a Cheap Holiday: 01/01/2002 - 02/01/2002

Cheap Holiday

Welcome to a cheap holiday in my life. At least you get to go home at the end of the day!

Wednesday, January 30, 2002

More weirdness from the cyber world. I deleted an ID from my instant messenger friends list tonight. It was the ID of the last man to break my heart. I don't know why I had kept the ID on my list. No, I'm lying. I had kept it because it allowed me to keep in touch with him in some vicarious, remote way, when really I just needed to let all of that go. It's almost like a death, except when someone dies you have to do even more painful shit, like selecting the clothes to bury them in, cleaning out their closets, or looking at the things they once owned and loved and seeing their faces. I would see his face when his ID would light up as active. It's ludicrous to attach so much emotion to the electronic representation of a person, but I did.

But after tonight, that won't be a problem any longer...
Today, I have no faith that there is anyone out there to love me. My friend who has been coaching me in manifestation techniques would say that by thinking that way I will ensure a lack of a companion in the future, that like attracts like, to attract or manifest a loving companion I must firmly believe in their existence. In general, I agree, but some days it's just too hard to have faith, some days it's just too strenuous, too ephemeral, too lonely.
Most people are familiar with the concept of a "mantra," or the repetition of a word or phrase as part of meditation. Meditating on both the sound of the word as well as the meaning is a procedure for potentially reaching enlightenment. A popular Buddhist in-joke has it that the actual word or phrase doesn't really matter, that one could achieve enlightenment by chanting the word "shit" as much as any other word.

For myself, I think my personal mantra would be "acceptance." It seems that for the last six months, I've been repeatedly encountering situations that require me to learn acceptance, which apparently, I'm very poor at. It seems I'm enough of a control freak in that I feel responsible for the elements or persons that touch my own life and when things aren't going particularly well for those I love or my interactions with them are less than optimal, I tend to get angsty or depressed about it. I'm quite disturbed by this, because I wouldn't have, on the surface of things, considered myself a control freak.


Monday, January 21, 2002

I've noticed that when stuck in long meetings or training sessions, I tend to daydream about sex a lot. Not like specific events or even specific fantasies, but this sort of generic tape loop of me with some hot hunka man. Funny how when I woolgather, I imagine myself about ten pounds thinner than I am in reality.

In an attempt to manifest positive things in my life, I ordered new lingerie: a cobalt blue camisole with matching hot pants and a matching thong. Hope springs eternal for hot sex in the new year!

Sunday, January 20, 2002

One of my plans for 2002 was to do something I'd never done before. Trying new things keeps us fresh and filled with something approaching child-like wonder, I feel. Well, that's what I told myself when I allowed a guy to email a photo of his penis. That was certainly something I'd never done before!

I had received a response to my online personal ad from a young man whose own ad was a bit on the priapic side. Typically, I don't respond to men who feel their number one selling point is their cock. My immediate response is one of "well, is that all you have to offer?" At least the photo was of his face! However, he insisted on his subsequent responses that he was an MBA student and had interests beyond the sexual (though frankly, it is unusual to find 29-year old men who claim to enjoy the symphony and opera). So against my routine judgement, I gave him my instant messenger ID. This is actually a fairly big deal with me, as I have numerous friends I chat with online and would rather not dilute my time from them with just anyone. The great thing about instant messenger is that if you start feeling wonky about anything, you can always use the BLOCK feature.

Much to my chagrin, my hope that this young man would open up in a more intelligent way was not realized on instant messenger. Immediately, he begins typing ad nauseum about his endowment and his prowess and the fact that he's sitting naked at the computer. Of course, he's hoping that he can draw me out enough during the chat to provide him with some juicy cyber-yank material. In principle, this does not tweak me. Given that the ultra-conservative political right would give its eyeteeth to police your private thoughts, I strongly believe that consenting adults should have the responsibility and control over what occurs between them.

At one point, he apparently hoped to capture my attention by emailing me a photo of his fleshy pride and joy. This was the "something I had never done before" - review a digital image of a man's dick before I had even met him. Now, one must always take such photos with a grain of salt, but if this image wasn't Photoshopped with the Stretch filter, then this man was indeed packing a weapon between his legs. I'm not a 100% size queen - I don't specifically go hunting for men with massize cocks - but it was impressive! (Kinda wished I'd saved that JPG now.)

Ultimately though, I found the whole exchange to be rather tedious and boring. If there was a way to make titillation feel mundane, this young man had achieved it. I don't have any moral opposition to fucktoys, but fucktoys without wit, subtlety, or philosophy are just wearisome. So, I convinced the
gentleman to feel that meeting me would be a waste of his time. I informed him that "he would most likely find me to be rather dull."

Translation: ""I'm not easy, and I won't put out immediately, just because you say you're hung like John Holmes."

Ah well. Onward and upward!

Saturday, January 12, 2002

This Tenacious D link is provided by a sufficently perverted friend of mine. Be warned, it's not fit for family or office viewing at all. But it's still funnier than fuck!
Had enough strength yesterday to get a brow and bikini wax. All girly maintenance gets tossed out of the window when one is ill, so this is definately a sign of healing progress. I was worried that it was going to hurt more than usual, as I was just coming off my period. Menstrual chemistry affects so much in women, including our sensitivity to pain, but everything went quite smoothly (no pun intended).
I'm on about Day Seven of being sick. I had some fun plans set aside for this weekend that I jettisoned just to prevent a relapse. I know this is just a steenkin' cold, but I feel like my life has been hijacked. And just to rub salt into the wound a bit deeper, I got my period at the same time. I don't just get to feel like hell, but the Ninth Circle of Hell to boot.

I am sick of tired of feeling sick and tired. I've got cabin fever so bad, I'm going to start chewing paint off the damn walls. I went out for drinks and a bite to eat last night and felt fairly well. After about an hour and a half though, I could feel myself hitting the wall of fatigue again. It just comes on like a ton of bricks. For every thirty minute span of nearly normal energy and endeavour, I have to pay with at least an hour of fatigue. This is a powerful disincentive as far as fitness training is concerned, so that's been put on temporary hold, too.

Each morning this week, I've had to hyork up some weird crust that has set up in my throat. I sound like my cat when she's working a hairball. I cough, I sneeze, my nose will itch. I blow and I blow and then my nose will feel really dry for about 2-3 hours. Then the whole cycle starts all over again.

I hate being sick when I don't have a boyfriend, have I mentioned that before? It's just another neon sign of a reminder that I'm alone in the world - that potentially I could die and there wouldn't be anyone to notice. Just because I can cope with being alone doesn't mean I prefer it or particularly enjoy it. I used to think I "did" being alone fairly well, and then I come across a situation that reminds me I might be wrong. Being sick just leaves me with far too much time and headspace to work myself up into a negative lather about things. And to cast about for alternate realities that only leave me feeling more anxious.

It would just be nice to have someone other than the cat to talk to when I wake up in the morning, is all I'm saying. Not on email, not on instant messenger, not on the phone, but in the same goddamn room as me.

Monday, January 07, 2002

With the weather being so frigid and icy, it was nice of the Boss Lady to let us leave work 30 minutes early today. My commute is about 50 minutes long and the highway offramps had gotten a touch slippery near the end of the drive.
This is, of course, the time of year to reflect on last year's events and activities and draw up some new goals, also known as "New Year's resolutions." Unlike many, I rather enjoy making New Year's resolutions. It gives me something to work towards based on previous accomplishments or personal insights.

For 2002, I've resolved to fully embrace my freakdom: my tastes, my predilictions, my preferences, those things that don't so much define me as much as they rough out my outline. Let others think of me what they will. Whatever path I take, I shall be true to myself.

Friday, January 04, 2002

I managed to get out of the house and fetch some food, meds, and vids for the upcoming weekend. There's talk of possible snow on Sunday night, so it's best to stock up now before the rabble empties all the stores.

Among the videos I picked up was Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon which I saw twice in theatrical release. And I still weep like a baby when Li Mu Bai dies in Shu Lien's arms, professing with his last breath the love he denied during his lifetime. Big, fat, salty puddles. Sobbing. I was wondering why this could possibly be. I've seen this damn film three times already. I know how it ends. Why does it make me cry so hard?

I realized tonight - while I was sobbing in a hot bath - that it's the archetypal nature of the story that causes me to cry. As Shu Lien weeps for the loss of Li Mu Bai, I am reminded of the loves I have lost in my life and the love I have wasted. I am reminded that love is pain, and I don't mean in some kitschy, psychosexual way. To feel the pain of being alive - aches, irritations, disappointments - means that one is truly living. To feel the pain of loving someone - irritations, disappointments, betrayals - means that one is truly living. Pain, love, and life are all one. I know there's a highly educated logician out there somewhere who can tear a hole in my argument, but I feel that this is truth.

So, I cry...because I live.
Abm peel mick.

I felt bad enough that I decided to take a sick day today. I only take about two sick days a year, so might as well start the year off right. There's no need in making all my co-workers sick as well.

Some people prefer to be alone when they're sick. I much prefer to have someone around to coddle and pamper me. I haven't had anyone to nurse me in over two years and as my cat doesn't have any thumbs, it's kinda hard for her to open a soup can. I miss having someone to fetch a paper or medicine, draw a bath, or rub my feet. I enjoy taking care of someone I love as well, so it's not like I'm some hypochondriac hard-case. It's just nice to know that there's someone in the world who cares enough about your existence to want to prevent your untimely demise from disease.

Tuesday, January 01, 2002

I am a tub of goo. A blancmange. A custardy treat. I wiggle and jiggle like a JELLO mold. Truly, I've enjoyed my holiday eating and the scale reflects it. Weight training, thou art my True Bitch Goddess to come.

Being from the South, fun times and food are synonymous and the five pounds I typically gain a Christmas are de rigueur. These, however, are five pounds I really do not need to be carrying. Ooof.

I went out to dinner this evening with a friend. Originally, we had planned to go to Bogart's, but as it was closed for an post-holiday employees-only night, we walked up the block to Sullivan's. When the maitre d' began arranging to seat us, I noticed a large party of nothing but men in all shades of gorgeous sitting slap in the middle of the room. Being the brazen tart I've recently become, I asked the maitre d' to seat us near the beefcake table, which he charmingly obliged.

As Sullivan's was not so overwhelmed with guests, the adorable brunette waitress assigned to our table had a chance to sell the menu and flirt with us a tad. On her visit between the soup and the entree, she let slip that "she could really tell us" about the sex toy party her and a friend hosted.

I think I fell in love. Truly, any hot chick that can describe an Egyptian-themed dildo labeled "The Pharoah" and end it by saying "I don't want a dildo I have to feel subservient to, I want a dildo called 'The Slaveboy' or something!" is a bold woman of rare wit and worth hanging out with.

As the restaurant was unable to fulfill my order for oysters on the half shell (most of the shipment had apparently gone bad over the holiday period), they kicked in a free dessert, which unleashed a new round of promotional effort on behalf of a different waitress, equally brunette and cute as our primary waitress. And then, both the General Manager and a different maitre d' stopped by to ensure we were satisfied with our meal. Well, I wasn't able to get one of the boys from the beefcake table on the half shell, but hey, you can't always get what you want.

As my friend and I were contemplating a dessert selection over a pair of Oban scotches on ice, the Battaglia family, including hockey star-son Bates, came in and were seated for dinner. Unfortunately, Bates was not situated in clear view of my stunning new boots, else he might have given up that awful, greased quasi-mullet he chooses to wear in favor of a reasonable haircut in order to become my personal post-Christmas fitness trainer. However, the evening was not without victory, as mine and my friend's concerted efforts at ego-stroking yielded the sex toy-using waitress' phone number tucked in with the bill. My friend is certain that the waitress overheard my dessert wish for "hottie waitress a la mode" and felt compelled to respond to our request to have her contact information and socialize occasionally. Oh happy, happy New Year's Day!