Sunday, June 29, 2008
Well, he called me this afternoon because he was spending his Sunday afternoon cleaning out this particular closet so that he could change it into a laundry area, as part of a larger home renovation project, and as he was toiling away, he happened to look up and see my handwriting on the inside of the door.
...Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind...
-William Wordsworth, Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
Yes, I spent entirely too much time watching Natalie Wood movies as a child.
But it made me think... there's something to be said for putting down roots. In the last 5 years, I have lived in 6 different homes, 3 different countries (if you count HK as a different country from Beijing, which, 1997 notwithstanding, it still is if you go by the necessity of visas to go back and forth).
There are no similar surprises waiting for me on the backs of my closet doors, no long-standing personal history literally etched into the places I've called home in recent years.
Such memory-provoking evidence can be painful, bittersweet, funny, or simply sweet.
I remember a friend from college (who graduated a year or two behind me) told me that after I had graduated, she was sitting in a large lecture hall, trying desperately to stay awake, and was idly scrawling doodles onto the wooden desk that was marked by decades of similar doodles left behind by countless ball point pens pressed firmly enough into the wood to leave an impression. And her eyes focused on this:
"C-Belle was asleep here"She called me to tell me that she felt as though the past had reached out to her to say hello.
I suppose one takeaway from these stories is that I have a penchant for defacing property and that future hosts should frisk me for pens of any kind before allowing me into their homes.
But I prefer to think it's a fairly common desire... to leave a mark of some kind, and all the better when it's later seen by people who recognize both you and themselves in it.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
...it's time to call it a day.
They've burst your pretty balloon and taken the moon away.
It's time to wind up the masquerade.
Just make your mind up the piper must be paid.
The Party's Over.
The candles ficker and dim.
You danced and dreamed through the night,
it seemed to be right just being with him.
Now you must wake up, all dreams must end.
Take off your make up, The Party's Over.
It's all over, my friend.
-Words by Betty Comden and Adolph Green and Music by Jule Styne
The party is indeed over, and my apt is in shambles. And there are well over 50 empty wine bottles scattered everywhere, like dead tin soldiers. The party was not the disaster I was hoping for. It was... fun. Perhaps my best one yet. Which forces me to consider that my usual complicated formulas to calculate personality mixes and so forth (which I did NOT employ with this party) might be completely unnecessary. Apparently all that is necessary is to stuff my little apt with as many people as it can hold and have lots and lots of booze available.
I will spray some anti-stain stuff on my sheepskin rug (red wine accident) and will wash my face, brush my teeth, and get into my most comfortable nightie.
I wish I could say that I'll fall asleep tonight, but I have the feeling that this is yet another night that the name of my blog will prove very appropriate.
Friday, June 27, 2008
XXXX wanted me to send you an e-mail, to let you know his bond was revoked in XXXX County. He is sorry about being out of touch, but is thinking about you and will contact you as soon as he can. Let me know if you need anything. I hope all is well.
Where to start with the biting commentary?
It's really just too easy. Hardly seems sporting.
But no one has ever accused me of being sporting.
WTF?!?! I do need more wineglasses for my little party tonight. Which, incidentally has bloomed out of control. What started as a party bereft of men has turned into one of almost nothing but men, and me.
Maybe I can get the manservant to have a bunch of wineglasses delivered to my apt. before 7:30PM so I can appropriately entertain my mostly male guests? That request on my part will assuredly drive my jailed stalker from the Big House straight to the Nut House.
A nostalgic trip back to music school is long overdue.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
(It does make me wonder what it is that men talk about. I suspect the primary topic is NOT women, but rather, themselves. So I suppose that means that EVERYONE just talks about men?)
RL is a new friend, so we are just getting to know each other, and using the topic of men as the jumping-off point.
I was going through my logic for why I am thinking of doing something (that involves a man) and RL interrupted me to say, "Oh dear god. You sound like a man. Worse, you sound like an Alpha Male."
I was surprised, because.. well... because I was using logic and going through an analysis of the pros and cons, which doesn't seem to be a very male kind of thing.
But I think RL was not commenting on my analysis, I think she was commenting more on what I was using my analysis to justify. RL believes wholeheartedly that a man's interest in and desire for a woman decreases dramatically if the hunt is taken out of his hands. This reminded me of a comment that Bartleby left on one of my posts: "The guy is an alpha male who prefers to hunt than be hunted."
I find this curious because I have initiated every step of every sexual/romantic relationship I have ever had with a man. I dislike being hunted, it creeps me out. If I want something "interesting" to happen, I will initiate it. And since I am about as subtle as a mac truck, I've never learned how to quietly manipulate a guy into doing what I want him to do, with him thinking that it is HIS idea. Although, I have idly considered from time to time if I should try to develop that skill.
But this makes me wonder... are there men who share my active dislike of being hunted? Who, like me, prefer to control the if and when (and whenever possible) the how? I have always believed that ALL men, if presented with someone they find attractive, will not care who plays the role of the hunter versus that of the hunted. As far as the male mind goes, I always believed that the ONLY question was whether or not they were attracted, and I never before spent anytime considering the possible ramifications of whether men are bifurcated into alphas and... what would be the opposite... betas?
Of course, the answer might be as simple as I do not like or date or have sex with Alpha Males.
Although RL has introduced a new wrinkle. What does it mean that, in my dating habits at least, I exhibit Alpha Male tendencies? 'Cause while I love cats, I can't abide pussies. (I LOVE how that is so fraught with different levels of meaning).
But I think Gorgeous Hunk O' Man (JF) had it right when he told me on Monday night, "Lover, despite all your girly bits and pieces, you are actually a gay man."
Monday, June 23, 2008
Me: Yes. Going for virginal.
JF: Virginal? Yeah right. Your left ear, maybe.
*a little later, after I showed him the diamond and platinum Tiffany's necklace received from a stalker*
JF: Oh. My. God. Let's hock it!
- Shit - The bird shit on the statue.
- Piss - I have to piss like a race horse.
- Fuck - Fuck you.
- Cunt - She has a beautiful cunt.
- Cocksucker - Go to hell, you cocksucker.
- Motherfucker - You are a motherfucker.
- Tits - Hey, nice tits.
Will raise a glass in your honor tonight. Wherever you are, I hope you are shocking the crowd.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Stalker activity has died down, so I can breathe freely again.
Every now and again, I send the Universe a plaintive request for Viggo, but for the most part, my energies have been almost completely focused on work.
I've finalized the terms and general scope of my upcoming consulting project. It rather worries me that the company is not able to scope the project with the kind of minute attention to detail that I prefer, but I suppose that's exactly why they hired me, and it is my sweet spot, after all. So I will just do my thing and ask for forgiveness rather than permission. I do anticipate one area of potential difficulty however. The primary value I bring to the table is negotiating and interacting directly with potential clients. And this is the precise part of the job which has been reserved for the CEO himself. I have to resign myself to getting that critical customer information second-hand. Since I have enormous trust issues, I don't like it. The questions that are asked during a negotiation are rarely in line with the answers that are actually sought. The objections raised usually share very little likeness to the actual objections. And without all the contextual data points that are only available in a face-to-face meeting, how am I going to be able to fully trust any second-hand debriefing? And besides, I've found that, as a general rule, people are far more willing to divulge surprisingly candid information to a small, non-intimidating Asian woman than they might be to someone they perceive as their peer.
I spent Friday morning with a few of my part-time employees for my other project, and it occurred to me, with a great deal of amusement, that all of them are attractive young women: one a red-head, another a blonde, and the third, Asian.
So IC and I have been bickering about which one of us is Charlie and which, Bosley.
Maybe we will have to hire a Bosley so that IC and I can just get mani/pedi's all day long and manage our team jointly over the phone?
But what's really on my mind is that I will FINALLY have a "date" that is worth anticipating! Gorgeous Hunk O' Man (JF) is in town tomorrow night and I will take him to my favorite neighborhood bar/restaurant to reassure them that I don't spend ALL my social time with creepy men I've found online.
I have already put aside my most expensive slutty outfit (in this case, an Hermes scarf-like thing that is minimally draped over only the most-necessary-to-cover parts of my torso) and made a salon appointment to beautify myself in readiness. Gay men are SO much more particular than the straight variety. Of course, I will consider at a later date what it says about my life that only JF warrants such preparation.
Off now, to shimmy happily away at boozy brunch with the girls.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
-$250 Barnes and Noble Gift Certificate
-Basket of lavender scented bath products
Orchid arrangement - given to my neighbors
Gift Certificate - Spent. Hey, I like books. Sue me. But amazon.com would have been a far better choice.
Basket of lavender stuff: WTF? Now, had it been a gift basket of patchouli/vanilla musk from Sabon, now THAT I would have used.
What a lousy stalker.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Apparently, I can never avoid the weird guy...
You're To Kill a Mockingbird!
by Harper Lee
Perceived as a revolutionary and groundbreaking person, you have
changed the minds of many people. While questioning the authority around you, you've
also taken a significant amount of flack. But you've had the admirable guts to
persevere. There's a weird guy in the neighborhood using dubious means to protect you,
but you're pretty sure it's worth it in the end. In the end, it remains unclear to you
whether finches and mockingbirds get along in real life.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
I immediately panicked, Rock Lock Guy found my blog! But then I noticed that the IP address originated from somewhere in the midwest. Phew.
But THEN, I became curious and followed the Google search for "Rock Lock Handshake" and what did I find? Pages and pages of links to various people doing "The Rock Lock."
So not only did he seek to impress me by claiming that he had "invented" something so utterly moronic, he LIED.
Forget match.com. I am now trolling through the ASPCA's website looking for cats.
Choice Quotes from AM:
"Oh look, it's a naked man...oh wait, isn't there something I should be doing?"
"What happens now?"
"What's he doing?"
"Where's he going?"
The Sociopathic Alcoholic Stalker actually believes that a flower delivery and a few out-of-the-blue declarations of love are all that it would take to worm his way back into my life.
I don't understand. Is this man-logic? Is this one person's hubris? Is this mental illness?
Almost completely unrelated:
I was at the MOMA last night for a UBS sponsored happy hour, and the following happened:
1. Fell in love with this horse.
2. Lost my cell phone, but then found it inside my umbrella.
I love my phone, so I was sad when it was lost, happy when it was found, and yet... a new phone number that not a single stalker knows?
I like it.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
I was in the middle of expounding upon my apparent skill in bed when a flower delivery man buzzed at the door.
While waiting for the delivery man to make it up the stairs, SK and I had the following exchange:
Me: Any chance that they could be from Viggo?
What was beautiful was SK's timing and delivery. There was no laughter, no hesitation. Just an immediate, definitive, "Yes."
Of course, they weren't from Viggo. I'll have a little chat with the Universe later about its listening skills. Perhaps, like IC, it shouldn't try to multi-task so much.
So the flowers, which I have already given to my next door neighbors, aren't exactly like an Oscar, but when I reflect back, I really did earn one. That's all I have to say about that.
Per MrsCooper's advice regarding The Secret, I have told the Universe, simply, clearly, with small words so as to leave no room for misinterpretation, that I want Viggo Mortensen to call me.
Instead, I woke this morning to these emails from Sociopathic Alcoholic Stalker Guy.
First of all, you asked me not to do exactly what I’m about to do so I apologize. This message is certainly not meant to be an affront.
The truth of it is, I still can’t stop thinking about you. I think that means I’m in love with you.
When you’re in love with someone, I think you have to go to great lengths to try to be with that person. I’m here to do that, starting now.
I love you. Those words might sound crazy to you, but I know them to be absolutely true. I love you.
I have no right to ask anything of you so I won’t. But if you are willing to give me the fresh start for which I’ve asked so many times, something great might happen. It really might.
I love you. It feels so good to write that, it feels so RIGHT. I don’t know why I’ve denied it for so long.
I love you.
I will never intentionally hurt you again.
I can make that promise because the strength of this epiphany is like nothing I’ve ever felt.
On the topic of another issue between us, my alcoholism, I have been sticking to beer and wine. It works really well, i.e., I don’t misbehave.
But if you want me not to drink at all, I’ll do that for you. Happily.
I’ll do anything for you.-------------------------------------------------------
On the topic of jealousy. I recognize now that it was really just insecurity.
My goal is to make you love me so much that no one else seems even vaguely interesting.
I know I can do that.
But in the interim and forever after, you’re not going to hear anything from me about where you go, who you see, or who you talk to.
It demeans us both.-------------------------------------------------------
My reactions?In order:
2. Wow. I must be AMAZING in the sack.
3. He'll do anything for me? *eyes gleam with sudden gleeful malice*
4. Er, hello? Who/whom distinction?
5. Does this mean he will no longer call me a whore when I have dinner with my girlfriends? Or accuse me of lying when I say that I'm having lunch with my parents? Or call me a slut because I have a business meeting with a man? Oh YAY! Must have him back in my life!
I don't want to be cruel, he's a only a pathetic, delusional animal. But he's a pathetic delusional animal who thinks that he has the right to contact me. And while I will not reply to his nonsense (any reply at all, no matter how negative, will only be construed as an open door), I will indulge myself and post his dribble on my blog for general mockery.
Lines were crossed. Lines which should never have been crossed. And I'm not talking about the myriad of ways people can hurt and betray even those they love. I'm talking about simple human decency.
Decency isn't something you choose to "gift" to others when you are in a good mood, or when you happen to feel affection for your audience. It should be tightly braided into the person you are, regardless of your mood, regardless of whether you are angry or pleased with others. It's non-negotiable.
He doesn't know that.
For him, there are no lines to cross. He has no code, other than satisfying his desires. And everything and anything, no matter how appalling, is justified because it's what he wanted at the time.
But I know it now.
He insults me with his every email. I know, I know, I can hear it already from the peanut gallery: "How can you blame him for trying? Male optimism is undying!"
But sometimes, when you've treated someone so shamefully, you lose the right to try to insert yourself back into his/her life. No matter how much you might think you want to. You need to accept that actions have consequences, move on, and let him/her do the same.
Now I am thinking of writing a book: How To Be So Good In Bed That Your Sociopathic Alcoholic Loser Ex-Boyfriend Will Never Stop Stalking You.
Friday, June 13, 2008
It supposedly measures 4 different types of intelligence: mathematical, verbal, spatial and social.
My results were consistent with all my previous monitored/administered tests:
Spacial: Off the charts, freaky fast and accurate, get the "are you even human?" look from the test administrator as I'm leaving kind of good.
None of this surprises me, it's how I've tested before. But I rather wish there could be a "Drunk Tip Calculation" on the math section. That would improve my standing.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
I suppose that's the good and the bad of having spent the past many years developing such a specific "skill." There are few companies that see the need for it. Those who do, see the need rather urgently.
And I am pretty much always incapable of resisting. But then, it's no news to me that I have a poor understanding of what constitutes "fun."
Of course, it's the worst possible time - IC and I are stretched thin as it is. But it's also the best possible time - we've just hired a small army of struggling actors/dancers/writers and apparently, they need to be paid in more than pizza and beer. Who knew?
So, to distract myself, I'll be throwing my quarterly wine-tasting get-together in my apartment at the end of June.
Rather than engaging in my usual calculus of various personalities and how they might mix (involving both primary and secondary guest lists), I've taken the opposite approach. I want this one to be a DISASTER. So I've invited near strangers and suggested that my friends do the same. EA has taken this to heart and will bring a match.com date.
Of course, I will hide my small valuables. I assume I will notice if anyone tries to smuggle my TV or piano out of my apartment.
SK is only surprised it has taken this long for my fundamental perversity to emerge in the context of these quarterly parties. And she is right, there has always been some part of me that believes a party is not a party unless someone has locked themselves in the bathroom crying.
At 7AM on a Thursday morning, with no sleep, it even strikes me as a great idea to invite Creepy Skincare Product Guy, Rock Lock Guy, and The Embryologist.
I am GIDDY with anticipation.
Anyone else care to come? If you know my email and will be in town, by all means, let me know.
Suggested attire for women: hoochie momma couture. For the men? Anything as long as everything is under wraps.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
I couldn’t do it again,
I can hardly bear to look at it—
in the garden, in light rain
the young couple planting
a row of peas, as though
no one has ever done this before,
the great difficulties have never as yet
been faced and solved—
They cannot see themselves,
in fresh dirt, starting up
the hills behind them pale green,
clouded with flowers—
She wants to stop;
he wants to get to the end,
to stay with the thing—
Look at her, touching his cheek
to make a truce, her fingers
cool with spring rain;
in thin grass, bursts of purple crocus—
even here, even at the beginning of love,
her hand leaving his face makes
an image of departure
and they think
they are free to overlook
- Louise Glück
Not sad, although the choice of song might suggest that.
Even though I "discovered" Eva Cassidy in my early 30s, her voice slingshots me back to childhood.
And since I was wallowing about in this state of obscure, undefined nostalgia, after I finished playing Autumn Leaves, I rooted through my old emails, looking for an exchange I had with SK.
This is what I emailed to her on December 14th, 2004:
I reread Wilde's An Ideal Husband the other day. One of the main characters is blackmailed for something he did at the very beginning of his career. His friend asks him how he could have been so weak as to give into that sort of temptation. He replies that it wasn't weakness that drove him to risk everything he was and everything he had on a such morally questionable act (one which ultimately provided him with the foundation of his current fortune and prestige).
He replies that it took courage: "A terrible, horrible courage."
I'm questioning my choices. Was it cowardice or courage that drove them? Part of me just wants to go to yet another foreign country, if only for a month or two, and figure things out. But maybe that's just escaping. But then such escapes have often been the basis for great stories.
You should come with me. We can eat spicy food in Marrakesh. Ride horses across India. Flirt with handsome brown men. Someplace hot so we can wear washed linen everyday.
I'm not really kidding. We can both write. Me my novel, you your dissertation.
I suppose it's typical of the irony of life. Back then, all I wanted was to think trivial, happy thoughts. As evidenced by my blog, I've now reached that point. And yet I find myself *almost* missing that horrible time. My thoughts were... larger then.
But that might only be because I didn't have a piano in Beijing and therefore couldn't play Bach.
By the way, I've finally identified my emotion. I play Joseph Kosma when I'm restless.
Off now to find my tiara.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Last Friday night, I was in midtown, having drinks with WC. Two guys were sitting at the bar next to us. We chatted a little bit, but then WC and I focused our attention on the man that mattered most - R, the bartender. One of the two guys got up to leave, but stopped by us on the way out, and said, reasonably enough: "Didn't get much of a chance to talk to the two of you, but wanted to say hello before I said goodbye."
Again, reasonable enough. So we chatted with him a bit when suddenly he brought up the topic of recreational viagra use. His exact words were: "I love it. It makes me as hard as a rock and I can control exactly when I come." This was quite an unexpected turn in the conversation.
I waited for WC to immolate him with a few well chosen words. But she was busy sputtering into her glass of champagne, so I turned to face him, smiled sweetly, and said "I think you need to go home now."
At that point, in a highly synchronized move (honed after years of hanging out at bars together), WC and I presented our backs to Viagra Guy and focused all our attention on the bartender. Viagra Guy stood there awhile then muttered something very Not Nice and left.
Friend Of Viagra Guy heard this entire exchange and apologized profusely for his friend and bought us another round.
Several rounds later, when Friend Of Viagra Guy asked for my card, I gave it. I have no explanation for it. Perhaps because he didn't see fit to discuss his viagra use. (You see how my standards have fallen?!?)
I forgot all about it until my phone rang tonight at 6:30PM. It was Friend Of Viagra Guy who wanted to know if I wanted to meet him for a drink RIGHT NOW. Um, hello? NOW?!? I book myself weeks in advance.
(This is a digression, but I mean really - what's up with that? I once went on a date with British Guy, and would have most likely gone on a second date except for the fact that he called me on a Friday evening at around 8PM, when I was already out with some friends, wanting to know if I wanted to meet up with him that night. Booty call? Regardless, it irritated me and was sufficient reason to ding him and ignore all further attempts at communication. Is it me? Am I just being difficult?)
I got off the phone with Friend Of Viagra Guy as politely as possible with ever useful, "I'll call you next week" and no sooner did I put my phone down, did I get a text message from The Embryologist, who wrote something inane yet boring so I deleted it.
My phone rang again and I stared at it with great suspicion before picking it up. It was SK, so I answered and told her that I was never going to leave Chelsea again. I had already IMd her about the 24 year old from Saturday night and the Random Boring French Canadian Guy from last night when I was at Solex.
At this point, SK interrupted my rant and asked, "are you ovulating?"
I've already posted about the apparently irresistible allure of the ovulating woman. So I did a quick calculation, and sure enough, I'm ovulating.
But then SK made an observation which FLOORED me.
I am quite adept at hiding out in Chelsea. But when I do venture out to a less aggressively gay neighborhood, it is pretty much always when I am ovulating.
I am simply STUNNED at the power of my subconscious biological urge to breed. Are my eggs trying to tell me something? My poor eggs. Apparently they are desperate to fulfill their mission in life and are sending out potent signals, which unfortunately, only age-inappropriate and/or creepy men respond to. If only they would send out signals that are attractive to the attractive, I might do more to heed their call than simply go somewhere far enough away to require a taxi.
But, I have to say... if/when the day comes that my subconscious biological urge to breed becomes a conscious one, I think it will be MUCH easier to just stay in Chelsea and bully Gorgeous Hunk O'Man, JF, into making a donation and sending it to me via UPS.
However, in deference to my eggs, perhaps I'll text back The Embryologist. I never did get the chance to grill him about egg harvesting/freezing for later use. (I was too busy mediating a heated debate he got into with the lesbian friend of my bartender friend. Yes, you read that correctly.)
On my home last night after dinner with WC, I got a call from FT, whose wine bar empire in NYC is growing by leaps and bounds.
"I'm on my way to Solex, come meet me there and check out my new chef," he told me.
Although a mere block away from home, ever obedient to FT, I immediately hailed a cab and made my way downtown.
I think the title of this post says it all.
I even swallowed.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
You know when you wake up and it's all too fresh and real and it takes a while to shake it off and come back to reality? I generally like to say this to boyfriends: "You fucker. In my dream you did this horrible thing," and withhold sex for about a month.
But this dream... was terrible.
I tried to write down the dream immediately upon waking, but I couldn't. So I wrote that peripherally related post about my childhood nightmares instead.
It's only now, after an entire day of successfully revolutionizing e-commerce, followed by an evening out with friends, in turn followed by a night of insomnia, that the power of the dream has lessened enough that I can begin to try to articulate it.
But before I go into the details, I have to provide my list of caveats: my dreams are always fantastic, and are clearly reflective of my love of horror movies; my dreams are always highly detailed, I dream in technicolor, and it's not unusual for my dreams to span generations; many of my dreams feature vampires; and in my dreams, vampires are never the romantic characters that populate Anne Rice novels - they are ruthless, inhuman, bloodthirsty monsters.
I was with a man who looked suspiciously like Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the series, not the movie). But unlike in the series, where Spike was a vampire, this man was human. In fact, he was a vampire slayer.
And in my dream, he and I fell instantly and deeply, in love.
But there was an obstacle of sorts. He had been cursed and would, with the next setting of the sun, turn into a vampire. So that single night we had together, was both our first and last night together.
So my dream started off with sex.
But there was nothing lascivious about it. Rather, there was an undercurrent of almost desperation to it, because we both knew that this was the beginning and end for us. It was sex infused with all the awkwardness and excitement of exploring a new body, overwhelming desire to please, and *shock* tenderness.
I woke the next morning alone, understanding that he had left because he needed to put as much distance between us as possible - because when that day ended, he would turn into a monster.
When I explored the house I was in, I found that there were literally hundreds of people crammed into the other rooms, because this house was considered to be a safe haven of sorts. And among the people in this house, were all my closest friends.
Long story short, when night fell, the vampires descended upon us and the safe haven wasn't a haven at all. Almost everyone was killed, and instantly. There was no defense. But the vampires didn't kill EVERYONE. Some, they turned into monsters, which was much much worse. Because those newly minted monsters turned on the people they loved and tore them to pieces while laughing.
It would actually have been better if my closest friends had just been killed, but they were turned, instead.
I managed to survive. I found a small room and blocked the door and hid in a corner while the monsters that used to be those nearest and dearest to me tried to break in. I cowered in a corner with my eyes shut, when suddenly, everything went quiet. I opened my eyes and realized that it was dawn.
When the sun was shining strongly through the windows, I finally got the courage to stand and I pressed my ear against the door and listened. And eventually I heard a horrible wailing. But there was a different quality to it - it sounded... human.
I opened the door and I saw my friends. And they were my friends again, no longer monsters. But they stood there, looking at the blood on their hands, tasting blood in their mouths, recognizing the dead around them, and they remembered what they had done. And, because this was a dream (and many inexplicable things happen in dreams), we all knew that when the sun set again that day, they would turn back into monsters, and keep killing.
It was one of my friends who articulated the only possible solution: that I, as one of the only surviving humans in the house, would have to kill them all before the sun set.
We spent the day crying, saying good bye. But as the shadows grew longer, I realized that I couldn't do it.
But remember "Spike" from the beginning of my dream? He made a reappearance. And he did what I couldn't.
And just as the sun was setting, he and I stood close to each other, he kissed me and put a weapon in my hand.
And you see where this was going... I had to kill him, or be killed by him when he became a monster.
We were kissing and crying and as the sun slipped away I didn't see him begin to change, I felt his face change beneath my lips, and I killed him.
As I stepped away and his body fell to the ground, I brushed my hand against my mouth. But when I looked at my hand, expecting to see only the wetness from tears, I saw... blood.
1. I find it hilarious that my subconscious is respectful of the potential franchise and set up a sequel
2. I have no doubt that this nightmare is match.com inspired
Friday, June 6, 2008
It seemed that I had nightmares every time I closed my eyes.
So I developed a routine before sleeping - of carefully and deliberately investing every single thing in my room with a common purpose - to protect me.
The door to my bedroom was tasked with keeping all the monsters out.
If somehow the monsters got through the door, the floor of my room was to buckle and sway and trip them.
If the monsters managed to cross the floor, my bed was to lift itself into the air, carrying me safely out of reach.
If the monsters reached my bed, the hundreds of stuffed animals on my bed were to come alive and fight with great ferocity.
If the stuffed animals were defeated, my blankets were to harden to steel and deflect monster claws and teeth.
I'd have to go to bed at least a good half hour before my bedtime so I'd have time to remind all the objects in my room of their defensive responsibilities.
But none of this worked.
Until one day, when I was about 9 or 10 years old, when everything changed.
As per my norm, I had dutifully discussed job requirements with everything in my room and slid into bed carefully so as not to disturb my stuffed animals which I had arranged for maximum defensive effectiveness.
And then, as I waited for the sleep to come, bringing with it the monsters, I suddenly had a thought. A perfect and powerful thought.
So I told everything in my room that they were off the hook, that their services were no longer necessary. They could be just a door, or a floor, or a blanket. Timothy, my stuffed white bear, was particularly relieved. He was a lover, not a fighter.
Because this was my thought: Monsters at the door, come in if you like, come in if you dare. But be warned. I am the scariest monster of all.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
One thing led to another and we realized that much of what we learned about being sexy, or being in relationships, we learned from our pets.
What I Learned From My Cat:
(credit to MG who contributed greatly to this list)
- How to show off my ass and turn back to make sure it's been noticed
- How to unexpectedly bite/scratch/hiss when I'm feeling smothered by too much attention
- How to be affectionate when I want something
- How to look grumpy yet adorable at the same time
- How to pretend I'm asleep when someone wants to play
- How to purr
- How to disappear
- How to clearly demonstrate that if it appears that I come when I'm called, it's only because I was going that direction anyway
Oh wait, I know the answer to this:
Since Creepy Skincare Product Stalker Guy, Sociopathic Alcoholic Stalker Guy, Outdoor Voice Guy, and Rock Lock Guy.
The Embryologist was fine. Normal. Fine. And I do NOT mean a lascivious "fine" as in "oh baby, you're so fine." I mean just that... fine.
And what a relief it was that he wasn't a complete and utter freak.
Do I want to see him again? I have no idea. I need to think on it a while. I'm worried that the sheer relief and novelty of spending an evening with someone non-creepy might be distorting my judgment.
I've tried to apply my usual measuring stick: "Can I see myself naked with him?"
And the answer is "No."
But yet.... he's normal.
KK called me this morning to see how the date was:
Me: He was normal. So sad when "non creepy" is such a welcome relief.
KK: So you're gonna marry him then.
Me: Oh fuck you.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
1. Date men outside your "type"
2. Say “yes” to everyone who asks you out
My reactions to these rules:
1. Does this mean I have to date men who can't spell? *shudder*
2. Say "yes" to everyone who asks me out? Oh good god. I'd rather... words fail me. I'd rather eat nasty things which shouldn't ever be eaten by anyone? That's not so bad. I've lived in China, I can eat ANYTHING with a little garlic and soy sauce. I'd rather swim with sharks? Done that too, and as long as I'm not the slowest swimmer, that's fine. I'd rather... Oh dear god. The worst thing I can imagine is... I'd rather go out with everyone who asks me out.
I have a better idea. There's that street corner on the upper west side that always has the CUTEST kittens up for adoption. I'll go adopt about a dozen.