I have been thinking about two articles I read yesterday. Combined, they make a whole lot of sense.
The first, one about potential in a partner, came from match.com (yes, I read this shit, sue me). Partner potential, is just that, potential. It is not fact. It is not even real hope. It is just what humans do when trying to see the good in people they somehow became attracted to. That cute guy who may made eye contact while getting his change at the grocery store? Potential. The guy in the office with the bad haircut, but thoughtful blue eyes? Potential. The hot dad with the wedding ring tan line and obnoxious daughter in your son’s class? Potential.
Since I spend way too much time reading into things, my first thought was “I never do this!” Who am I kidding? I do this all the time. I spend much of the time in my own head inventing the future I want to have with men I have never even talked to, much less dated. (Creativity is sometimes a burden I have to carry. The same thing that makes it so I can write this blog is also what makes it so I have complex fantasies about the FedEx guy. It has its perks.) But it also makes me more susceptible to having real life people that have zero potential become fixations. I ignore red flags. I confuse lust with love. I ascribe positive characteristics that just aren’t there. I read texts and emails as if they are personal love notes full of desire. There is no way a guy can win at this, and be a real person. But that’s okay. Each of these things can be contributed to the potential I see in the object of my attraction to be the man of my dreams..
Well, dream on, because here is the topic of the second article (the one I think I wanna start living by): Unless you can close the deal, potential is shit.
It was harsh. It said that being nice, seeing people as nice, acting nice in all situations is bullshit. It gets you nothing. Potential means that you *may* get good results, but unless you *are* getting good results, you have done NOTHING. Wow, what a kick in the head. I mean, I am a nice person (when I am not acting like a bitch). I do nice things. I keep a nice house and have nice kids. I am also fucking delusional, but I like my happy little world. People know me here.
So the two articles related because I tend to think of men I am attracted to as “nice” but since they are not “closing the deal”, nice means jack. I think of myself as nice, but unless I am nice AND can help a guy with yard work, balance his checkbook, play nice with his former in-laws, and can deal with football play-offs without losing my shit, nice just got me nothing. Yeah, beautiful girls will get a guy to take her home, but if she can’t stand his socks on the floor when he is tired, that might be an issue later on down the road.
As for nice men? Flirt with me in the grocery store? Okay, that was fun, but since you didn’t ask how to contact me to flirt again your “potential” meter was high, but your “close” meter was broken. Guy that danced with me and bought me drinks, but left with someone else? Same thing. It doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself. Getting a cute guy to buy you drinks while out dancing is awesome. What it does mean is that right there is where it needs to stop, at least in my head. Accepting that is hard, me being a single woman who actually enjoys sex, and wants monogamy. But the flip side of that is that if I only see potential, and I waste tons of my time, and maybe some of theirs, creating a universe in which no one could possibly live happily.
Wanna live happily? Good, me too. That is a damn nice thought, but what do you bring to the table that makes that happen? I am not saying I need to have a bikini ready body and an ever ready sex drive, while always having good beverages and baseball stats memorized. But I should be offering something more than “nice”. It also means that I need to stop believing that just because a guy has a penis and I have a vagina, we are a perfect match. Long term, more than that is necessary. Close the deal, be the guy I want to be with so I can be the girl you want to be with. Putting it into practice will be harder, but starting with making my own potential into someone I would want to date is a good step. Letting go of the fantasies might take some work. Except for the ones about Peirce Brosnan and Liam Hemsworth, I am keeping those. They have potential, right?
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
It is harder than it looks.
These are my short stories. I had them published in a 101-word contest that happens annually. Writing a complete short story within the confines on 101 words is challenging, especially to someone like me who likes to write and write and write, expaining things over and over and over, forever and ever and ever (got it?). Every time I have remembered to enter, I have been fortunate to have at least one story published. In 1999 I won the contest. In 2009 and 2011 I had all three that were entered (three is the limit) published. Here they are. Read. Enjoy. Share.
Listed by year
Then the link to the published site.
Then the title and each story
1999:
Link to 1999 Story
Memories
She remembered the way he tasted. Salty. Warm. Of coffee and brandy and toothpaste and cigarettes. She remembered his coal-black hair falling in his eyes. Short and slightly curled above the ears. She knew his eyes. The color of new jeans just washed and damp. Damp, the way his hands were as they touched her face and shoulders and neck and breasts and stomach and back, and between her legs. She remembered every moment. Every detail. Every movement. She remembered. She knew him. Even as she identified him as number three in the rape suspect line-up.
__________
2005:
Link to the 2005 Story
Poetic Justice
A friend of 20-plus years borrowed $500 two years ago Halloween. Having never known her to be a welsher, it was an easy check to write. Until today, I thought she was dead. Turns out she is living in Pismo Beach, and hosting her own Web site and beach blog on self-help and financial independence. She always wanted to be a writer. I guess she writes fiction. She has a link on her site to paralegal services. I wonder if I should use them to sue her. I wonder if she remembers how she spent the money.
__________
2009:
Link to the 2009 Stories
Freeze Frame
The last painting hung, as always, on the south wall, corridor 6, gallery 17. The curators removing exhibits took down other paintings, placed them in sleeves, then crates. What remained, proving the painting had not been alone, were faint square and rectangular scuffs that ringed the room. It was as it always had been; paintings coming, going, enhancing the last painting’s beauty by their meager presence. The last painting’s perspective never changed. It only saw the north wall, the velvet stanchions, the admirers. It longed to be stolen, taken to a home in some no-extradition country, just to change the view.
Young Innocence, Old Guilt
“Mom, can I tell you a joke?” “Sure, honey.” “Why did the barbeque cross the road?” “I don’t know, why?” “To get to the CHICKEN!” I laughed again, thinking it was just as funny this time. My sweet 4 year old crawled up on my lap. “Mom, when is dad getting here?” It was Wednesday night, 30 minutes past the scheduled pick up time. “I don’t know, babe.” I did know. It was why I’d left. He called at 7:30, after bedtime. I’m sure he would explain. “Hello.” I could smell the brandy before the first word was said.
Family Style
My ex-husband’s mother, and her charming, but unrealistic spouse invited me, and her grandchildren, to spend Christmas Eve at their house. Having spent every holiday there, being offered punch and English toffee, for the past 10 years, you might think I would have been delighted at the prospect. But here, in the sanctity of the house my children and I rented alone in May, away from alcohol-induced tirades, and words seething with cruelty and humiliation, we have a new tradition. It’s called happiness. I have been told they are inviting everyone, including the new fiancé. I’ve heard she likes punch.
__________
2011:
Link to the 2011 Stories
The Closet
For my eighth birthday, my mom bought me a new pair of purple Converse All-Stars. My old shoes were worn, and too small. I put the old shoes in the trash. I found them today, in boxes in her closet, with one-hundred-fifty other pairs. I’d moved out when I was eighteen, escaping, leaving behind everything I was now sorting, plus twenty-five years more. The 42-year-old in me wondered how my mother’s hoarding had gotten so bad. The eight-year-old in me touched every pair on the shelf, searching for the purple birthday shoes.
The Loss
The week before had been joyous, until the ultrasound showed that the baby’s heart had stopped beating. She’d been unable to call him from the doctor’s office, she had said, shaking, and the nurse had called instead. He remained calm. Two days and a stillbirth later, she had taken her few packed possessions and left the hospital. “I’m going. I can’t come home until the bedroom is an office again.” It had come down to a choice between flying elephants and pastel crayon scribbles. Sitting on stacked paint cans in what would have eventually been the nursery, his emotions overwhelmed him.
The List
Her current partner, a sweet man with sparkly green eyes, knew a thing or two about sex, but lacked a little in the erotica department. A future “erotic memoir” entrant, but only just. She wanted the tingly feeling on the surface of her skin, just because the object of her longings was in the room. Tingling not from touch, but from knowing. Desire. Warmth deep at the core, that a person knew you, even if you never met. She wrote his name down as the last on the list, sighed, and then added the next number and left the line blank.
__________
2012:
Link to the 2012 Stories
About Face
I knew you didn’t expect me to go. Not after all this time. As you sat there. Staring. I knew I wouldn’t save you. Couldn’t save you. You didn’t want to be saved. Not really. And I had long since thought saving you was beyond my ability. It was true. I could only save one life. The life would be mine. If I could get it right. I knew the bottle in my hand would be mourned. Not by me. So I spilled the amber liquid. Purposefully. On the sidewalk. And I, for the first time in years, walked away. Sober.
By a Hair
She’d cut her hair “flapper” short, dyed it fuchsia, when the vomiting first started, grateful no one had to hold back her hair over the toilet. She’d shaved it completely when the tufts left after chemo reminded her of a neglected Chia-pet, and kept it that way, alternately choosing to wear a Santa hat or bunny ears as the season dictated. Her reward, on the last day of her life, was a little girl of 7, also baldly fighting cancer, using her head as a canvas with colorful body-paint crayons as the pair laughed, sitting by the koi pond.
__________
2013:
Link to the 2013 Story
Ground Up
It wasn’t enough, that casual piece of affection, given daily in the form of a perfect foam heart on top of his latte. Maybe “enough” would have been an extra stamp on his frequent drink card, or a free mini-scone. But having given all that at one time or another, it still wasn’t enough for him to read her badge correctly. So when he spoke while taking his change, “Jordy” came out as “Judy” and her whole world fell apart. In the reality of completely unreturned love, Jordy quit her job, went home, and smashed all of her coffee mugs.
Listed by year
Then the link to the published site.
Then the title and each story
1999:
Link to 1999 Story
Memories
She remembered the way he tasted. Salty. Warm. Of coffee and brandy and toothpaste and cigarettes. She remembered his coal-black hair falling in his eyes. Short and slightly curled above the ears. She knew his eyes. The color of new jeans just washed and damp. Damp, the way his hands were as they touched her face and shoulders and neck and breasts and stomach and back, and between her legs. She remembered every moment. Every detail. Every movement. She remembered. She knew him. Even as she identified him as number three in the rape suspect line-up.
__________
2005:
Link to the 2005 Story
Poetic Justice
A friend of 20-plus years borrowed $500 two years ago Halloween. Having never known her to be a welsher, it was an easy check to write. Until today, I thought she was dead. Turns out she is living in Pismo Beach, and hosting her own Web site and beach blog on self-help and financial independence. She always wanted to be a writer. I guess she writes fiction. She has a link on her site to paralegal services. I wonder if I should use them to sue her. I wonder if she remembers how she spent the money.
__________
2009:
Link to the 2009 Stories
Freeze Frame
The last painting hung, as always, on the south wall, corridor 6, gallery 17. The curators removing exhibits took down other paintings, placed them in sleeves, then crates. What remained, proving the painting had not been alone, were faint square and rectangular scuffs that ringed the room. It was as it always had been; paintings coming, going, enhancing the last painting’s beauty by their meager presence. The last painting’s perspective never changed. It only saw the north wall, the velvet stanchions, the admirers. It longed to be stolen, taken to a home in some no-extradition country, just to change the view.
Young Innocence, Old Guilt
“Mom, can I tell you a joke?” “Sure, honey.” “Why did the barbeque cross the road?” “I don’t know, why?” “To get to the CHICKEN!” I laughed again, thinking it was just as funny this time. My sweet 4 year old crawled up on my lap. “Mom, when is dad getting here?” It was Wednesday night, 30 minutes past the scheduled pick up time. “I don’t know, babe.” I did know. It was why I’d left. He called at 7:30, after bedtime. I’m sure he would explain. “Hello.” I could smell the brandy before the first word was said.
Family Style
My ex-husband’s mother, and her charming, but unrealistic spouse invited me, and her grandchildren, to spend Christmas Eve at their house. Having spent every holiday there, being offered punch and English toffee, for the past 10 years, you might think I would have been delighted at the prospect. But here, in the sanctity of the house my children and I rented alone in May, away from alcohol-induced tirades, and words seething with cruelty and humiliation, we have a new tradition. It’s called happiness. I have been told they are inviting everyone, including the new fiancé. I’ve heard she likes punch.
__________
2011:
Link to the 2011 Stories
The Closet
For my eighth birthday, my mom bought me a new pair of purple Converse All-Stars. My old shoes were worn, and too small. I put the old shoes in the trash. I found them today, in boxes in her closet, with one-hundred-fifty other pairs. I’d moved out when I was eighteen, escaping, leaving behind everything I was now sorting, plus twenty-five years more. The 42-year-old in me wondered how my mother’s hoarding had gotten so bad. The eight-year-old in me touched every pair on the shelf, searching for the purple birthday shoes.
The Loss
The week before had been joyous, until the ultrasound showed that the baby’s heart had stopped beating. She’d been unable to call him from the doctor’s office, she had said, shaking, and the nurse had called instead. He remained calm. Two days and a stillbirth later, she had taken her few packed possessions and left the hospital. “I’m going. I can’t come home until the bedroom is an office again.” It had come down to a choice between flying elephants and pastel crayon scribbles. Sitting on stacked paint cans in what would have eventually been the nursery, his emotions overwhelmed him.
The List
Her current partner, a sweet man with sparkly green eyes, knew a thing or two about sex, but lacked a little in the erotica department. A future “erotic memoir” entrant, but only just. She wanted the tingly feeling on the surface of her skin, just because the object of her longings was in the room. Tingling not from touch, but from knowing. Desire. Warmth deep at the core, that a person knew you, even if you never met. She wrote his name down as the last on the list, sighed, and then added the next number and left the line blank.
__________
2012:
Link to the 2012 Stories
About Face
I knew you didn’t expect me to go. Not after all this time. As you sat there. Staring. I knew I wouldn’t save you. Couldn’t save you. You didn’t want to be saved. Not really. And I had long since thought saving you was beyond my ability. It was true. I could only save one life. The life would be mine. If I could get it right. I knew the bottle in my hand would be mourned. Not by me. So I spilled the amber liquid. Purposefully. On the sidewalk. And I, for the first time in years, walked away. Sober.
By a Hair
She’d cut her hair “flapper” short, dyed it fuchsia, when the vomiting first started, grateful no one had to hold back her hair over the toilet. She’d shaved it completely when the tufts left after chemo reminded her of a neglected Chia-pet, and kept it that way, alternately choosing to wear a Santa hat or bunny ears as the season dictated. Her reward, on the last day of her life, was a little girl of 7, also baldly fighting cancer, using her head as a canvas with colorful body-paint crayons as the pair laughed, sitting by the koi pond.
__________
2013:
Link to the 2013 Story
Ground Up
It wasn’t enough, that casual piece of affection, given daily in the form of a perfect foam heart on top of his latte. Maybe “enough” would have been an extra stamp on his frequent drink card, or a free mini-scone. But having given all that at one time or another, it still wasn’t enough for him to read her badge correctly. So when he spoke while taking his change, “Jordy” came out as “Judy” and her whole world fell apart. In the reality of completely unreturned love, Jordy quit her job, went home, and smashed all of her coffee mugs.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
A single tight screw.
Every year since the New Year’s Day I was 17, I have touched my feet to the sand of a beach. I landed at various beaches on the California coast, no matter the weather, no matter the company. It is a required ritual.
There are rules for this beach excursion.
1) I MUST touch the water. It can be with my hand. It should be with my toes. One year, as I fell while running toward the surf, it was with my face. This was not pretty, and I don’t recommend it, but it counted, and as I sulked back to my car for a towel that year, I knew I would not have to go near the surf again right away, rule one accomplished.
2) I MUST make a wish. This is not a New Year’s Day rule; this is a beach rule, but since I am at the beach, I have to do it today, too. I will write my wish in the sand with my finger, or an old piece of driftwood, or a baseball bat I happen to be carrying (story for another time), close enough to the surf that within a few waves, the written message will be washed out with the tide. I will watch until this happens, so I practice patience. I never waste my wish on something I can’t have, like immediate world peace, or a million dollars from the sky. Those will be flat-out ignored by the universe, and since I only get one wish per beach visit with no take-backs, I should put them to good use.
I do wish for something outside of myself that I need a little help with. The Universe listens to those. A little help with my monthly expenses (in whatever form that it comes in), a man who is nice to me (also, in whatever form it comes in), satisfaction at work (whatever form, can you see the theme?) are all good things to ask for. Peace in my life, happiness for my kids, a bikini that makes my tits and ass look good, are all good choices. As an aside, since I get one of these wishes EVERY time I go to the beach, I try to make a habit of it. Go on my way home from work every Thursday, or on the full moon, or on the slack tide. Just do it. And I don’t get to think that driving to the beach and sitting in my car counts. I mean, watching the sunset is nice and all, but I need to make a wish in the sand. And I don’t go all Scrooge and not walk the extra 25 feet because I am lazy.
3) On New Year’s Day I MUST bring something along with me that I need to part with, or something that symbolizes something I need to part with. I will be throwing it into the water, and not getting it back, so I need to be realistic. This can be something easy to get rid of, like a love letter from a guy who broke my heart in April but I haven’t been able to burn, ripped into tiny pieces. Or, it can be something difficult to get rid of, like a wedding cake topper (also a story for another time). If symbolically I just need to transfer my thoughts to a piece of paper (or a rock) so I can throw it in and have it actually go away with the surf (while not having people look at me like I am crazy to throw “X” in) (like a wedding cake top), without some other unfortunate soul finding it, that works, too. I would NOT throw in my ex’s grandmother’s engagement ring. I would sell that shit. But a picture of the ring, taken as I box it up to send to the buyer, is perfect.
I think creatively here. I have thrown in a penny from a particular year to represent getting rid of financial dependence. I have thrown in a piece of tissue paper that represented frailty (Yeah, dumping that frail shit is fine!). One year, I threw in a bisque ceramic lovebirds-sitting-on-a-heart figurine that looked remarkable like something you would see at a wedding. (Cliff over China Cove. It arced perfectly. It sorta bounced on the rocks twice before shattering and hitting the crashing surf. The sound it made was musical, boing, boing, ching-crash, sploosh. It was awesome!) I don’t think I need to tell you what that represented.
This year I threw in a sheet metal screw that had been sticking out of my dining room ceiling since I purchased the house three years ago. I am thinking it represented procrastination and moving towards having my house (and my life) in a not-so-fixer-up state.
4) I MUST go. No excuses. Raining? Bring an umbrella or a trash bag. (I keep this in my car, just in case) Windy? I have seen Wizard of Oz. And it will NEVER get that bad in California. And I am not afraid of houses or red shoes. Boyfriend wants to watch football? Perfect, I am probably throwing in one of his torn t-shirts or crap DVDs anyway. Living a little ways from the beach? I have 24 hours here, start driving. I went to the beach one year when they actually had a high-surf advisory and the beach was “closed”, having driven three hours from Sacramento. So, um, yeah, whatever. Go. If I can take my 13-day old newborn to the beach in a Moby, I figure any other time should be cake.
I have taken my kids with me since they were born. They have touched the sand and, since now old enough to understand their eclectic mom’s ritual, have also thrown in items and made wishes. My son, remembering being sick on candy right before Christmas, threw in peppermint TicTacs, hoping for no illness this year. My daughter, ever the indecisive, could not pick something and finally settled for a rock, and made a wish to be better at making decisions.
I like that they get this ritual, and have decided to join me, because this year I actually gave them the opt-out option. I also like that I have a ritual at all that I have never skipped as an adult, because sometimes, in my head, it made all the difference in setting my tone for the year.
Remember the screw and the procrastination wish? That I posted this in one day might mean it is working already.
There are rules for this beach excursion.
1) I MUST touch the water. It can be with my hand. It should be with my toes. One year, as I fell while running toward the surf, it was with my face. This was not pretty, and I don’t recommend it, but it counted, and as I sulked back to my car for a towel that year, I knew I would not have to go near the surf again right away, rule one accomplished.
2) I MUST make a wish. This is not a New Year’s Day rule; this is a beach rule, but since I am at the beach, I have to do it today, too. I will write my wish in the sand with my finger, or an old piece of driftwood, or a baseball bat I happen to be carrying (story for another time), close enough to the surf that within a few waves, the written message will be washed out with the tide. I will watch until this happens, so I practice patience. I never waste my wish on something I can’t have, like immediate world peace, or a million dollars from the sky. Those will be flat-out ignored by the universe, and since I only get one wish per beach visit with no take-backs, I should put them to good use.
I do wish for something outside of myself that I need a little help with. The Universe listens to those. A little help with my monthly expenses (in whatever form that it comes in), a man who is nice to me (also, in whatever form it comes in), satisfaction at work (whatever form, can you see the theme?) are all good things to ask for. Peace in my life, happiness for my kids, a bikini that makes my tits and ass look good, are all good choices. As an aside, since I get one of these wishes EVERY time I go to the beach, I try to make a habit of it. Go on my way home from work every Thursday, or on the full moon, or on the slack tide. Just do it. And I don’t get to think that driving to the beach and sitting in my car counts. I mean, watching the sunset is nice and all, but I need to make a wish in the sand. And I don’t go all Scrooge and not walk the extra 25 feet because I am lazy.
3) On New Year’s Day I MUST bring something along with me that I need to part with, or something that symbolizes something I need to part with. I will be throwing it into the water, and not getting it back, so I need to be realistic. This can be something easy to get rid of, like a love letter from a guy who broke my heart in April but I haven’t been able to burn, ripped into tiny pieces. Or, it can be something difficult to get rid of, like a wedding cake topper (also a story for another time). If symbolically I just need to transfer my thoughts to a piece of paper (or a rock) so I can throw it in and have it actually go away with the surf (while not having people look at me like I am crazy to throw “X” in) (like a wedding cake top), without some other unfortunate soul finding it, that works, too. I would NOT throw in my ex’s grandmother’s engagement ring. I would sell that shit. But a picture of the ring, taken as I box it up to send to the buyer, is perfect.
I think creatively here. I have thrown in a penny from a particular year to represent getting rid of financial dependence. I have thrown in a piece of tissue paper that represented frailty (Yeah, dumping that frail shit is fine!). One year, I threw in a bisque ceramic lovebirds-sitting-on-a-heart figurine that looked remarkable like something you would see at a wedding. (Cliff over China Cove. It arced perfectly. It sorta bounced on the rocks twice before shattering and hitting the crashing surf. The sound it made was musical, boing, boing, ching-crash, sploosh. It was awesome!) I don’t think I need to tell you what that represented.
This year I threw in a sheet metal screw that had been sticking out of my dining room ceiling since I purchased the house three years ago. I am thinking it represented procrastination and moving towards having my house (and my life) in a not-so-fixer-up state.
4) I MUST go. No excuses. Raining? Bring an umbrella or a trash bag. (I keep this in my car, just in case) Windy? I have seen Wizard of Oz. And it will NEVER get that bad in California. And I am not afraid of houses or red shoes. Boyfriend wants to watch football? Perfect, I am probably throwing in one of his torn t-shirts or crap DVDs anyway. Living a little ways from the beach? I have 24 hours here, start driving. I went to the beach one year when they actually had a high-surf advisory and the beach was “closed”, having driven three hours from Sacramento. So, um, yeah, whatever. Go. If I can take my 13-day old newborn to the beach in a Moby, I figure any other time should be cake.
I have taken my kids with me since they were born. They have touched the sand and, since now old enough to understand their eclectic mom’s ritual, have also thrown in items and made wishes. My son, remembering being sick on candy right before Christmas, threw in peppermint TicTacs, hoping for no illness this year. My daughter, ever the indecisive, could not pick something and finally settled for a rock, and made a wish to be better at making decisions.
I like that they get this ritual, and have decided to join me, because this year I actually gave them the opt-out option. I also like that I have a ritual at all that I have never skipped as an adult, because sometimes, in my head, it made all the difference in setting my tone for the year.
Remember the screw and the procrastination wish? That I posted this in one day might mean it is working already.
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