarky.  Cut the sarcasm.  Lose the attitude.  Get another copy of that one book that reminded me of these things.

Ugh.  I wish I were a better person.  Just keep swimming.  Just keep swimming.

Don’t give up.

I have to seriously resist the urge to warn every woman who sympathizes with this schmuck and leaves  ”ohhhh, that sounds painful…ohhhh, I’m so sorry for your dating blues…I’m single…aren’t I cute?” comments on his blog.

The thing that set me off is a blog of his where he was siting his past (almost) 2 years of experience in being turned down by various women in “Porkland.”  My memory, though not perfect was that we were together for most of those 2 years.  Then I made the mistake of mentioning it to him.  I’d just read it and I was hurt and wasn’t thinking.

I know it’s over.  I know that we are AWFUL together. 

One sentence, a question quoting his blog “you’ve been hitting on women for 2 years?”

This, according to him, was attacking him.  This, according to him, was making bad assumptions.  He said I was picking fights.  He said I should get out.  He said I shouldn’t keep picking fights with him when I’m still here.  He said I always do things like this and this is why we don’t work. 

When I tried to explain that I’d made assumptions reading (some call it reading comprehension) and I assumed “almost two years” meant that his wookin pa nub had started sometime between February and May of 2007.  Then I asked him, “If I told you I was working at the bank for almost two years and someone asked you the question ‘when do you think she started?’ what would you say and would you assume I’d been working there the whole time?” 

He said he learned from his former CFO to always be vague and that he didn’t really mean almost two years.  He wouldn’t know when I started working at the bank because he doesn’t make assumptions when he reads. 

So, I asked, “Do you think there’s a difference between almost 3 years and almost 2 years? Why put a time frame in at all?  Were you trying to give your readers a sense of time?” 

Nope.  He just threw it in there and didn’t see why it would upset me, but he wasn’t finished being upset about me attacking him.  He went on about how he never cheated on me and it made him mad that I thought that – where oh where did I get that idea?

When I asked what he wanted, he told me he wanted me to believe he didn’t cheat on me.  I told him I believed him.  He said I was lying and I didn’t mean it.  He was right.  Then he went off again.

When I apologized for even mentioning it (I did this 5 times), he said it didn’t matter because I start things like this and I have to listen to him now whether I like I or not.  Then he told me again how I attacked him and had just gone off on him again (when I was talking to him about reading comprehension). 

I asked what he wanted me to say?  He now said he wanted me to admit that I attacked him.  I said, “I attacked you.”  He said he didn’t believe me.  I asked him what he wanted?  He said he wished I believed I attacked him.  I said I wished he loved me and was decent.  Then I quickly back tracked and asked him to igore that and said that what I really wanted to say was that you can wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which fills up first. 

Admittedly, that weird, where-the-fuck-did-that-come-from-wishing-he-loved-me thing slowed him down. 

It just made me tired and I really wanted a fucking cigarette.

He said I was just walking out on him and that I should stay and listen.  I offered to listen to him outside or listen through the door.  Nope.  After a few minutes, he let me go suck the cancer stick.

I came in, went up to where he was so he could finish, but he said he didn’t want me there.  As I got up to leave, he told me again that I shouldn’t attack him like that and I need to stop doing this.

Is it me?  Was that whole attack/argument/fight all me?  My god, I really don’t think so.  Saying “you’ve been looking for 2 years” did start the whole thing, but it wasn’t the reason we just wasted a fucking hour with him raising his voice and me crying.

Yes, Virginia, maybe this has something to do with him having “anti-social personality disorder/psychopathic tendencies.”

Must….GET…..OUT!!