I’ve been mulling amy a’s post from Wednesday. I do that a lot—mull. Just mull and mull. Some might call it “ruminating” or “perseverating”, but I prefer “mulling” because then I don’t feel like such a crazy person… Hahahaha. Like anyone believes that. Anyway, here are my ruminations/perseverations/mullings:
1. amy a and I are almost exactly the same age, so it’s possible that it’s not too late for me to find someone. Hope!
2. I can’t think of anybody who’s there on the periphery that I might have been overlooking. Despair.
3. I really do believe I’ve taken a good hard look at myself, and I’ve worked on my own shit. And I think I’ve been clear about what I want. I do want “something simple and stable”: a fun, supportive, committed relationship with somebody who wants to have kids with me. …I clearly have some blind spot. There’s something I’m not seeing.
4. I’ve always thought timing was bullshit. I thought, if you’re each into the other, you’re into each other; everything else is just excuses. But now I’m rethinking that.
5. “In my efforts to always be in control of my life and heart, I’d forgottenthe joy of love is not being so wary of it all the time.” I’m so wary. All the time. Is this the blind spot? That I’m wary? That I put too much effort into being control of my life and heart?
6. “And the 20 years of dating and relationships of all shapes and sizes? Well, they just let me know that when I finally was ready, I’d have years of experience cementing the fact that when you know when it’s right, it is.” Please, god(dess)/whoever, let me be able to say this at some point. Soon?
7. I can’t stop boo-hooing about this. I love you, amy a. Also, fuck you.
Hey! You’ns remember last week when I had writer’s block? And remember guest blogger amy a, who has stepped in twice before during dry times for the Avid Bruxist? (Her first post was called Dating in One’s 30s: A Guide for Those Who Don’t Fucking Have to Do It; the second, The Relationship I’m in Already.) Well, my own word faucet seems to have opened back up, but she sent me this and told me, “it’s kinda me eating crow from my last blog,” and I read it, and as always with her stuff, I started having lots of feelings, plus who doesn’t love it when somebody eats crow? Also, who doesn’t love my run-on sentences?
Anyway, I feel like this piece is important for me—I’ve read it three times, and I’ve gotten progressively more teary each time—so I’m posting it. Tomorrow, maybe the fashion post, or the teaching one, or another shitty movie recap, but tonight—tonight I’m going to read this ten more times and take a hard look at myself.
So about a year ago, I made a decision about curbing some bad dating behavior on my part. Oh, it’s not like I was going on a string of bad dates at the time, in fact, I was on hiatus. I just decided to take it seriously. Or take myself seriously in relation to it, that is.
If, as Ghandi says, you gotta be the change you wanna see on this planet, then I had to take some really hard, embarrassing looks into my dating world. Sure, I had fun with it. I got to date a lot of guys on occasion, who for the most part weren’t looking at anything past that, which was fine, because I wasn’t really either. Kinda like how I never wanted to own a home because the thought of some permanent place of dwelling made me claustrophobic, even though I’ve lived at the same place in NC since moving back here 4 years ago. And I lived at the same place in LA for the last seven years I was there. Huh. Go figure. Yeah. Was it possible I was kidding myself?
Yes, yes it was. I’ve done some pretty ballsy things in my life. I moved to LA to pursue my acting career. I drove across country in the days before cell phones (gasp) and lived to tell the tale. I walked into offices of big wigs and somehow didn’t get kicked out but instead booked parts. I lived with and broke up with addicts and found my dignity tarnished but intact. I moved back across the country a month after shooting my last gig in LA because I decided over that last year that I no longer wanted the life I had there. I soul searched and found my passions again, and lost them, and rediscovered them. And even though I thought I never wanted something simple or stable—I certainly protested it long and hard enough that over the past year—I started to listen to exactly how loudly I was doing so.
So I stopped. And I took a hard look. And what I wanted was not what I thought I did. And it certainly didn’t reflect what I was going after. And then I went out on a date or two, and even though they didn’t work out, I could respect myself for how I handled things. I calmed down. I opened up. And then I fell in love with someone who had been there all along, in the periphery.
Timing is everything, it really is. In my efforts to always be in control of my life and heart, I’d forgotten the joy of love is not being so wary of it all the time. That letting someone who really would have my best interests at heart into my life can be the most liberating thing ever. I was so tired of holding on so tight my whole life. If I stopped fighting it, and just relaxed, it really could be easier than I ever thought.
They say when you know, you know. And I did. Years ago. I knew so much that even after he bought me a plane ticket to see him, I decided last minute not to go because I knew it’d get serious. And then even after we started talking again a while after that, I still knew. But I didn’t listen. That was too easy. I was too busy trying to be in control of things and date men who didn’t take me as seriously and had at least one Monumental Tattoo or Monumental Problem because that meant I could keep them at some sort of arm’s length. And then almost certainly not get what I really wanted. And then continue the cycle.
So, when I did slowly just start staring right at what I always wanted but was too afraid to admit to, it was quite stunning that I started getting it back a hundred fold. And it really was like breathing. And of course I kicked myself a thousand times for not doing it sooner. But it’s highly likely I wouldn’t have known how to deal with it then.
We met at a camp in high school for gifted kids. We ran in similar circles in college. We reconnected over Facebook a few years ago. And when I saw him in person for the first time in years, it was right out of a movie. Seriously. Like, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in “Sleepless in Seattle” type fireworks. And everything made sense. We got engaged shortly thereafter. And the 20 years of dating and relationships of all shapes and sizes? Well, they just let me know that when I finally was ready, I’d have years of experience cementing the fact that when you know when it’s right, it is.
As always, I’ll let you readers comment first. Thank you, amy a!
Saturday was my friend Craig’s birthday. He and I are both grown-up fat kids, so naturally, celebrating meant eating all the processed carbohydrates we could get our hands on that day. The topic of pre-CrossFit pictures arose at brunch. He showed us a photo of himself at 280, two eighty, and I said, “Craig… where are your ears?” He said, “My cheeks are hiding them.”
People have told me I look different from when I started CrossFit, but honest to god, I usually don’t feel that way. However, I did think of this one photo of myself in which I was pretty sure I looked different, so I pulled it up at brunch, and today I’ma show it to you, internet. Now, let’s all just agree to ignore whatever is happening with my hair, OK? I was going for bangs, but I have a cowlick, and also I go to the Aveda school for haircuts because it’s cheap, and I don’t know, OK?! I don’t know. Drop it already.
Also this was pre-makeup tutorial, so all I knew how to do was mascara and lipstick (of a questionable hue).
If you can direct your attention to anything other than my hair or the giant… zit? mosquito bite? cowpock? on my upper arm, you’ll see what I looked like at my brother’s graduation from law school in May of 2009.
I mean, let’s be generous: the photo is taken at the absolute least flattering angle, and I’m holding a baby, so my arm is squished up against my body… but there’s no denying that I’m a chunky monkey.
What did you say? You said you want more photos? Well, OK!
[And let me just stop right there and say that I’m 100% anti-fat-shaming. I think that people of all sizes and shapes can be beautiful and strong. Plus, fat-shamers do little except make the fat person hate herself, which (if she’s like me) will make her go eat more, resulting in more weight gain, and congratulations, assholes, on making the situation worse. So I’m not intending to fat-shame myself or anyone else with this post. (Nor should you. If you jack up my comments section with fat-shaming, I’m going to ask you politely to eat a dick.) Nope, I’m not going to fat-shame or body-bash. I’m going to illustrate something. I have a point to make. I’ll get there. Bear with me.]
Here I am in June of 2006 at my brother’s wedding:
Just barin’ my midriff, awkwardly, in November 2008:
A friend’s wedding in May 2010:
And now, because I love you and appreciate your readership, I’m going to give you a gift. This is not something I do lightly. This counts as the Embarrassing Photo of the Week for all of 2013, deal? It is with great contemplation and no small trepidation that I give you Fourth of July 2009:
LOOK AT BABY REDFORD OMG.
Sorry, I thought I’d try some misdirection. It probably worked for a second. He is so very cute.
OK, we can talk again about the unflattering angle and lack of makeup, but mm-hm, let’s all take a minute to observe exactly how hard my inner lesbian was punching a heavy bag inside me trying to come out. A lesbian friend looked at this picture on Saturday night and said, “When I’m in the act of having sex with women, I’m not as gay as you are in that picture.”
I swear I’m into dudes.
I digress.
So August 17, 2010, I start CrossFit, and I go four times a week, up to this very day. I lift, I jump, I run (ugh), I sit up, I push up, I pull up. I do my best to get harder, better, faster (sorta), stronger. Most definitely stronger.
Here I am this past Saturday, after the first Open WOD:
This is what CrossFit does to a person. Lays you out on the floor, until there’s a sweat angel on the mat underneath you. (photo credit: Rona @ CFD)
OK, granted it was after the makeup tutorial, and granted I’m wearing a slimming black wrap-around dress, and granted my boobs are buttressed like whoa, but I think even in my face you can see the difference.
In fact, here:
Different, right? You’re still looking at my boobs, aren’t you? It’s OK.
Let’s look at another example. This is me at the State Fair last October:
You can see, I’m still wide at the hips, the circumference of my arms is still considerable, and my middle is still kinda squishy, but there’s a difference between that and my pre-CrossFit days, right?
The fact is, until I get my eating issues under control, I’ll always be overweight—I know that.
But here’s the kicker, and you’re not going to believe me, but I swear to fucking god it’s true. You ready?
I haven’t lost weight since I started CrossFit.
The most I ever weighed in my life was 177 pounds, and when I got on the scale at the doctor’s office ten days ago, it said:
1… 7… 3.
That’s right. 173 pounds. A 4-lb weight loss in two and a half years.
So. My point. (I told you I had one!)
CrossFit will not necessarily make you lose weight. If your only concern is a number on a scale, this shit is not for you. CrossFit will not necessarily make you skinny. If skinny’s what you’re after, you’ve got to eat less. (And for some of us, that’s harder than for others.)
CrossFit will, however, change your girth. CrossFit will make you stronger. CrossFit will change your body composition. CrossFit will remove some of the fat and make you gain muscle and therefore make you feel (and yes, look) better.
Plus, it’s fun, and you make friends. Does this sound like a CrossFit commercial? Well, I guess it is. (Hey, CrossFit HQ, you want to make it rain for your girl, or?)
Maybe you can’t afford CrossFit. That’s legit. It’s expensive. All I’m saying is, if you want to look/feel better, consider diverting your focus from the scale; instead, lift a heavy thing, and run a little bit.
All I’m saying is, find some friends who’ll do something physically challenging with you four times a week.
All I’m saying is, there’s a community WOD at CrossFit Durham every Saturday. It’s free. Come on. I’ll go with you.
Costa Rica, last September:
This is what CrossFit does to a person.
(Makes you feel like you need to do handstands *everywhere*. You’re such an asshole. Nobody cares about your fucking handstand.)
Oh, and my friend Craig? These days he’s a Studly Dudley, and you can totally see his ears from the front.
Previously… (The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 7)
Day 1
‘Nita has been doing a lot better about not lunging at cars on our walks. Today though, halfway through our loop, a car pulls out of the Kingdom Hall parking lot, and ‘Nita bites my butt. You heard me. She doesn’t break the skin or anything, but it’s not a nip; it’s a chomp, enough to make me shriek, enough to leave twin bruises, one on the top of the cheek and one on the bottom. [This is when Dan NJ will say, pics or it didn’t happen.]
I holler at her and hold her neck to the ground. She kisses and wags.
What’s she got against Jehovah’s Witnesses, I wonder.
Day 2
Redford and ‘Nita, who is tethered to my chair, wrestle on the floor or the living room. Violet approaches gingerly but with tail twitching. She and ‘Nita do a little tag team action on Redford. Maybe Violet’s ready to make friends?
Day 3
‘Nita tries her hand at motivational speaking.
She can’t keep a straight face, but people like her anyway.
Day 4
There is some drama within the foster organization. The president, who resigned three weeks ago and moved to Sarasota, is accused of some financial… let’s say, less-than-transparency. People quit. For a moment, CCB’s future is uncertain. I may have to get this dog adopted out myself.
Everything eventually gets explained, to some people’s satisfaction more than others’ (I think I’ll be directing my energies elsewhere in the future), but the important thing is the organization is intact, for the moment.
A volunteer does the home visit for Lainey, the woman who lives near Charlotte, and it supposedly goes well. :)
Fursday snuggles. Moo.
Day 5
I write to Lainey and tell her about ‘Nita’s progress:
She’s really doing great on her manners. She learns fast. My only concern is her issue with wheeled things. She’s gotten better around cars. I’ve learned that if I keep her on the side opposite the traffic and if we stop when one goes by, that’s effective about 80% of the time. Bicycles and motorcycles and scooters are another story. She jumps and makes monkey noises and will just not let up until the thing is well out of sight—the other day, she almost jumped out my car window when a motorcycle went by! Scared me to death. And I worry about her getting hit by a car if she got off the leash.
I’m going to ask the dog trainer about how to handle this stuff. If you were to adopt her, would you be willing to continue working with her on it?
Lainey replies that after we met she started researching, and she’s found a trainer who is willing to come to her house. She thinks agility would help control her predatory drive.
Yes. Good answer.
In the evening, I’m walking through the kitchen with ‘Nita on the leash when everything explodes. In a moment, she and Violet are on their hind legs, Violet’s chin clamped in ‘Nita’s mouth, ‘Nita snout in Violet’s, and it’s LOUD.
I wrestle them apart and wonder what the fuck. Then I see the food bag. I had emptied a bag into the bin and then left it on the floor. Violet had been investigating the empty bag earlier. I think ‘Nita showed a little too much interest in it as we walked through the kitchen, and Violet was policing.
Whatever, I’m so sad and mad and scared, especially when I check the dogs out, and each is bleeding from the face. ‘Nita appears to have superficial cheek and nose scratches. Violet has several holes punched through the bottom of her chin.
I rub Neosporin on their wounds and fret.
Day 6
‘Nita’s lip is all swoll up. I email, call, and text the president of the organization: Should I take her to the vet? The org’s vet is closed on Saturdays… maybe I could cajole mine into seeing her? I need to know soon though because the office closes at noon. After that, our only option with be the emergency vet, which will cost four times as much.
I hear nothing for several hours.
Finally, the pres calls and says just put hot compresses on it three times a day, and if it’s still swollen on Monday, we’ll get her seen someplace.
‘Nita’s outside with Redford when a rollerblader comes by. She jumps the gate to get to him. Fortunately by then he’s tromping along the gravel road (yes, I live on a gravel road in a city—I’m fancy like that). I shout, “SHE’S FRIENDLY!”, and she just runs over and wags at him.
Day 7
Sundog morning:
We head to south Durham to go for a walk with TULIP and her mom! Tulip gives me lots of snuggles and kisses. Her mom says that’s the warmest welcome she’s given anybody. I think that girl remembers me. :D
Redford and ‘Nita are sunbathing in the afternoon. ‘Nita vaults the fence again to go visit the rollerblader. He holds his cigarette aloft in one hand, pets her with the other, and says, “That’s OK, girl. You can come holla at me anytime.” She’s such a flirt.
Still not writing much, but my brain is chewing on a new FAYSHUN post. I’m going to buy a strapless bra at Target tomorrow, and then I’ll be ready to be there for sex. Not at Target. Just wherever I end up going in that outfit.
Also, I’ve got a good story about teaching that I’m itching to write, but that one will have to be password-protected.
*****
Three years ago, I didn’t write anything worth reading. :(
But some people say this post from two years ago is the funniest thing I’ve ever written, so.
A year ago, I was explaining myself. I’m kinda tired of doing that. Maybe I’ll stop and just let people think what they’re going to think. And maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
(How are YOU? I feel like this relationship is one-sided.)
Every time I spend more than a couple hours with my dad, he gets his ramble on, and I’m reminded that he’s one of the funniest people I know. He came for an overnight visit on Friday, just for the hell of it. In 24 hours, this all happened:
“I should’ve had this winter coat cleaned. It’s all rumpled and looks like hell. Of course, I’m all rumpled and look like hell, so it’s really me.”
*****
[when I showed him a picture I took of him and my dogs] “Yes, I like that picture very much. My arms are bigger than Bruce Willis’s. And my face is obscured which is probably a good thing.”
*****
“A lot of violence. A lot of violence.” [recapping a 90s Dolph Lundgren vehicle he recently found in the bargain bin at Wal-Mart (“$5 for 8 movies on one DVD!”)]
*****
“You’re talking to a man who knows. I mean, he’s talking to you. You’re brushing your teeth.”
*****
I often overhear from another room Dad having conversations with my dogs. A few months back, I caught him explaining the family tree to Violet:
Previously… (The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 6)
Day 1
I tumble out of bed, stumble to the kitchen, but before I pour myself a cup of ambition, I must feed the dogs. One, two, three bowls. Sit, wait, two bowls down. “OK.” They eat. Head to the spare room with the third, put it down in front of ‘Nita. She waits! Good girl. “OK.” She’s halfway through it when I remember it’s spay day, and she’s not supposed to eat anything—SHIT. I pluck the bowl off the floor. She wags, whatever.
I worry though. Shit. Will they not spay her? I tell the sweet teenager who has volunteered to drop her at her appointment (I have to be at work before they open) to tell the vet techs about the food. Shit.
At 8:54am, I get a message from her: Omg they need your # ASAP
SHIT. Heart attack.
I freak out for an hour, only to find that they wanted to tell me ‘Nita would be ready earlier than they thought. THAT’S NOT OMG-WORTHY, YOUNG’N.
She’s so sweeeeet and dopeeeey when I pick her up.
The food seems to be causing no problems—whew.
At ten past ten, she yorks on the floor.
Day 2
‘Nita barfs again at 3:20am. I clean it up, then I’m awake for hours.
In the evening, we go to our first class together. As soon as we hit the parking lot and she sees other dogs, she just can’t deal.
Day 3
My sister texts me to see if I want to walk with her and the kids after school. ‘Nita does relatively well, considering all the stimuli of a new place, but she gets really agitated and nips at the tires of the stroller carrying my littlest niece. I tug on her leash every time she lunges, and after a while she seems to get the hang of it. However, whenever we drop behind and then catch up, we have to repeat the learning process because she doesn’t remember from four minutes ago that strollers are not for herding.
“curse you, red baron!”
Day 4
On our neighborhood walk, a little black and white dog in a vest is loose. He comes to say hello. Ninety-four percent of the time, I can handle my three dogs just fine. The six percent of times, when there is a loose dog, all bets are off. Redford and Violet get away from me. A neighbor driving by stops, helps me corral my dogs, and shoos the little guy away until I can put some distance between us. Thank you, neighbor.
My friend Sam lives along our route, so she comes out to walk part of it with us. The only problem is she’s pushing her son in a stroller. And all the progress from yesterday is null.
I’m tired of shuffling dogs around the rooms of my house, so I tether ‘Nita to my belt, and we all hang out together. She humps Redford’s butt; he humps her face; it’s all good.
Day 5
My dad comes to visit and snuggles his granddogs. He comments every time ‘Nita humps Redford:
“You shameless hussy!”
“You’ve got your roles reversed!”
“That’s obscene.”
Lainey is supposed to have her home visit today. Fingers crossed.
Day 6
I find out the home visit was cancelled. I don’t know why.
So we walk.
Then I clean like blazes because I have some folks coming over in the evening.
When I bring her out to meet my guests, she promptly climbs in the first lap she finds and kisses the accompanying face. Then she makes her way around the circle offering good will toward men.
Day 7
On our walk, a guy hollers, “Can I have the black and white one?” I tell him she’s adoptable, and he comes over to meet her. As soon as I say she’s spayed, he says, “Oh,” with obvious disappointment. Goddammit, why can’t people just love dogs without wanting something out of the deal? In other words, goddammit, why can’t humans be more like dogs?
I’m a bloggy failure mess. I am not the boss of this blog. I can’t seem to write shit, and blah blah this has happened before, but never for this long.
It’s scary, to be honest.
I’m in a not-so-great place, to be honest.
Even things that had been going well are not going well. Wednesday, at the gym, my buddy Chad came by to give me a fist bump after the workout. “You crushed that WOD, Amy Scott,” he said.
I responded that I less “crushed it”, and more just “laid a hand on it and half-heartedly pushed down”… And actually, now that I thought about it, I less “pressed on it”, and more just “gave it the finger from a distance”. And it was true. I did pretty much two reps at a time of everything. I was tired and grumpy, and my plantar fasciitis was raging. My right heel felt like somebody’s heavy came after it with a baseball bat and my calf like it was one pace away from charley horsing.
When I said I was grumpy, Chad said, “Well, it was a grumpy WOD.” It was. It was a grumpy fucking WOD (20-minute AMRAP—what the shit?), but sometimes those are the best because you come off them feeling like you’re the boss of it. This one… It was the boss of me.
Also, yesterday as I was walking the dogs, I was reminded of that scene in the movie Parenthood when Steve Martin’s character wonders whether they should have the kid Mary Steenburgen’s character is pregnant with, and she says something like, “I’m not even sure we should keep the two we’ve got.” ‘Nita‘s adorable and I love her, but she’s a psycho around things with wheels, which makes our walks a teensy bit stressful. So what does my brain do? My brain tells me I shouldn’t even have dogs. My brain is the boss of me. The terrible, terrible boss of me.
Then my brain thinks this—no kidding, no edits—it thinks:
Everything’s overwhelming, and nothing’s good.
How’s that for some hyperbole? But, seriously, in that moment, it felt true. For all the above reasons.
Plus, and I’ve mentioned this before, I’m seriously considering single motherhood. To the point that I’ve done some legitimate research on the topic.
And it’s cool and exciting and scary and all that, but mostly it highlights the fact that all this would be physically, emotionally, financially, and in all other ways easier with a mate, and I cannot fucking find a mate to save my fucking life.
And now it feels like I’m throwing myself a pity party, and I hate that.
I’m not being the boss of me. And I hate that.
There. I wrote something. It was terrible. I hate that.
Previously… (The Foster Chronciles: ‘Nita, Week 5)
Day 1
Would that we all thought like dogs.
Day 2
I email the Charlotte woman—let’s call her Lainey—to see if she can meet on Saturday. She says she’ll get back to me in the afternoon. I don’t hear from her.
Every day after our 2.5 miles, I let ‘Nita and Redford run laps around the shed. It’s wicked cute, but I’m kind of unnerved by ‘Nita’s intensity. It seriously looks like she’s hunting Redford.
Tuesday snuggles.
Day 3
Still no word from Lainey. Oh, well.
I send photos of ‘Nita with a food donation we got to CCB, and whoever posts about it on their Facebook page fucks up her voice.
‘Nita doesn’t use capital letters unless it’s all-caps, she would never start a sentence with ‘us’ (though she sometimes uses text-speak, her grammar is excellent), and that status is NOT FUNNY.
Day 4
This is how it’s done.
I go to doggy manners orientation night. It is VERY helpful. Why the hell haven’t I done this sooner?
Thursday snuggles.
Day 5
Already ‘Nita is learning her name, how to sit to say please, how to keep all four paws on the ground—she really is valedogtorian. I’m looking forward to the lesson on leash-walking, though. :/
Lainey emails and says sorry for the delay, she had some dental issues, and can we still get together? We plan to meet halfway between Durham and Charlotte.
Day 6
I drive to a soggy golf course in High Point to meet with Lainey and her two sons, ages 5 and 7. Both boys are clad in camouflage galoshes and full of wiggles. Bonita snugs on all three of them as soon as they jump out of the car. The elder boy is more talkative and inquisitive; the littler guy does a lot of rolling around on the muddy greens.
7-year-old: Does she hunt?
Me: Not that I know of, but she sure is interested in squirrels, so I bet she’d hunt them.
7: That’s what I do! Hunt squirrels!
Later…
7: She had puppies?
Me: Yep, it sure seems that way.
7: Yeah, you can tell by her udders.
They seem awesome, definitely dog people. Lainey says she’s already put in an application and is ready for a home visit. The only hiccup is they don’t have a fenced yard. I don’t know how that’ll affect their chances.
‘Nita is good traveler but has her preferences.
When I change the station to something with more pep, she sings along.
“i’m gonna pop some taaaaaaags”
Day 7
It’s GORGEOUS out, but I’m just not ready to walk yet. ‘Nita’s outside sunbathing. I shoo Redford out the door and watch from the window. She’s ecstatic; he lets her wig out—jumping around, standing on his back, wiggling—and doesn’t do much. Eventually they do laps, and everything’s fine. Whew.
