“I’ve got my love to keep me warm”

I felt a bad mood coming on like the first tickle of a cold on my way out of work this evening. I stopped by Starbux thinking a caffiene boost would be a quick cure (and give me energy to dance tonight) but they got my order wrong and as I drove off, I fought back the urge to hurl the cup screaming into road.

An old friend – a close friend – popped into my head and I realized I hadnt talked to him a while or seen him on social media so I decided to send a text to check in (because I’m not a good friend these days)… but I couldnt recall his name. It’s like forgetting your sisters’ name. And it didnt escape me for a moment and pop right back in place like a disclocated shoulder. An hour later, I was crying because I still couldnt remember his name and was sifting through the countless bullshit saved numbers on my phone’s contact list to find him. I finally found him, sent a text but havent heard back. I’m a little concerned because he’s prone to depression. Social media makes it easy to keep tabs on the people we care about but at teh same time, it makes us lurkers in their lives and not active participants. We are watching over them and we care but they dont know that.
Our lives have become nothing more than a collection of hashtags.
If my friend who’s name escaped me is in my Top 10 of friends, the guy who is in my Top 5 was so upset with me for neglecting him that he deleted my number from his phone. I know this because (1. I know that’s something he does with people he truly angry with and 2.) he didnt immediately know who I was by the time I got around to returning his multiple calls. Instead of greeting me with “Hola, Amiga!” as soon as the call connected, he asked politely “Who is this?” (no, he wasnt joking or trying to make a point. I do know him well).
As Im failing at friendship as a whole, my Asshole Best Friend is suicidal again. His other best friend and I have discussed it behind his back, trying to figure out how to best handle it: Tell his father who will put him back in Rehab? Tell his sister who will kick his proverbial ass? We both lean towards the latter. If he does take his life, I won’t be surprised but I”ll aslo feel responsible because how can I not? If I was a better friend…
But we are not responsible for the behavior or happiness of others, are we? Or is that just another popular “self help” quasi-Buddhist nugget of modern-day wisdom that we are supposed to swallow to make us feel less guilty for shirking our responsibility to be kind humans?
As I was crying this afternoon, I ask myself out loud “Why are you upset?”
Is it because you’re a bad friend?
Is it because you’re a bad girlfriend who is unhappy with her current romantic albeit asexual relationship; who may be sticking it out because she already bought him an expensive, non-returnable Christmakkuh present?
Is it because photos and mirrors reflect reflect an old, tired, washed up ghost?
Is it becaue you havent achieved what you expected to by this point?
is it because you had worse than a mild wardrobe malfunction at last weekend’s cabaret show and your entire tit flopped out like an unwelcome fish onstage for everyone to behold?
And then, to snap myself out of that, I went in search of words of wisdom, my copy of The Happiness Advantage that Ive only dented by about 20 pages in several months…and of course I can’t find it. It’s not where I distinctly recall leaving it. And the anxiety is rising again because I’m back in the near empty parking lot, walking right past my car, searching for the car I traded in two years ago…embarassed, confused, and a little frightened.
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Miss Congeniality

Bored of the sex blogs; the crudest, most poetic descriptions of fucking. I’m critical of the Selfish Suicidal even as I daydream, “hypothetically” blowing my brains out while doing dishes. I wonder if my military career is really over, like falling just short of reaching the summit of Mt. NORQUAY so I don’t buy the t-shirt. No retirement, no celebratory t-shirt. But if you’re “out-out” you can apply for medical marijuana and live pain free, I tell myself. And sleep without pills and booze. I hate every picture of me. I’ve hated every picture of me for years but now I REALLY hate them. And video is worse. I entered an impromptu swing dance competition at a rockabilly party last weekend and lost. I didnt expect to win (maybe I expected to place) but the assurances of “Oh it was close! We loved your attitude”. Yeah, I got the ‘tude going for me. Miss Congeniality. I dcowled watching the videos afterwards – my terrible posture, hunched shoulders, jutting chin…FAT. off balance too. Couldn’t even get a basic tandem Charleston right, so out of practice. If I ever said I could dance, watching the videos, I take that back. And I untagged myself.
But I got the tattoo for my deceased dance partner, “DOMB” last Friday night. He wasnt selfish. He was in pain, losing a battle and decided to end it on his terms. I blamed my temporary departure from dance on grad school, then the after-work-job-hunting then the yo-yo’ing health but fact is, I lost my enthusiasm for it when DOMB died. Corny as it is, that Wham song plays in my head when I think of him. CK has zero interest in dancing and I won’t force him. “You’re not Alice anymore. You’ve lost your muchness”. I know that movie got terrible reviews but I rather liked it. First one anyway. Well, this is a fizzle drizzle end but I’ve got nuthin…

“Wait by the phone, Late alone, He can’t help you” ~ QotSA

Men always check out the results after they take a shit. I look in the toilet at that suspicious jelly-red spot and think “Well, there goes another egg”.

My killer kitten Magic dragged another squealing rat through the doggie door in the middle of the night. I was running down the hallway, naked, bumping into walls, doped up on Ambien, screaming at her to drop it. It dragged itself into a room. I fumbled to set a no-kill trap and thinking “A real man would come over and take care of this for me”. Almost as if reading my mind, CK messages me and asks “Would you like me to come over?” Actually, I want you to take the initiative and just come over without asking. “Look, I’m too drugged to deal with this right now”. That was a hint and a test. He’s got a key to my house, he doesn’t have to be at work until almost noon the following day…YES! Come over and try to help me out! Every offer he makes to help feels like lip service. And sure enough, I woke up to the message “Oh I probably wouldn’t be able to catch it anyway”. Then he sends me another text this morning asking “Did you catch the rat?” No? Do you want me to come over and try to help you catch it after work? No. I want you to fuck off at this point. I’ll handle it myself like I handle everything myself most of my life. Times like this, I envy married couples with a MAN who does “manly” duties like rodent catching. I’d say this does nothing to stimulate my desire for this man except that I’m already not getting laid from him.

People forget where they Park all the time. Difference with me as I will walk around the parking lot for 10 minutes looking for the car that I got rid of two years ago while walking past my current car three times. I am embarrassingly forgetful. My brain farts have become so pronounced over the last few years that I will stop mid-conversation and struggle like English is my second language.

The doctor called and said my labs are off. Are you sure you’re taking your medication as prescribed? Yes. Okay well then we need to rerun labs and if you would ditional tests and an MRI in 3 weeks. Okay. It’s easy enough for me to say oh that explains it, the uptick in depression, sleeplessness, fatigue and weight gain once again…or does it? I can’t use that as an excuse, or at least I shouldn’t. But I just want to go to bed right after work every night.

I still haven’t told you about my birthday hiking trip to Canada. Plenty of notes in my phone but lack of time is turning into lack of inspiration. Maybe I’ll get around to it. Maybe I’ll die first.

“I don’t pop my cork for every guy I see” ~Sweet Charity

That title is a lie. These days, I do. Everyone except the one I’m with.

Surrounded by people in the office and feel like typing helps…sane as long as I’m typing, like a shark that can’t stop swimming lest they die.

Havent slept in two nights, I was late to work both days, took sick leave to cover my butt but I still burn all my leave as fast as I earn it for bullshit like that. I’ll never get more than an extended weekend at this rate. In 10 months of employment here, I still can’t bring myself to the commitment that a signature block signifies but perhaps something along the lines of “Over-educated, executive-level-manager-turned-desk-monkey”. Today, one of the letters from another department gets kicked back for bad grammar and punctuation. I fixed it -simple-and sent it back but the response was “The Director’s office will wait for review by the Coaches”. Right. Because correcting grammatical errors in reports is above my pay grade these days.

I was happily hacking down trees on my mom’s property in the woods two weekends ago. Too bad park rangers make $26-28k annually. Loves the woods! Handy with a chainsaw! PR experience a plus! Cant live off that check though.

Had a meeting with my Army career manager yesterday. First face to face in a year and admit that I was sucking in HARD (#gradschoolgut). I agreed to consider deploying again with SOCOM and fought back a cold sweat. I swear, if the Air Force would take me back, I’d celebrate. Did I ever tell you about that rainbow I saw on the flight line at Patrick AFB when I went out there three years ago to interview with the C-130 CSAR unit? Oh man, I was CONVINCED that was a sign! I KNEW in my heart that I would retire there, back in a blue uniform (or green flight suit). What the fck happened to that? Nothing good has come from my Army experience.

Cant talk to CK right now either. Eleven months now without orgasm. Frustration elevated back to DEFCON 10. He was crying about how while doing his Jane Fonda stretches this morning, he lost his balance and bumped his shoulder. I found his weakness unattractive. And hate myself for feeling that way. And for fantasizing about the guy at work that “offered” me his fully functioning c*ck (and no, I didnt take him up on it).

How ‘bout this for a signature block?

“Bitch, BA, MBA, Executive-level-manager-turned-minimum-wage-desk-monkey”

“Only a genius could love a woman like…” LSD

My work day is a steady stream of curses under my breath. And sometimes not under my breath.

Ck the One and I broke up a week ago. It wasn’t so much ripping the Band-Aid off as peeling it painful hair by hair until we opened our eyes, looked down at the wreckage and wondered, “Fuck. Now what?” We kept talking though. I asked if he’d at least finish the Xiaflex treatments and he snapped “Why bother?” I ignored that, expecting it. An emotionally mature man, he apologized quickly. I reminded him that every step of his various ED treatments, I felt blamed. Like, plenty of women were happy with cunnalingus and a limp dick. Hell, there might even be a kink community dedicated to it.

He asked again if I would reconsider a strap on and I nearly told him to fuck off. But now it was my turn to compose myself and reminded him that my first marriage, which I regretfully saved my virginity for, involved years of sexual abuse including sodomy. Not aince then would I agree to anything but a live man’s dick or a tampon up my vagina.

But then I agreed to research options, now that school is over and my waking non-working time is free again. Blogs and articles from men dealing with ED in their marriages were the most insightful and encouraging. I eventually came across a product that resembled a clear “cast” that an erect or flaccid penis could fit inside. A hollow dildo but not some ridiculous color or size. And with a single belt that appeared less intimidating than the usual strap-ons. He ordered it. I expect it will be here by this weekend. At least for now, I dont have the usual anxiety thinking ahead to attempted intimacy with this man. Because in the week that we were “sorta broken up”, I didnt feel relief like I expected. I was just sad. And I prayed for guidance and Im pretty sure my mom prayed too…and a peace came to me “I love this man”. I had spent months trying to emotionally disconnect myself in preparation for a break up, finding every little nitpicky thing I could to be annoyed about. And those irritants are still there as they will be in any relationship but I had watered and fertilized those weeds and encouraged their growth, choking out my heart. And then we broke up. Sort of. And suddenly my rampant sexual fantasies disappeared in my sadness. Now that I was (sorta) free to accept a date or even scratch the itch, my feelings for CK were a bucket of water on that fire.
So we’re going to try the… I can’t call it a strap-on or a dildo let’s call it the Kingdom of the Crystal Dick or the Extra Starched Cock Sock (okay I’ll work on that). Really I just need something to take the psychological piss out of it.
But I hope this works. Because Im a spaceship and he’s a NASA-loving nerd with a solar system tattoo. It doesn’t get more well-matched than this.

What is this “vested” that you speak of?

Welcome to my birthday pity party.

Invitations extended and none accepted. Go home.

Now that you’ve been warned…

Higher education is a scam, like home ownership. Nanodegrees and vocations are the way to go.

CK sent me an email that his contract flip resulted in no loss of pay or benefits. The man still makes $80k/annually with 3 weeks of PTO (in addition to 1.5 weeks of sick leave). And his greatest responsiblity is to give weekly powerpoint presentations. He has no higher education. No skills (other than powerpoint).

And I’m less than 24 hours from 42 and have never had a vested position. I don’t even know what that means except that I know I’ve never had it. What I have had are two careers that dumped me (yes, like a break-up that I didn’t see coming and felt betrayed by). Since then, flipping daddies every year or two as a contractor. Even the military doesn’t want me back unless I agree to go overseas for another year right out of the gate. Another year. That would make 8 years in shit-holes. Nope. Not that desperate yet.

So here I am, earning near-minimum wage, graduating with a worthless MBA degree in 4 weeks. I can’t even call this a do-over because that would implicate that I’m in a position that might lead to something, like retirement. That was the goal when I went back to school. Seeking stability, retirement, paid time off and a 401k. F*ck, I’m old.

And yet I count down the minutes to closing time and cry in the shower because I don’t want to come to this job. I have no sense of accomplishment at work anymore. Everything is broken here from the people that work here, to the people that come here seeking help to the programs and processes used in this bloated, inefficient agency. And I cant fix it. I can only get chewed up and spit out by the machine.

I’m 42 and everything I’ve done, everything I’ve accomplished has led me to…this.

And I’m stuck in the grinder.

Of those few interviews that I do get, they must smell one of three things I’m wearing: Defeat. Desperation. Resentment.

Lola Schmoozy the Aging Showgirl

41 for 24 more hours.

When did my headlights begin pointing toward the ground?

And note to self: any comedic value of a pratfall is lost if you sell it so well that the audience thinks you really did hurt yourself. Admittedly, jumping into the splits and then pretending I couldn’t get up during our Cabaret troupe’s performance Saturday night might not have been the best idea after 6 months out of my fitness/dance routine. The girls made a show of helping me get back up while I flopped and limped and groaned about how I was getting too old for this (and yeah, I felt it the next day). I thought it was funny but maybe it was just pathetic, the sight of a 40-something overweight woman sausaged into a corset tighter than Beyonce.

My Army BFF “S” told me that midst his own depression, one of his coworkers committed suicide. It sobered him up. The man jumped ship with five kids, a gorgeous wife and a $100k/year job. It’s a reminder that even for someone who appears to “have it all”, it may not be enough to keep them grounded. I think we all wonder “What would be ‘enough’?” What would it take to make us happy and if not happy then content? I don’t recall which book or essay I read it in and of course I’m paraphrasing but C.S. Lewis mentioned that we can only glimpse happiness in this life. We are not meant to be content here or we would never wish for something better, which is promised to us by G-d. That’s if you believe in the Happily Every Afterlife story in the first place.

Depression has been rearing it’s ugly head in my life again too. I may just be very, very tired. Constant hum of pain in my body, up too late doing school assignments after work and entire weekends spent doing the same. I woke up this morning with a sore throat, congestion and thought “C’mon, the day before I leave to hike Canada?” I hope it doesn’t turn out to be another “Scotland trip” where I was sick, tired and in pain slogging over the land miserably and coming home even more exhausted than before I left. I expect to be physically tired from this trip but refreshed. At least, that is the intent. So I took Mucinex, swabbed my nose with Zicam and brought a bag of Ricola to work. Now the countdown to 4:30pm begins. I still have some gear packing to do and I want to be in bed by 8pm because Im up at 4a to catch the 1st leg out. I wish I had the leave time to take today off just to rest and prep.

The itinerary the rest of the week will be strenuous. I planned it that way. Hiking, biking, and rafting. Headwinds, incline, miles and miles. I don’t do relaxing vacations. I plan scenic punishments. Partly to prove I can still do it. And if I fall off a mountain and don’t make it home, I’ve proven myself wrong.

I also changed the settings on my Facebook page so I don’t have to clean up 100 generic “happy birthday” comments from people who don’t think of me 364 days out of the year until Facebook prompts them to tell me “happy birthday”. Bah humbug.

Peyronie’s disease

Peyronie’s disease. Why is this the first time I’m hearing about it? Two days shy of our 6 month anniversary? If you look it up, prognosis isn’t good. It’s like a cross between atrophy and severe arthritis. In your dick. When we first began dating I thought “It’s just E.D.  E.D. is treatable”. But it’s not “just” E.D. He’s got E.D. on top of extreme curvature and shrinkage. It’s three inches of gnarled, flaccid dick that is never ever going to be able to physically “get in there”.

If you ask me if knowing this 6 months ago would have changed my mind about pursing the relationship, damn right it would. So now what? For couples too emotionally invested to cut it off, what happens? Do they become swingers? Does he just look the other way while I go scratch an itch for a vigorous deep fuck every few months? I told him if he was with a woman who only cared about cunnilingus, he’d be set. As I said before, it’s a nice appetizer but that’s not a satisfying meal. Neither is a vibrator. And after the trauma of sodomy in my early twenties, ain’t nothing going up there that isn’t a real cock.

His tag line in most of his messages to me is “I’m not giving up on us” and I’m ashamed to admit I’ve begun to resent that. Because this isnt working for me. Yes, I love him and if we could have sex, I might have even seen myself spending the rest of my life with him. But I told him when we first began dating that sex could be a deal-breaker. Like an asshole, I’ve had to remind him over the months whenever he got silent on the subject. Typical ostrich of a man: stick your head in the sand and pretend everything is great. We can just spend the rest of our lives in a sexless, cuddly marriage.

My trusted agent (who fucks around about once or twice a year because he’s desperate and married to a woman who wont have sex with him) says, “You’re not a bad (horny) person. You don’t break up with someone for frivolous reasons. This reason is not frivolous.”

What would you do? I’m tempted to open up the comments on this to get a stranger’s advice because I’m lost. Youre young. At your sexual peak. Sex still vacillates between the number one and number two position in importance in a relationship. And the person who has been better to you than anyone ever has been cannot give you sex. What do you do? Cheat? Break up? Live out the rest of your life in stoic celibacy?

If you chose the latter then clearly sex is not that important to you.

He seems to think that we can work around it. With toys. He says “We can work on us” and I resent that statement to. There’s nothing to “Work on”! Your dick is broken! This might work for you but it doesn’t work for ME! I’ve been masterbating through most of our 6 month relationship to men other than him because what is the point in fantasizing about being fcked hard by someone incapable of it? Again, I’m ashamed to admit (and I’d never admit it to him) that I’m not even sexually attracted to him anymore.

Do I sound like an asshole because I feel like one. A selfish asshole.

I recall a guy I dated briefly a few years back. We had sex once and he was so small he couldn’t get inside me. I joked later that it was a brief lesbian relationship. Because while I debated whether or not his lack-of-dick was a deal-breaker, he decided he was too afraid of me and my “job”, so he disappeared and I was let off the hook.

Another guy a few years before that, we started out dating and within the first two attempts of having sex I thought “No, no no this is not going to work”. But every time I tried having that conversation, he flipped out and threatened to kill himself. Bipolar, raging alcoholic and pathological liar but other than that he’s a great guy! And I cared about him enough that I didn’t want to risk him doing anything stupid. So I stayed with him, celibate for. almost three years until HE was ready to move on. Now he’s married with two kids and we’re still friends. But I wasted years of my life doing what I thought was the right thing. For someone else.

I don’t have years. I don’t want to be in a celibate relationship. I don’t want to be in a lesbian relationship. I don’t want to be in an unsatisfying sexual relationship.

This isn’t working for ME.

“Everyone you know someday will die” the Flaming Lips

When my acquaintance first told me his Bubby passed, I thought he was referring to his dog “Buddy”. And my heart went out to him because I know when you’re childless and you’re a fucked up veteran, sometimes the only thing in this world that depends on you and loves you unconditionally is your pet. But when he explained that bubby was his grandmother, my inner voice said “Wheew, well glad to hear your dog is okay”. When someone tells me a grandparent died, I have to pause before I respond. Because here is my honest thought process: Yes, your grandparents died because that’s what people do, particularly those of an advanced age. And you being close to my age means you got to keep your grandparents a long time. Much longer than I did. Heck, your parents are still alive. So congratulations! Unless they died a horrible, painful, drawn out death like wasting away from cancer or in a nursing home, at which point I think anyone would be ready to tap-out, sounds like you all got off pretty lucky.

 

But I won’t say that nor will I apply some empty, stock sentiment like “Sorry for your loss”. Instead, I ask “Is there something I can do? Do you need me to watch your pets while you attend a memorial service?”  That much is sincere.

“…Our flag was still there”

Given the choice, I sing the national anthem acapella. No hiding behind background music. When my voice cracks with emotion, you hear it. I want you to feel it the way I feel it. The way I wish I could still feel the presence of G-d.

I’m not nervous behind a microphone, on stage, singing or dancing… unless I’m singing the Star Spangled Banner. There’s a chance I’ll cry. Pass out gasping for air between belted and whispered notes. Because if there’s any song I give a damn about, it’s that one. Because it’s an honor and privilege to sing it. Because friends and family, known and unknown, enlightened or misguided, died for it.

I’m not out to flex my vocal chops and earn your praise. It’s not about the singer: I don’t give a damn who you are. Sing it straight with respect. Sing it from the corners of your soul, joy and mourning, proud and ashamed of what it represents and has cost us.