It's 10am...
The birds are outside chirping, the sun is shining in through the window, the baby is in a great mood and I just want to go back to bed.
Fucking hell.
So, I definitely had a social life this past weekend. I did things. I forgot my camera, so you might just have to take my word for it. I was around people.
Sunday, I stayed in my jamjams all day and read poetry and did some painting (some really good stuff, in my opinion - you ought to see my jellyfish...). And I lost my incredible feeling and it was replaced by a bad feeling. A dreadful feeling.
People let me down. People decide all the time that they no longer want me in their lives. I'm sure it's the same way with everyone, but I feel it so much more. How many friends have I had that are just no longer there? How many people have let me down? Vanished? Gotten up and left to do something important with their lives? Or just decide to ignore me forever? How many relationships just change for no reason at all?
I hate change so much. I hate surprises. Where did everyone go?
So even though I had a wonderful, magical weekend... it's the future that worries me. All we have is now, is what everyone always says.. but that's not true at all. Now is here and gone so fucking quickly that we never have Now. It's gone before we can ever even touch it. All we really have is the future. That's all we have. And the future is full of tragedies, joys, worries, new people and situations, lost friends and found friends, mysteries and problems. More problems. Always more problems.
I miss everyone who leaves.
But I don't think everyone who leaves misses me.
Must spend some time on the beach this summer. Must.
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
why so serious?
I'm sitting at the dining room table right now. There are helium balloons all over and I wrapped Carter's birthday presents tonight. I have a good feeling.
I've been feeling very inspired lately. I read something in O Magazine (I don't normally read that, but I was strangely compelled to this time. Plus: everything Oprah says is gospel and if you disagree with that - well, who cares? Certainly not Oprah, I can tell you that). At any rate. There was a very interesting piece in there by Martha Beck about how people we despise and people we admire are like mirrors held up to us. When we obsess over somebody that we really can't stand, it's because we recognize parts of ourselves in them (I think I knew this before) and when we admire or envy someone, it's also because we recognize parts of ourselves in those people as well. So the article suggested we write a letter to a person we have all kinds of nasty to talk about, and give them the hell you've always wanted to. And then cross out their name at the top and write your own, and be open to receiving the criticism and work towards bettering yourself. And also write a letter to someone you greatly admire and - same thing - cross their name out and write your own. So I did this, and I changed the names of the people I had originally written the letters to so for all you know, I could be writing about you. mwahahaha... but not really because in the end they are intended for myself.
Sophie
Lindsay,
I have always known that you are entirely self-involved and phony, but it came as a great surprise to me when I found out that you are vindictive and hateful as well as selfish and materialistic. You pretend to be nice to everyone but have nothing nice to say about anyone in your life when they are not in the room. You are a gossip. You are a fraud. You think that relationships can be sustained through intimidation and the occasional gift of some monetary value. I think you need a reality check. I think you are - in the kindest terms I can muster - mentally ill, as well as physically ill. I could go into the horrible things that you have done to me, but because this is actually an exercise in self-development, it would hardly do any good to do so. Suffice it to say that I see right through you, and I always have. It infuriates me that you have no sense of obligation to any sort of truth or honesty about the way you treat people, and I think you may actually believe the bullshit that flies from your face endlessly. I think it would be best if you spoke as little as possible - that way, you may be able to keep some love in your very wasted life.
Lindsay.
[ouch, right? I know. And after I changed the name at the top and read it as if it were written by someone else to me, I realized that I have a lot of hatred in my heart. I take the relationships in my life for granted. I am a gossip (this blog proves that). I have struggled with mental illness. I can be a fraud. I am a lot of the things that I hate so much in somebody else. I lack a capacity for forgiveness. Again, ouch. But now for the more pleasant letter....]
Mildred
Lindsay,
Ever since the day I met you I wanted to be just like you. There is something in your personality that suggests a vacation from the mundane, that suggests anyone can live whatever sort of life they please. And you inspired me. You don't think anything is impossible. You're incredibly brave. Where lesser beings would wallow in loneliness and boredom, you have always pulled your boots on and sought adventure in everything. You are incapable of being bored. You pull everyone into your gravitational pull and make complete strangers fall in love with you because you make them want to become more creative and brave themselves. While your capacity for love is endless, you are also wise enough and courageous enough to accept that not everyone can be the same as you. Thank you for slipping away from big cities to teach yourself (and me) that no journey is wasted if it brought you closer to who you want to be, and that no one can be angry if you check out of life for a while to remember what it is about it that you love in the first place. Your fierce uniqueness and never-ending desire to cultivate your ever-hippie soul have always made me model myself on your example. I will always love you, even if we get into another fight that lasts another year and a half - or however long it was.
Lindsay.
[I don't have a whole lot of commentary on that one, but it did make me cry, and I hope that the person I originally wrote it for is able to recognize herself in those words, because they are all true.]
I recommend you all try this.
I've been feeling very inspired lately. I read something in O Magazine (I don't normally read that, but I was strangely compelled to this time. Plus: everything Oprah says is gospel and if you disagree with that - well, who cares? Certainly not Oprah, I can tell you that). At any rate. There was a very interesting piece in there by Martha Beck about how people we despise and people we admire are like mirrors held up to us. When we obsess over somebody that we really can't stand, it's because we recognize parts of ourselves in them (I think I knew this before) and when we admire or envy someone, it's also because we recognize parts of ourselves in those people as well. So the article suggested we write a letter to a person we have all kinds of nasty to talk about, and give them the hell you've always wanted to. And then cross out their name at the top and write your own, and be open to receiving the criticism and work towards bettering yourself. And also write a letter to someone you greatly admire and - same thing - cross their name out and write your own. So I did this, and I changed the names of the people I had originally written the letters to so for all you know, I could be writing about you. mwahahaha... but not really because in the end they are intended for myself.
Lindsay,
I have always known that you are entirely self-involved and phony, but it came as a great surprise to me when I found out that you are vindictive and hateful as well as selfish and materialistic. You pretend to be nice to everyone but have nothing nice to say about anyone in your life when they are not in the room. You are a gossip. You are a fraud. You think that relationships can be sustained through intimidation and the occasional gift of some monetary value. I think you need a reality check. I think you are - in the kindest terms I can muster - mentally ill, as well as physically ill. I could go into the horrible things that you have done to me, but because this is actually an exercise in self-development, it would hardly do any good to do so. Suffice it to say that I see right through you, and I always have. It infuriates me that you have no sense of obligation to any sort of truth or honesty about the way you treat people, and I think you may actually believe the bullshit that flies from your face endlessly. I think it would be best if you spoke as little as possible - that way, you may be able to keep some love in your very wasted life.
Lindsay.
[ouch, right? I know. And after I changed the name at the top and read it as if it were written by someone else to me, I realized that I have a lot of hatred in my heart. I take the relationships in my life for granted. I am a gossip (this blog proves that). I have struggled with mental illness. I can be a fraud. I am a lot of the things that I hate so much in somebody else. I lack a capacity for forgiveness. Again, ouch. But now for the more pleasant letter....]
Lindsay,
Ever since the day I met you I wanted to be just like you. There is something in your personality that suggests a vacation from the mundane, that suggests anyone can live whatever sort of life they please. And you inspired me. You don't think anything is impossible. You're incredibly brave. Where lesser beings would wallow in loneliness and boredom, you have always pulled your boots on and sought adventure in everything. You are incapable of being bored. You pull everyone into your gravitational pull and make complete strangers fall in love with you because you make them want to become more creative and brave themselves. While your capacity for love is endless, you are also wise enough and courageous enough to accept that not everyone can be the same as you. Thank you for slipping away from big cities to teach yourself (and me) that no journey is wasted if it brought you closer to who you want to be, and that no one can be angry if you check out of life for a while to remember what it is about it that you love in the first place. Your fierce uniqueness and never-ending desire to cultivate your ever-hippie soul have always made me model myself on your example. I will always love you, even if we get into another fight that lasts another year and a half - or however long it was.
Lindsay.
[I don't have a whole lot of commentary on that one, but it did make me cry, and I hope that the person I originally wrote it for is able to recognize herself in those words, because they are all true.]
I recommend you all try this.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Simple Men
Mike is a pretty simple guy. He doesn't require a whole lot of attention, he has no need for expensive things, and he watches way more television than he ought to. And when it comes to meals, Mike likes to keep things especially simple. So sometimes I get frustrated when I make something really fancy and time-consuming and he says something like "shake'n bake would've been fine". It pisses me off, actually. But my inner Julia Child only likes to come out to play every once in a while. I go through phases all the time, because I insist on discovering new and exciting things about myself every day. So that phase is over and done with. Now I just eat rice pudding. Or donuts. Or Baba Ghanouj. Or nothing at all because I'm too lazy to be bothered with anything.
So it's times like these when I appreciate Mike's simplicity most; because while other men would come home and expect to find me in a french maid outfit and basting the golden turkey, Mike doesn't bat an eyelash when he comes home and I'm in my pajamas and there's no food to be found. He doesn't complain - even though just the other day I made something complicated and scrumptious.
So I have entered a new phase: the bare-minimum-but-still-enough-to-make-him-happy phase. Weiners and beans with toast. Kraft dinner and ketchup. And tonight: sloppy joes. Mike got as excited as any 7 year old would.
So pour me a glass of the boxed wine and enjoy this phase, because very soon I will be entering the Indian food phase. And Mike will not like that. Not at all, I suspect.
So it's times like these when I appreciate Mike's simplicity most; because while other men would come home and expect to find me in a french maid outfit and basting the golden turkey, Mike doesn't bat an eyelash when he comes home and I'm in my pajamas and there's no food to be found. He doesn't complain - even though just the other day I made something complicated and scrumptious.
So I have entered a new phase: the bare-minimum-but-still-enough-to-make-him-happy phase. Weiners and beans with toast. Kraft dinner and ketchup. And tonight: sloppy joes. Mike got as excited as any 7 year old would.
So pour me a glass of the boxed wine and enjoy this phase, because very soon I will be entering the Indian food phase. And Mike will not like that. Not at all, I suspect.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Handyman Debacle.
It's a miracle we don't kill and eat our lovers.
It's like we have a limitless capacity to handle their stupidity and all around inconsideration. At least I do, and that's odd considering what little patience I have for the human race, in general.
I thought, since Mike and I will have been together for 2 years later this month, that it would be super swell of me to get us on the finale of Canada's Worst Handyman (he loves this show), which I managed to do. Now, since he told everybody he knew to watch that one episode of that Debbie Travis All For One shit in which his face appeared for a total of 3 seconds, that he would be pretty pumped about being on TV. I patted myself on the back and wore a smug look of defiant self-satisfaction for the entire morning. Then I texted Mike and told him. I got back "wtf. i dont no if i want to b on tv".
Really? This is what we're doing? We are going to piss all over my efforts and pretend that we're not a total HAM? Fucking guy. Fucking asshole. Un fucking believable.
I was crestfallen. And once he got home he barely mentioned it. I began to hate him. I began to hate his footsteps in the kitchen and his stupid face and his stupid voice suggesting that we get to Zellers before it closes, bla bla fucking bla. I bottled this all up inside while still managing to give him my most convincing "I'm never having sex with you again" dance.
Aaaand of course he didn't catch on.
So here I am, wasting so much time (hours, in fact) trying so hard to win a fight that Mike has no idea that we're even having, and I eventually spontaneously combust into heaving, snotty wales of absolute misery. Mike still has no idea what's going on. This was in the car, by the way.
And after a big long pointless fight, Mike still has no idea how to handle this backhanded insult to my romantic efforts. I pretty much thought I was the greatest girlfriend/fiancee/wife that ever walked the planet and he just didn't give a shit. Not that he's coming up with any better ideas.
Anyway. We fight once in a while. The air in the basement is thick with awkward hostility and poorly disguised chagrin. But the beautiful thing about us is: I know this won't matter at all in 9 days, when I drag him to Niagara Falls to be on the final episode of Canada's Worst Handyman regardless of how unsure he is that he wants to be on TV. That's bullshit too, I hope you know. He would love to be on TV. And he would love you and everyone you know to watch it. Just you wait.
It's like we have a limitless capacity to handle their stupidity and all around inconsideration. At least I do, and that's odd considering what little patience I have for the human race, in general.
I thought, since Mike and I will have been together for 2 years later this month, that it would be super swell of me to get us on the finale of Canada's Worst Handyman (he loves this show), which I managed to do. Now, since he told everybody he knew to watch that one episode of that Debbie Travis All For One shit in which his face appeared for a total of 3 seconds, that he would be pretty pumped about being on TV. I patted myself on the back and wore a smug look of defiant self-satisfaction for the entire morning. Then I texted Mike and told him. I got back "wtf. i dont no if i want to b on tv".
Really? This is what we're doing? We are going to piss all over my efforts and pretend that we're not a total HAM? Fucking guy. Fucking asshole. Un fucking believable.
I was crestfallen. And once he got home he barely mentioned it. I began to hate him. I began to hate his footsteps in the kitchen and his stupid face and his stupid voice suggesting that we get to Zellers before it closes, bla bla fucking bla. I bottled this all up inside while still managing to give him my most convincing "I'm never having sex with you again" dance.
Aaaand of course he didn't catch on.
So here I am, wasting so much time (hours, in fact) trying so hard to win a fight that Mike has no idea that we're even having, and I eventually spontaneously combust into heaving, snotty wales of absolute misery. Mike still has no idea what's going on. This was in the car, by the way.
And after a big long pointless fight, Mike still has no idea how to handle this backhanded insult to my romantic efforts. I pretty much thought I was the greatest girlfriend/fiancee/wife that ever walked the planet and he just didn't give a shit. Not that he's coming up with any better ideas.
Anyway. We fight once in a while. The air in the basement is thick with awkward hostility and poorly disguised chagrin. But the beautiful thing about us is: I know this won't matter at all in 9 days, when I drag him to Niagara Falls to be on the final episode of Canada's Worst Handyman regardless of how unsure he is that he wants to be on TV. That's bullshit too, I hope you know. He would love to be on TV. And he would love you and everyone you know to watch it. Just you wait.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Rules for Mike.
Unspoken rules are the glue of any relationship.
For instance, it's a rule that men will think about sex all day, every day, in every and all situations, and many times you will not make cameos in his fantasies. Which is fine. But if Mike admitted this to me, he would be fantasizing his way all the way to a homeless shelter with a black eye. But that's just men. They're filthy. Everybody knows it.
The set of rules that go along with being with me every day are actually kind of amusing. I spent all day yesterday recognizing my high-maintenance tendencies and jotting them down so that I could share them with internet-world this morning.
For instance, it's a rule that men will think about sex all day, every day, in every and all situations, and many times you will not make cameos in his fantasies. Which is fine. But if Mike admitted this to me, he would be fantasizing his way all the way to a homeless shelter with a black eye. But that's just men. They're filthy. Everybody knows it.
The set of rules that go along with being with me every day are actually kind of amusing. I spent all day yesterday recognizing my high-maintenance tendencies and jotting them down so that I could share them with internet-world this morning.
- I may rub you with my bare feet all I want. But if you so much as touch me with your dis-coloured, fungus-ridden toe nails I will punch you in your sleep.
- I may snore. But you will have to wake up and switch to sleeping on your stomach when your snoring wakes me up.
- You will call and order the pizza. I will never call and order the pizza.
- I will walk by and you will try to smack my bum. and any time I don't manage to avoid your sexual harassment, I will give you a wet willy when you're least expecting it.
- I may complain about anything, everything, cry and agonize and you will hold me and bring me chocolate. You may only complain sarcastically. And then I will assume everything is fine. My mental stability is much more questionable than yours is, darling.
- I will pick the movie. All the movies you like are shitty.
- Whenever I want to make an unnecessary purchase just to make myself happy, you can't say anything. You have to let me regret it myself, later. This will happen, so just trust the process.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The post in which I begrudgingly admit that I still need a little work (on the inside)...
I've given the whole New Years Resolution thing a lot of thought.
And I have decided that it is bullshit.
After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that I could not attempt to be any better than I already am, because it would be futile and would only result in disappointment.
Okay, I have one resolution: let go of the anger.
Here's a secret: I am a very angry lady. And I can hold a grudge with the best of them. But when I make a mistake, I expect others to forgive me. Albeit, some things are completely unforgivable and I refuse to even entertain the thought, but I should probably stop thinking about all the shitty things that have been done to me and focus on the good things that happen every day.
For instance, Carter is saying mama all the time now. *Insert big, shit eating grin here*
Oh, and I still love my job (and my 2 week hiatus).
Mike is a wonderful guy whose expectations of me remain startlingly low. Thank God.
I had a very Chanel Christmas. That was awesome.
Yes, good things happen all the time. So I need to let go of the anger.
I will not harbour negative thoughts. My mind is a peaceful, tranquil sea of calm happiness.
I'm still angry. Maybe I will just shut up about it from now on. Yes. Good plan.
So anyway, yeah, fuck resolutions! Things are going great just the way they are.
Except I am still in this basement.
Maybe in 2011 I should consider working more. Working harder. Saving money.
Yes. Another good plan.
Alright, maybe I'm not perfect. But at least I've got love. And Chanel.
And I have decided that it is bullshit.
After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that I could not attempt to be any better than I already am, because it would be futile and would only result in disappointment.
Okay, I have one resolution: let go of the anger.
Here's a secret: I am a very angry lady. And I can hold a grudge with the best of them. But when I make a mistake, I expect others to forgive me. Albeit, some things are completely unforgivable and I refuse to even entertain the thought, but I should probably stop thinking about all the shitty things that have been done to me and focus on the good things that happen every day.
For instance, Carter is saying mama all the time now. *Insert big, shit eating grin here*
Oh, and I still love my job (and my 2 week hiatus).
Mike is a wonderful guy whose expectations of me remain startlingly low. Thank God.
I had a very Chanel Christmas. That was awesome.
Yes, good things happen all the time. So I need to let go of the anger.
I will not harbour negative thoughts. My mind is a peaceful, tranquil sea of calm happiness.
I'm still angry. Maybe I will just shut up about it from now on. Yes. Good plan.
So anyway, yeah, fuck resolutions! Things are going great just the way they are.
Except I am still in this basement.
Maybe in 2011 I should consider working more. Working harder. Saving money.
Yes. Another good plan.
Alright, maybe I'm not perfect. But at least I've got love. And Chanel.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Nagging.
All relationships have their challenges.
But I don't know how to handle ours.
I feel like if we didn't have Carter so soon, maybe we would have gotten a better chance to get to know each other and we'd be able to yell at each other when we want to yell at each other.
But you can't yell at each other when you have a baby.
This brings on so much more stress and aggrivation for me because I can't just let things slide. When Mike hurts my feelings or pisses me off, I honestly can't just brush it off and go to sleep.
So I'm up blogging about it.
Don't get me wrong. He's excellent and I love him more than you could know; but I often feel like he doesn't respect me as much as I respect him.
When I ask him to do things, he never does. Not until I have nagged and nagged and nagged. I don't want to nag. I just want him to do the things he says he will do instead of say "okay, I will" again and again until I finally just do it myself. I was gonna do that! I bet you were. And when you have to harp on someone for days to do a simple chore, that person just gets to thinking that you're a miserable bitch who loves to nag constantly. They don't realize that the baby is going to pull the bookshelves onto himself and die if this doesn't get done!!!
I'm just doing a little bit of venting. Mike is asleep and we won't ever even discuss this, because we won't even speak until sometime tomorrow night; and if I bring it up tomorrow night, that just makes me a nag.
sigh. All relationships have their challenges.
But I don't know how to handle ours.
I feel like if we didn't have Carter so soon, maybe we would have gotten a better chance to get to know each other and we'd be able to yell at each other when we want to yell at each other.
But you can't yell at each other when you have a baby.
This brings on so much more stress and aggrivation for me because I can't just let things slide. When Mike hurts my feelings or pisses me off, I honestly can't just brush it off and go to sleep.
So I'm up blogging about it.
Don't get me wrong. He's excellent and I love him more than you could know; but I often feel like he doesn't respect me as much as I respect him.
When I ask him to do things, he never does. Not until I have nagged and nagged and nagged. I don't want to nag. I just want him to do the things he says he will do instead of say "okay, I will" again and again until I finally just do it myself. I was gonna do that! I bet you were. And when you have to harp on someone for days to do a simple chore, that person just gets to thinking that you're a miserable bitch who loves to nag constantly. They don't realize that the baby is going to pull the bookshelves onto himself and die if this doesn't get done!!!
I'm just doing a little bit of venting. Mike is asleep and we won't ever even discuss this, because we won't even speak until sometime tomorrow night; and if I bring it up tomorrow night, that just makes me a nag.
sigh. All relationships have their challenges.
Monday, October 25, 2010
valley of the dolls
Okay. why? why why why why why why why?
Why can't I drink wine until I'm hammered on a Monday night?
Why can't I just buy books instead of borrowing from the library?
Why can't I spend the entire day in my underwear eating cupcakes and watching Jersey Shore?
Why won't he buy me a Vespa?
I know. I'm writing another post about how much being a grown up in a grown up relationship sucks.
I probably shouldn't complain too much. I am lucky to be with someone who lets me off the hook with long stretches (oh, only a year or so) of leisure time in between very part-time jobs that lead to nothing and stress me out like I have a real job, or something.
But when did I become this grown up? When did everything become so wrapped up in panic and responsibility?
If I want to buy $25 candles and $10 cardboard boxes I will! Dammit! This is freedom to me!
At this point I feel like I should rise, stare off into the sky with a noble expression, chin jutting out and what not, and proclaim all young, immature, frivolous mommies the world over free from all feelings of guilt and shame. With a flag waving away in the background.
This is unrealistic. I'm not getting a Vespa tomorrow. Or moving somewhere that resonates within my soul. This is where I am and I have to make the best of it.
I need a new hobby.
Enter: doll making.
Now hear me out!
Glass eyes. Wigs. Clay. Little miniature shoes and outfits and wigs worked into messy braids and sad pathetic little doll faces and oh my god! This could very well be the perfect time-waster that will pacify me and make me shut up and stop giving my poor husband an ulcer. And a headache. And a potential dependancy issue. That last part was a joke. Maybe.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Paris Debacle.
I want to move to Montreal. Super badly.
Actually, I want to live in Paris. But I realize that is just never going to happen because of the man I have chosen to spend my life with. He lacks the necessary joi de vivre. But it's always been in the back of my mind. I'm very Parisian at heart. I understand the immediacy of pleasure and that the French are not cold - they just don't smile unless they mean it. I admire anyone who has the gall to never shave their armpits, restaurants that allow dogs inside and millions of people ignoring non-smoking signs to the point where they are merely a flippant formality. I love Paris. I want to learn how to speak French, I want to listen to Jacque Dutronc on vinyl in a giant studio apartment, overlooking Paris, with a living room full of exposed brick. A cheese cage. A cage for your cheese. Wine with every meal. I love everything about France. Everything. I especially love their honesty and their refusal to coddle obese women, calling them beautiful and cheering them on when they say they are comfortable with their bodies - when we all damn well know that we would all be a lot more comfortable with our bodies if we were French skinny.
I digress.
I thought that when I brought up the idea of moving to Montreal instead of Paris that Mike would accept this compromise and we would pack our bags and board a train over to the Canadian promised land.
Not so much.
Mike and I are so different in so many ways that it sometimes seems astonishing that we are actually a couple. But we mesh well and we love each other and it works well. But now he's jumping up and down and squashing my dreams with relish and anger. He has put his foot down. We're not moving to Montreal. And we are most definitely, absolutely, one hundred per cent NOT MOVING TO PARIS!!! But that's relationships I guess. You have to give up a little bit of what you want in life in order to be in one. And if you have somehow managed to find a person you can be with who shares all of your dreams and passions - then fuck you. Most of us don't get to have our gateau and eat it too when it comes to matters of love and marriage.
But don't get confused. I am not giving up without a fight. Today I cried for about an hour after bringing up the idea for the millionth time. And this will continue to happen until I soften his cold stoney heart and he agrees to finally take one for the team and move to Montreal with me.
Whose side are you on anyway?
Actually, I want to live in Paris. But I realize that is just never going to happen because of the man I have chosen to spend my life with. He lacks the necessary joi de vivre. But it's always been in the back of my mind. I'm very Parisian at heart. I understand the immediacy of pleasure and that the French are not cold - they just don't smile unless they mean it. I admire anyone who has the gall to never shave their armpits, restaurants that allow dogs inside and millions of people ignoring non-smoking signs to the point where they are merely a flippant formality. I love Paris. I want to learn how to speak French, I want to listen to Jacque Dutronc on vinyl in a giant studio apartment, overlooking Paris, with a living room full of exposed brick. A cheese cage. A cage for your cheese. Wine with every meal. I love everything about France. Everything. I especially love their honesty and their refusal to coddle obese women, calling them beautiful and cheering them on when they say they are comfortable with their bodies - when we all damn well know that we would all be a lot more comfortable with our bodies if we were French skinny.
I digress.
I thought that when I brought up the idea of moving to Montreal instead of Paris that Mike would accept this compromise and we would pack our bags and board a train over to the Canadian promised land.
Not so much.
Mike and I are so different in so many ways that it sometimes seems astonishing that we are actually a couple. But we mesh well and we love each other and it works well. But now he's jumping up and down and squashing my dreams with relish and anger. He has put his foot down. We're not moving to Montreal. And we are most definitely, absolutely, one hundred per cent NOT MOVING TO PARIS!!! But that's relationships I guess. You have to give up a little bit of what you want in life in order to be in one. And if you have somehow managed to find a person you can be with who shares all of your dreams and passions - then fuck you. Most of us don't get to have our gateau and eat it too when it comes to matters of love and marriage.
But don't get confused. I am not giving up without a fight. Today I cried for about an hour after bringing up the idea for the millionth time. And this will continue to happen until I soften his cold stoney heart and he agrees to finally take one for the team and move to Montreal with me.
Whose side are you on anyway?
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
This has nothing to do with the post but: how come you jerks don't comment?
So.
When Mike and I started dating (as with all new relationships) poop and farts were something that we pretended just didn't happen.
We all do this. I think. The last thing we want to happen in front of our new boyfriend or girlfriend is fart, or - GOD FORBID - get diarrhea.
Mike is incredibly regular. He has to poop like 5 minutes after waking up, every morning. (I hope he doesn't mind that I'm blogging about his poop... he never reads this though). So when I had my own place and Mike would spend the night, he would always rush out super fast in the mornings. I just thought he slept longer than he should have and had to get to work really early. But no.
Mike had to get in his car and drive halfway across the city to his house so he could take a poop before going to work every morning. And I mean every morning. He spent the night all the time.
What a desperate human being. I didn't know the truth for a long, long time.
I did really well for quite a while! No pooping incidents or farts for months! Mike cracked first.
We went out for dinner and something Mike ate "didn't agree" with him (why do people say that?). We headed back to my apartment and Mike bashfully admitted that he was feeling a little sick. And he stayed in the bathroom for a while and I sat on the couch, thinking long and hard about what has happening.
I'm not a monster. I knew that Mike was in that bathroom freaking out because the lovely exterior of our new relationship had been compromised. I now knew that he pooped. And he was doing it just a few feet away. He must have been mortified. So I just contemplated how the situation should be handled. It isn't the kind of thing you can just not comment on. I had to make him feel better! I knew he was super embarrassed! What if I were in that situation?
So when Mike emerged and stood before me, I just said "Everything is fine. And if I'm ever in that position I want you to make me feel as comfortable as possible with this type of utterly devastating inevitability" and with that, Mike felt comfortable pooping at my place. Milestone!
I was about 5 months pregnant before I ever farted in front of Mike. (Is anything more embarrassing?) For weeks I had been preparing him for it. Pregnant women fart like crazy. Ask anyone - going 5 months without letting one slip in front of Mike is practically unheard of. But yeah - I kept telling him "this is going to happen, and when it does I will rip your head off if you laugh at me, fucker!"
So this one night I was sitting in the hallway and while I was getting up it happened. I did it. I farted. And I immediately turned red as a lobster and was all like "DON'T LAUGH! I TOLD YOU! YOU WERE WARNED!" but Mike laughed. Obviously. But I was glad that he did because if he didn't laugh we would have just stared at each other awkwardly and I probably would have cried.
He still doesn't know that I poop.
When Mike and I started dating (as with all new relationships) poop and farts were something that we pretended just didn't happen.
We all do this. I think. The last thing we want to happen in front of our new boyfriend or girlfriend is fart, or - GOD FORBID - get diarrhea.
Mike is incredibly regular. He has to poop like 5 minutes after waking up, every morning. (I hope he doesn't mind that I'm blogging about his poop... he never reads this though). So when I had my own place and Mike would spend the night, he would always rush out super fast in the mornings. I just thought he slept longer than he should have and had to get to work really early. But no.
Mike had to get in his car and drive halfway across the city to his house so he could take a poop before going to work every morning. And I mean every morning. He spent the night all the time.
What a desperate human being. I didn't know the truth for a long, long time.
I did really well for quite a while! No pooping incidents or farts for months! Mike cracked first.
We went out for dinner and something Mike ate "didn't agree" with him (why do people say that?). We headed back to my apartment and Mike bashfully admitted that he was feeling a little sick. And he stayed in the bathroom for a while and I sat on the couch, thinking long and hard about what has happening.
I'm not a monster. I knew that Mike was in that bathroom freaking out because the lovely exterior of our new relationship had been compromised. I now knew that he pooped. And he was doing it just a few feet away. He must have been mortified. So I just contemplated how the situation should be handled. It isn't the kind of thing you can just not comment on. I had to make him feel better! I knew he was super embarrassed! What if I were in that situation?
So when Mike emerged and stood before me, I just said "Everything is fine. And if I'm ever in that position I want you to make me feel as comfortable as possible with this type of utterly devastating inevitability" and with that, Mike felt comfortable pooping at my place. Milestone!
I was about 5 months pregnant before I ever farted in front of Mike. (Is anything more embarrassing?) For weeks I had been preparing him for it. Pregnant women fart like crazy. Ask anyone - going 5 months without letting one slip in front of Mike is practically unheard of. But yeah - I kept telling him "this is going to happen, and when it does I will rip your head off if you laugh at me, fucker!"
So this one night I was sitting in the hallway and while I was getting up it happened. I did it. I farted. And I immediately turned red as a lobster and was all like "DON'T LAUGH! I TOLD YOU! YOU WERE WARNED!" but Mike laughed. Obviously. But I was glad that he did because if he didn't laugh we would have just stared at each other awkwardly and I probably would have cried.
He still doesn't know that I poop.
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