Death Do Us Part

Good evening, my nocturnal blogsters. If you have a better memory than mine, (and I bet my life you do) then you know that I work with seniors- very old seniors- at an assisted living center. Although I'm not supposed to have favorites, I must admit I've gotten quite attached to a selected few. Some of them are real assholes, and don't make the favorite list... SO, I spend the majority of my time with my couples- I like to call them MY couples, because they live in my building and treat me like family. Couples are rare in an assisted living center, because by the age of 80, most of them are widowed and have been for years. The women far out number the men, which leads me to believe that we just live longer. Period. A home full of 80 year old ladies. Joy.

I dedicate this post to my couples tonight, because one of my favorite couples isn't doing so well. Tina, 1/2 of my couple, may die within the next few days. Walter, her husband, is sitting by her side in a hospital, and he'll never leave her, not even for a moment. They have been married for 58 years. They are, and always were, very much in love.

Walter is in pretty good shape for his age. He wears a cell phone on his belt, and knocks 20 years off his life with his "Vanz" slip on shoes. He lives in his house of 36 years, but arrives at the center in the early morning to have breakfast with Tina, and stays until very late at night, making sure she has everything that she needs. They were always quick to participate in my daily activities, even if they were occupied or tired. They like me and don't want to let me down. They are two perfect angels, meant to be, and even burdened with what was, is, and will be, they still possess genuine, kind, caring souls.

I saw them every day, and the last time I saw Tina, she was walking with her physical therapist. They sat down so she could take a short rest, and I told her she had had a busy day and should go take a nap. She looked fine otherwise, and I had no idea it may be the last time I would see her there. I found out today that she went into the hospital, and my heart sank at the thought of Walter, sitting there by her side, alone. So I went to see them. I called first, and Walter answered. He was alone, and said she wasn't doing well. He asked if I would bring the 4th of July picture that I had taken of her. He said it was a good picture. I brought that picture and lots of others he had probably forgotten about or didn't know I had. I put my 3 favorite ones in a frame, 2 in which they were sitting together, smiles on their faces. When I arrived, I sat down next to Walter and as soon as I looked at him, I cried. I think he cried a little too. He said it was ok, several times. But it wasn't. He was trying to be strong, even in the sterile room that his wife may never leave. He thanked me several times for the pictures and for the balloons I brought to brighten the room. In my card to Tina, I wrote that she inspired me to find love and that things wouldn't be the same without her. She couldn't open her eyes and she could barely speak, but she did manage to say my name, and the word "thirsty." Walter held a small cup of tea with a straw to her mouth and helped her to drink. She managed the word "sweet", referring to the tea, so he walked over to a counter where he had saved a few packets of sugar and blended one in. He returned to Tina and by her side, held the cup and straw for her again. Til death do us part. It was the most beautiful moment. I said goodbye to Walter in a way that wasn't final, with just the tiniest bit of hope in my eyes, behind the tears. I always knew I'd get attached to my residents, and it was my only concern going in. If she doesn't pull through, this may be my first death, and I hope if I stay in this field, my last will feel the same.

For Wilmotine.

Time.

Who sings that song, "Time keeps on slippin...into the future?" Was it Britney Spears? Pink Floyd? I've been thinking alot lately about time, and how fucking fast it goes by. Now, I know there have been many times when it seemed to creep as slow as the line in the Golden Corral on a Sunday, but for the most part, it flies by and before we know it, we have kids who don't know who Maddonna is. Now that I work with old people at the end of their lives, I have grown a much greater appreciation for life and time. I can't help but think about myself sitting in a wheelchair in an assisted living center, if my kids can afford it, withering away with 100 other old people who feel like today could be the last day of their lives. One day I'll go into detail about my experiences there, and the stories I've been told. Again, I am tired and my uncomfortable bed is seducing me into it. But I needed to get this off my old, wrinkly chest. Thanks for reading.

p.s. I'm also addicted to dark beer, black coffee, and good,dark company.

Yours,

ADDICTION

BRIGETTE PUGH SAID...
I had one of those far away moments the other day. One minute I was putting stuff in a bag for the kids' swim play date and the next moment I was wondering how I managed to get myself responsible for two more people? The space between the present and when I used to get paid a dollar and hour to babysit evaporated. Some days I wish I could take the dollar and go home.

For those of you who do not read my COMMENTS, this was a comment to my post "Far Away", left by my faithful friend. I thought it was a good read, and worthy of a post on the front page.

Back to reality and my own uncertain moods and words, I'd like to say this: I'm a bit tipsy and a bit angry, and don't honestly know how to approach this at this very moment, without coming across as a complete schizophrenic psychopath. (So I'll do it anyway.)

Addiction. Whathafuck?

What are we truly addicted to? Yes, I'm including all of you assholes as well. No one's excluded, no one's left out. Me first.

I'm addicted to...chocolate, bread, cheese, unsweetened iced tea, my cell phone, my make-up, the occasional fried food, and my couch. And music- I like music.

So. I guess 8 out of 9 are not so healthy. But hey- I never was, and never said I would be, at the age of well, thirty-something. But my addictions are weighing heavy on me this evening, and I feel they should be addressed. GOD, I'm so disgustingly honest.

So honest, that I must say I'm too tired to finish this post. Hopefully I'll remember next time what I was trying to say. So sorry, my sorry friends.

Love be to all,

Far Away

OK, bloggers. This may very well be the most serious post you'll read from me- or maybe not- who knows.

As you know, Rawboy is moving out. I swear. Although I prematurely went through my mourning phase over the whole ordeal, I am now at peace with the situation and am looking forward to his absence. I want to reclaim my house and myself. I no longer want to share groceries or moments or space. The remainder of his journey has absolutely nothing to do with ME. So good-bye, Rawboy. You made for a great story.

On a dimmer note, I am feeling very far away. Tonight, especially, as I lay in bed and fantasize about the past, thoughts of old lovers and happier times pass through my mind like fast clouds. I thought about where I was then and where I'm at now. And I feel very far away. I don't know how else to explain it. Just far away.

So after a very pathetic orgasm, the tears start to crawl down my cheeks and into my ears, and maybe God sees the sadness in my face, and maybe not. I just want that miscellaneous pill to kick in so I can fall asleep.

My new job is kicking my ass, but in a good way. I love my job. "Activities Director" for these people has somehow morphed into hairstyler, ass-wiper, wheelchair pusher, feed me-clothe me, counselor, and mediator, among other things. I'm finding that they need me much more for their daily routine than they need me for random activities. And that's ok. Being there for them makes me happy and gives me a hell of alot more purpose than serving a steak or mixing a drink. Now I just need more time in the day. I'm tired. I need gas money. And where's my social life.

Okaaaaay, pill...what the hell?

So next month it's back to living alone, talking to myself, and scrounging for mortgage money. I guess I'll get to know my dog a little better, as well as my couch. I am a part of a large population of strong single women, and all I can say is- I've made it this far. Trust me- I shouldn't have.

Brigette, if you're out there... you're a kick-ass chick. If I were a guy,(or gay), I'd want you for myself. Hang in there. And thank you for always saving me.

And Rawboy, thank you for tonight's pina colada. (He added frozen organic bananas!)

Much love to you all-

"LOVE" (as told by Osho, the latest author)

Well, dear bloggettes- it seems there has been another explosion in Loveland. Rawboy and I have been debating the topic of LOVE for several days now, and Rawboy's the winner. Because if he wasn't, well then, Rawboy would be wrong. And he's never wrong...

Early in our friendship/relationship/courtship/thingy, Rawboy expressed to me that he wanted a serious relationship with TWO women, me being one of them, and wanted to know how I felt about it. If any of you know anything about me at all, then you can assume my response: You're a fucking idiot and get out of my life. But after reading book after book about the "true" meaning of life and all of it's secrets, Rawboy has come to the conclusion that multiple partners who share each other on a regular basis is a natural, common occurence in this world. I would expect this kind of reasoning from an inexperienced, horny, young man. Or from an older man who mistakes wisdom for lack of respect towards women.

Hmmmmm... lack of respect...I see a pattern here.

After the "absolutely not- you're a fucking idiot" rebuttle to this obsurd request, Rawboy temporarily gave up on the notion and things went back to normal- until the explosion the other day. After several days of intimacy, Rawboy expresses his love for me like so: "I love you like a sister." Yes bloggers, sit back, and take it all in. I know I didn't. I didn't need the time.

Is it just me?? Am I being unfair?? Should his words have not been a direct stab in the heart?? Well, it was- a stab in the heart, that is. A deep, twisting stab. So the debate begins- What is love? Is there one, true definition? Aren't there many degrees of love, and if so, what are they? Someone tell us, please! This definition of "love" has torn us apart and we may not get passed it. Not without one of us surrendering, anyway.

Without typing a novel on the intricasies of love and all it entails, I will tell you this- I have experienced many relationships in my day. Enough to know when love exists- when a deep, meaningful love exists, and the difference between those kinds of love and "a love you have for your sister." Maybe Rawboy feels less guilty screwing three women at one time when the love he feels does not exceed the love he has for his sister. Or maybe he just wants to screw his sister. Who knows.

But the love I have for Rawboy is something very intimate, much more involved than a brotherly love. And I'm not mad because I love him "more." I'm mad because he's an idiot. I'm mad because he doesn't have a clue. I'm mad because he says he knows what love is and how it should be expressed, when he's never felt it before. He's never been hurt by it before. His heart has never been ripped out of his tiny chest, for love, before. And I'm mad because his new, favorite book is one in which Osho, the author, describes wives and children as "restricting chains", and that "love" should be given out like orange chicken samples at a food court, to as many people(women) as possible during one's(man's) life.

I, on the other hand, like the majority of the population- and call me old fashioned-prefer the intimacy of one partner, the journey of life and love, with that partner, my rock, my inspiration, my peace, my other half. Maybe I was hoping that I'd be the one to shed some light on Rawboy's immature perceptions. But I know now that it's not my job. The world will teach him that. And I will miss him all the same, partly because he cooks for me, and partly because I invested some time in the sheltered boy that is my roommate.

Godspeed, Rawboy.
As for me- with the future in my eyes and my head held high, "Frankly, my dear- I don't give a damn."


Until next time,

Who's Having Sex in this City?

Two weeks after it's release, my friends and I finally made it to see the much talked about movie, "Sex in the City." I must admit it was definitely entertaining. The men even had some good laughs, after being reluctantly dragged to the theater with the girls. And thank JESUS for Samantha, the promiscuous character in the film, for exposing the true side of the female lust for the shlong. If it wasn't for her (very important) role, then none of us would have had the pleasure of watching her seductive neighbor, Dante, take a very revealing, mouth watering shower. I know for a fact all the women in the theater were collectively thinking one thing: DAMN. As for the tear jerking, touching moments, there were a few that almost had me pulling out the tissue. If you don't want to know what happens, then DON'T read on!

LAST CHANCE....

1. When Carrie got the call from Big that he wasn't coming. She was in her gown, minutes from the altar, surrounded by friends. Then Big says over the phone that he just couldn't do it. She drops the phone, holding her chest, gasping for breath in sheer devastation. Her performance as a stood-up bride had us all in the moment, denying the lumps in our throats.

2. When Big tries to catch her leaving the church after changing his mind. Carrie beats him with the bouquet, all the while screaming, and heads back to the limo, Big chasing after. Charlotte aggressively grabs her heart-broken friend and with a hand-halt-pointed-finger motion, screams "NO" towards Big with startling conviction and watery eyes. The moment of truth, the scene in which all women around the world reconnect and identify with the necessity of girlfriends.

We serve as protectors of our own, always there at the right moments. It was a powerful scene, and another award-winning performance in the film, I must say. We laugh, we cry, we joke, we depart. But when it must be done, when we must be there, we know it. And the true ones always follow through. I always said there was something more devastating about the death of a friend, as opposed to the death of a relative. Your friends take a part of you with them that no one else knows exists, not even your mother or father, sister or brother. All the secrets you've ever had go right along with them, all the way back to your first kiss. The part of you that a friend knows is irreplaceable. When my good friend died, a part of me did as well. After 11 years, I never fully recovered. I still visit the grave with pink roses.

Well, enough boo-hooing about Sex in the City. But I do recommend seeing it, with a few friends and some Kleenex. If you REALLY want your money's worth, go on your period. (This does not apply to straight men.)


Stay tuned for my next column in "Dear Creemy."

Yours,

Brigette

My neighbor, Brigette, seems to be the only blogger out there who cares to comment on my posts. SO, hats off to you, Brigette, and the rest of you can go lick an icy- cold pole.

Denial...river in...what???

Well, I suppose I'll have many a post on the subject of DENIAL, but this is my first. I'm in denial about how lonely I am. SOOOO many times I wanted to kick Rawboy into the stratosphere and out of my house, but the little guy just won't budge. He likes it here, for reasons that MUST have to do with the yard and off street parking..... God knows no one else out there could stand the nightly visits from my mother and the annoyances of my child. The fact that Rawboy just doesn't want to leave turns me on even more, or shall I say, makes me like him a little more. He is a strange one for sure, and now that he's gone on his fantastic voyage to the Bahamas, I have come to terms with some repressed feelings and thoughts that I've kept hidden from him and myself. Maybe I don't want to live alone after all. And-

I don't want him to see me fail.

Fail at losing weight, fail at my job, fail at paying my fucking mortgage, fail as a mother, fail as a dog owner, WHATEVER. And why do I care?? I'm not sure. I certainly don't give two shits what other people think about me, or at least I don't act like it. Rawboy lives in my private space, my sanctuary, within my walls and my roof where I go without make-up, cry for no reason, dress like a bum, feel sad and depressed, hopeless and scared. He sees it all. I've had serious relationships where I've never been so exposed. Why am I so terrified to let my guard down? Especially in front of a guy who shops at THREE different stores for one fucking recipe?? A guy who tells me to juice the KALE before it goes bad??

So. The denial. I'm lonely without him. I miss him. The failing thing. Yeah.

His trip was only one week, but it was hard to see him go. As I hugged him goodbye at the gate, I pressed my nose against his neck to remind me of his smell, as if we were to never see each other again. I mean, you never know. I swear if he saw a cucumber floating in the sea he would jump overboard to try and save it. Then he wouldn't want to hurt the sharks that were tearing into his size 28 waist.

I'm glad he's on this trip. He deserves it. He needs it. Another great experience to add to the few he's had in his short life. Jealousy aside, I hope he had a great one night stand. I know I would, on a cruise, out in the middle of nowhere...

Well, I feel like I can go now. Go to sleep and wake up for an 8 o'clock yard sale and some breakfast with my dad, who's in town for the weekend. It helps the time to go by faster in anticipation for Rawboy's return. The dog needs to be walked.

Your Creemster,

BYE-BYE BAR!

Well, my no-comment-leaving-blogsters, after 14 years in the blood-sucking restaurant business, I have finally found a new job. As of June 16, I will be Activities Director of an assisted living center, (for the elderly and/or somewhat deranged, of course.) I know, I know.... I'M PERFECT FOR THE JOB!! And excited. I can't wait to break out the ol' Olivia Newton John tape and start sweatin' to the oldies. The old folks and I will not only Jazzercize our days away, but we'll do other things like make Valentine's cards with Polydent and play drinking games with Ensure. A friend of mine added one to the list with "wheelchair limbo." Boy, are we gonna have some fun! And I'll never step foot inside another restaurant again. (Unless I'm a patron.)


My roommate leaves for a week tomorrow. A family reunion. On a boat. It'll be just like Amistad, only they'll be lounging in beach chairs, sipping on margueritas. I will miss him, I must admit. I must also admit that I'll starve, start talking to myself again, and masturbate more. It'll be one lonely week, being I can restrain myself from having orgies and all night drink fests. I wonder if that guy returned that midget porn dvd back to Fan Video yet.


Well, I must rise early to see my daughter off to school, go to Kroger, and take Rawboy to the airport. He needs to stock up on organic snacks for the trip. God bless him.

Love to you all, for now-

Jesus Christ... Time for Change, Part 2

Well, blogger friends.... alot has happened since the last time I posted. After a long talk and a few more love sessions, Rawboy and I decided to try and make it work again. It was great for a while and he comendably stepped up to the boyfriend plate. Maybe my best friend cussing him out and telling him what an asshole he was had something to do with it, but I'd like to think it was because he realized I was worth holding onto. That WE were worth holding onto. But now the clouds have descended and the quiet before the storm is no longer quiet. The last few days have been hell- fighting, bitching, ranting, crying. My emotions have been rocked up and down, over and under and I found myself crying like a baby when he walked out the door. He was just going to work, but he still walked out the door.

I just can't do this. I can't make this work. HE can't make this work. And I DO want to blame, and I'm willing to take it. Inquiring minds want to know, and I don't give a shit if they think it's me. Bring it on. I just want this to be over. I want him to leave. I want to start over. I want to reclaim my life! But he says it's not about blame. What he won't say is that his ego has grown out of control, an unstoppable monster that has fed off of me for months now, leaving me weakened and drained.

And he can't date a girl who tells him to fuck off. Or go fuck yourself, or some sort of fuck-ing anything. Don't you just hate it when our favorite word gets in the way??

Don't get me wrong- it wasn't ALL bad. There were a few good times, like when we'd buy wine together and search for the perfect Belgian ale. When we went out for coffee and listened to jazz. When we got stoned and went to the dog park. But they just weren't enough. I can't take the fighting and he can't take the yelling. Soooo, decision to move out #2: Rawboy has until the end of the month. This time there's no making up. No making love. No making hummus or curry tofu. And there will be things that I'll miss, like him being here when I get home from work and his car in the front yard. I'll miss him sitting across from me at the kitchen table. Him opening the front door as I'm fumbling for my keys. It'll be hard. It always is. And I'm sure I'll cry a little when he takes the juicer.

My relationship with Rawboy has brought my insecurities to the surface, and I don't like what I see. I'm not happy with my body. I don't like feeling jealous. My confidence shrank as he got more involved in massage, leaving me everyday to go rub down naked, oiled women with their sore stupid muscles. And he just didn't understand. He just became cold. He evolved into the prick he was when we met, only more vocal. I wanted to help him, pull him out of his shell. But he didn't gain the confidence I had intended. I only perfected something he already had-alot of arrogance and his stifling ego. Where did I go wrong? I'm starting to think it was never me. I know who I am and I refuse to doubt myself. I simply refuse. And I've come to the conclusion that committed relationships are hard. Maybe too hard. Maybe we just need our space. Maybe I need to live alone. It is, in fact, much easier. So guys, I'm throwing in the towel. And if anyone's to blame, it's both of us. As far as internal work, we both have alot to do, learn, and change. I guess it'll just be done with someone else, another person to come along and get us further.

But I still have all of you, through thick and thin, unconditionally. And my daughter will be happy that I'm sleeping with her again, and not him. Life goes on.

I must go to bed now so I can get up early to not go to the gym. But before I go,
I'll leave my men with a little advice: Women need compliments, we need to feel sexy. Tell us that we turn you on, tell us to trust you! We need reasurrance that we are loved, that we're the only ones you see and we have nothing to worry about. Tell us we're beautiful and tell us often.

Until next time....

Time for Change

JESUS. It's time for change. I am not only speaking for myself, but for all of you as well. The weather is getting warmer now, and Richmond's long, miserable, sunless winter is finally over. No more excuses- let's all make a change. I feel like I'm not alone here, like most of you have something that needs to change. I do.

First, I need to apologize for not giving my loyal fans something to read every night. I have been unmotivated and maybe a little depressed, although I don't like that word. People tend to judge you when identifying your "down time" as depression. I have just been preoccupied, sick (literally) and tired. I finally gave in and went to Patient First, the 7-11 of medical facilities. I need a t-shirt that reads, "I went to Patient First and all I got was this lousy antibiotic." I wanted more from the doc. I wanted Lunesta and Xanax. I wanted morphine. Give me the real shit, doc. I have a high tolerance.

So, I'm waiting it out. Still coughing up a lung. I swear when this goes away, I'll hit the gym hard. Right??

For those of you interested in my love life, Rawboy is moving out. It is a mutual decision, and it didn't come easy. I think we were both in denial about the reasons why this isn't working, and that's ok. That's normal. Who doesn't want to be loved? We help each other, but hurt each other more. So it's for the best. The date of departure is July 1. I will do my best to keep you informed of the tumultuous days ahead, although I'm hoping for sunshine and clear skies. I would like to end this cohabitation on good terms. I feel like a teacher who's attached to her student. It will be hard to see him go, and this house will be quiet and I will be lonely again. I may also starve, considering Rawboy did most- (who am I kidding?) ALL of the cooking. The fridge will be empty and the ear-piercing, sometimes unbearable sound of Opera will no longer fill the kitchen air while Rawboy does the dishes. My washing machine may not break afterall, once he stops squishing in his over-sized comforter. The water bill will go back down to a reasonable amount because he will no longer add 30 minute showers to my daily routine. The absence of the juicer will add 23 more square feet to the counter space, but will probably be replaced with nothing. And who will walk my dog? Poor dog. Mommy likes to sleep in.

Well, my faithful friends, all things must come to an end. But I'd like to think it's a new beginning for me, and I'll take what I've learned and go to the next can't-love-due-to-childhood-hurts relationship. We'll see. In the meantime, I need to give back to my girlfriends who have helped, coached, and cared along the way. They have missed me.

My Patient First meds have kicked in and I must go to sleep now. Until next time....

Congestion

Hello fellow nocturnians. I am only as good as my sleep aids allow me to be. I have been congested for almost 3 weeks now. It won't go away. It's in my chest, now in my nose, clogging my head, my brain, my thoughts. I am exhausted and emotionally drained!! What gives?? So, in dealing with this viral intrusion, I have for the most part confined myself to the house (outside of work, of course) so that I can rest a little and hopefully get rid of this nasty thing. I figured it would ride it's course, but it prefers to stay and destroy my life. I have been coughing and wheezing and blowing my nose, and I just can't take it anymore. The constant cough has hurt my back and neck. I made an appointment for a massage, but fried myself in the tanning bed a few days before. A massage just isn't worth it if you sting all over, right? Hot stone anyone??

Anyway, on top of all the mucus, my period came and PMS set in. Boy, was it bad. Maybe my cold amplified the bitch in me, but it's a good thing I didn't own a gun. I almost went postal at the KROGER because the olive bar wasn't stocked. And I couldn't find beer. I hate Kroger. I hate grocery shopping. I hate getting gas. I hate Oprah.

Congestion. On top of these stresses, there's Rawboy. What can I say? He's here, all the time, and I'm sick and here all the time, and we ended our "thing", and I'm in limbo. I know the man I fell for is still in there somewhere, but I don't see him anymore. I don't see the man I could kiss whenever I wanted, hug whenever I wanted, or touch whenever. I can't look at him the way I used to because I can't go back. Back to the affection I so DESPERATELY need. We just don't work. We won't work. And I think I may have said too much about the things that didn't work. I think my honesty hurt him a little, and the bulk of it's not his fault. I've had many relationships, casual and not, and he's had none. I expected him to know how to do this, how to make this work and be a man, only to manifest into his love experiment that sometimes made me feel like shit. So there. So it's done. And he's still cooking, and still rubbing random chicks, and still on his journey to fullfillment. I'm just a stepping stone (who loves his lips.)

Congestion. As I sat down next to him on the couch to discuss my feelings (I had to do this because we spent the last few days not talking), the pressure in my head began to build until it felt like it was going to fly off. I know this feeling all too well, and it's tears. I just needed to fucking cry. As a mom, with a roommate, you just don't get to sit and have a good damn cry to cleans out the system. There's no time and no place for it. A good cry for every day stresses, for broken relationships and no more beer. It was time for my cry, and she wasn't waiting. So I sat there and talked, and cried, and talked a little more and cried. It wasn't the sobbing that I needed- I wanted to sob like a baby- but I didn't. I held back the flood, shedding just enough to release the pressure. And Rawboy fell asleep somewhere towards the end, so I turned out the light and went to bed, leaving his ass there on the couch. But not before I blogged this story for my faithful friends. Aren't you refreshed now? Feeling more energized??

Not me. I'm getting sleepy... until next time...

Confession

"Blogger, it's been 1 month since my last confession."

- Go on, my dear.

"I've been seeing my roommate. I seem to have lost my life."


Well, what can I say. I have not only been M.I.A. to my friends, but also to my emails and my beloved blog. I am shamed. I sit here before you with my head down, drowning in a sea of manure and guilt. What is that smell? Is it me??

Somewhere in between poaching eggs and rock climbing, I've fallen into a romantic relationship with my roomie. It all happened so fast, that the 4 eggs we poached that night are still in the fridge, rotting. Just kidding. But seriously, my mind has been everywhere else but in my head. Making this thing work has consumed every ounce of my being, and although quite uneventful, pretty boring, and sexless, I need my life back. Where have I been?

I was having a hard enough time keeping my shit together lonely and sober, but now with man and happy (sometimes), I'm losing touch with my friends and not paying my bills. And it finally hit me. Tonight. This isn't working. The roommate relationship. And not because he's my roommate, but because we're just at different places in our lives. Didn't I always say I would never date a younger man?? Someone validate this!

This thing I had with Rawboy was great. Don't get me wrong. When he wants to be sweet, he's really sweet. He's easy to live with, he's clean, he cooks breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We drink wine and share good beer. I enjoy his company. Before his arrival, I had to live alone. Now I can't imagine him gone. However, loving him or him loving me is not part of our equation. We tried. I tried. And it was good while it lasted. But his inability to love and this great lack of sunshine is too big a threat and we can't survive. Oh, Shakespeare, where the hell art thou? A poem, yes- I am inspired.

I need more and he needs the sun.
He needs someone who doesn't need him to care.
My desire for commitment makes him want to run.
Now I'm suffocating, my mind needs some air!

Alas, I only strive to be like one of the greats, like Robert Frost or Weird Al. Nevermind.


With respect to Rawboy's privacy, I'm withholding the details. But I hope you all get the picture. Now we just have to figure out how to go back to roommates, how not to stare too long, how not to think about his arms or his lips. Ugh, this sucks. But we have learned alot from each other and I hope we can accept and move on. (Preface to my next post.) I am tired, friends... Goodnight.

The Joy of Sex- OOPS!! I mean Cooking

Well, hello readers. This post is about cooking. Or lack, thereof. I've been slaving away all these grueling years making Kraft Macaroni and Cheez, PBJ's, instant grits, Lean Cuisine meals, and hot dogs. So why the fuck can't I poach an EGG??? There are mornings (or afternoons) when I wake up and crave a delicious brunch of poached eggs with hollandaise, country ham (or rare steak), 2 beautifully prepared potato cakes, and perfectly grilled asparagus. Oh, and the mimosa, of course. Ok, five mimosas. Anyway, I spend tons of money on weekends "brunching it up" at various fan bars in search of my dreamy meal. But now that I have this roommate who actually cooks his own meals, I began to get curious about how a stove actually works. Rawboy, the roomie, is a fan of the local public library, who I have not visited in a while because I owe money for an overdue, crappy movie. So after I vented my frustrations about these rare poached eggs that I absolutely must have for brunch, Rawboy went to the library and checked out several (very thick) cookbooks. Needless to say, we began the tumultuous journey of the perfectly poached motherfucking egg.

So, I put off the conclusion to this story because of a storm. I was afraid my computer would crash in the middle of all this, and my readers would never know how to poach an egg. It's several days later, and no more storm. Just grey, depressing days. Grey days with a bong and red wine. So here's what happened-

My girlfriend, Deidra, came by and the three of us (Rawboy included) stood over the stove with a pot of boiling water and a carton of eggs. Rawboy and I took turns poaching, placing the misfit eggs in a bowl. Poor little retarded eggs. I had to photograph these eggs, for I am doing a small documentary on the progress of my cooking, now and in the future. Look out for my post on "Hummus"- it will be a good read, with a tutorial and pictures. There will also be 9 paragraphs dedicated to soaking chickpeas overnight, dried chickpeas versus canned chickpeas, and as a bonus, how to identify a food processor in your kitchen. Anyway, your writer is exhausted and emotionally drained this evening, so I will retire now to my uncomfortable bed. Unfortunately tonight, Rawboy has not invited me into his.

Sweet dreams, my little cookers.

Butt Face

Tonight's post is inspired by yet another entertaining evening at the Bamboo Cafe. So we're all huddled in our favorite corner of the Bamboo laughing, talking, joking, drinking, and whatever else you do in a small, smoky bar right before close. Then an "outsider" imposes upon our clique without a place to sit, drunkenly (is that a word??) stumbling from one of us to the next, wearing tight jeans and swaying from side to side with his butt in our seated faces. Of course, the majority of us ignore his intruding buttocks within close proximity of our faces, but Emily, a middle-aged, attractive, opinionated lady (not to mention one of my favorite Bamboo groupies) begins to attack this strange man regarding his invading ass. "OK, OK, GET YOUR BUTT OUTTA MY FACE! I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR BUTT IN MY FACE! I MEAN, COME ON, HAVE YOU EVER HAD A NICE BUTT IN YOUR FACE?? REALLY, HOW MANY OF US HAVE HAD A NICE BUTT IN OUR FACE?? JESUS, REALLY, WHO IS THIS GUY WITH THIS BUTT?? GET HIM OUTTA HERE, PLEASE SOMEONE, MAKE HIM SIT DOWN, HEY, GUY, HERE, SIT DOWN- HERE'S A CHAIR!.....FOR GOD'S SAKE...."

Well, I had a good laugh, even if no one else was paying much attention. I did, however, pay attention to his rear when he got up for the second time- his wide, flat butt in his tight jeans in my face once again, and it made last call worth while, as we all sipped the last drops of our watered-down drinks and began to dispurse out the door into the street. That guy's butt was really funny. Thanks, you funny butt man.

Remembering Chris

I got the news today that an aquaintance of mine, Chris S., died. The story I heard was that he wrecked his car into a cross infront of a church right outside of our neighborhood. It was late Saturday night. He was such a good soul. I had a crush on him once. Chris sporadically hung out with a mutual circle of friends that we've both shared for many years. He was extremely smart and handsome, and worked in real estate and taught at a private school. Although Chris was very friendly and knew many, I got the impression he was also very lonely. He lived alone and enjoyed listening to music in his living room, where his stereo system took up much of the space. We had some good times together and I hope now his soul is at rest. He deserves it. And he deserves to be remembered.

Chris, I know this is strange, but I'm thinking of a man I met briefly while living in San Diego. I wrote a poem about him and feel like now's an appropriate time to share. Here's to you, Chris- and a beer or two at our favorite after-hours spot.


"Lookin' at the World Through Rose Colored Glasses"

He yells to me as he's walking my direction.
Just the other day he was directing traffic
With the flashing red hands
And the flashing white man
Hoping the crossing pedestrians would give him some money.
I remembered and it made me smile.
So I didn't get mad when he
Disrupted my peace
Disregarded my headphones
Invaded my space and
Blocked my sun on the bench by the road.
He spent a year and a day in jail
For shooting the man that molested his friend's daughter.
The man didn't die.
And his fourth and last wife
Killed herself.
She wore glasses so thick and her name was
Doris.
He tried to cry when he told me he missed her.
Said he's had HIV for fifteen years and the doctors don't know why
his skin's falling off
As we looked at his hands.
He says Jesus loves me and some other things
I can't remember 'cuz
My bus was coming.
So we hit our fists together as a goodbye.
He didn't ask for money.
He didn't intend to.
And he didn't scare me.
In fact,
He was the best thing that happened to me
All day.


-dmy 3/00

Where I'm Supposed to Be

Well, looking back on my last few posts I realized how unimportant they are. Was I speaking of myself when I said "dull, dull lives?" I think this may be closer to the truth. It doesn't matter that I have fantasies about my roommate or that my love life could use improvement. What does matter is that you know where you're supposed to be. I came to this conclusion this evening, while lying in bed next to my daughter as she slept. I can't help but marvel at the beautiful little creature before me, who so desperately needs me to accompany her while she falls into her much needed sleep, her little arm wrapped around my neck tightly as if to improve the difficulty of me trying to escape quietly out of the bed and into the living room for a quick read or a movie.
I thought back on the days of my youth, my early 20's that I more than took advantage of, and remembered times when at the end of my day I laid in bed awake wondering what I was supposed to do and where I was supposed to be. All the days spent partying, those wonderful, carefree days I spent drinking, living, laughing, drugging, loving. Yes, they, to me, were the good ol' days. But not always good nights. The nights weren't always so good. Those were the nights spent alone, usually coming down from a drug induced high and trying my best to fall asleep quickly before my uneasy thoughts consumed my mind, hitting me like a freight train. Why am I here? What am I supposed to be doing? Where am I supposed to be? When will I get it together?
Although some of those days I remember and consider a few of them the best days of my life, I wouldn't go back. They were fun, but hard. Looking back, they were pretty tough times. We were all so free and happy, and yet so scared and lonely. Like little birds having left the nest for the first time, saying good-bye to mommy and daddy. And there were so many of us, having left home, whether it be good or bad, and heading out in search of a better place- a place that resembled independence, happiness, and acceptance. That's when we really learned about life. We learned how to pay our own way, protect ourselves, interact with others, love and leave others. And what a beautiful thing how at that time in all of our lives, we found each other. I wonder where they all are now. What they are doing, if they have families, if any of them died. I only have a tiny picture of us I keep on my keychain, reminding me from time to time where I used to be. And my big smile was genuine.
Anyway, I am sorry if this all sounds confusing and out of place- I'm daydreaming, I guess. But back to my point. My point is that I still don't have my dream job, I take a few classes now and then to eventually get a degree, I'm not happy with what I'm doing or the city that I live in. But I do have a child- I did make that choice. It's done and I am here. We are here. There's no turning back now. And when I lay in bed next to her so she can hold me and fall asleep, I look at her perfect little face as she drifts and think to myself that this is where I'm supposed to be. It feels good and secure and makes a bad day a little better. It puts all the shitty, crazy things into perspective. And that's something. It's nice to have something. For now, this is just where I'm supposed to be.

Anyone for a drink?

Still Here.

Hey. Just letting the loyal ones know I'm still here. I'm just taking a hiatus, be it I have no inspiration to write lately. Maybe it's the weather. But hey, just think- one day soon you'll have something REALLY interesting to read in the middle of your dull, dull lives.......

love always,
DYVACREEM

Bullshit.

Soooooo, I know there are thousands of readers out there who have been losing sleep over the thought of me seducing my roommate. Rest well, blog readers. The impulse is gone, swept out of me like a thief in the night- for now. I don't even really know how it happened. One minute I was shopping for organic milk at Kroger, and the next minute I was saying to myself "fuck this." This, as in "the act of pining over a man". And it was gone. Maybe it was because he told me it wasn't going to happen. Not sure. But I do feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders, leaving me free to go on with my uneventful life as it was. Yes, Rawboy and I had "the talk" about my secret desire to violate him. This talk was initiated by myself, of course, the morning after my last post, "Fuck". I mean, afterall, it is my house, and I won't be walking around feeling uncomfortable every time he decides to hack coconuts in a tank top. He must know. We must get it out in the open, clearing the thick fog of sexual tension in the air. So I sat down next to him on the couch as he read his copy of Raw Times and very simply said "You have a strong sexual energy and it makes me uncomfortable", give or take a few extra New Age words. And just as I suspected, he agreed. Oh, not about a mutual discomfort, but about his strong sexual energy. Almost as if to say "Why, yes! These ARE Bugle Boy jeans I am wearing. So deal with it, bitch." And I am. Dealing with it.

We went to lunch and discussed my delima further. There's something very sexy about a raw foodist breaking down and eating a burger. As a matter of fact, I, at this very moment, have realized the very first time a dirty thought about my roommate entered my mind. He stood in the kitchen once, slowly eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. What is it that is so incredibly masculine about a guy and a PBJ? Is it the "bacheloresque" simplicity of the sandwich? Or is it because this somewhat uptight, meticulous, food processing man in my house has for a minute surrendered to the lure of this particular All-American food? I'm not sure. But either way, it was at that moment that he came back to Earth. I finally viewed him as a human being, not an alien herbivore.

So, back to lunch. After we picked out all the gay waiters from the straight ones, and after Rawboy's rant about how ours didn't fully acknowlegde him, we touched on the subject of us. I told Rawboy everything I felt, wanted, and needed from him. And he listened, like a good gay boy should. And although he never said any of these feelings were mutual, he didn't say they weren't. He did say, though, what I needed to hear and THAT was that it would cause problems for the both of us. And he is right. I already knew this, but I am cursed with an impulsive heart, which does usually cause such problems. Maybe it's just been so long that I've forgotten all of that. In either case, now I can go about my day with a clear conscious, not caring that Rawboy knows what I'm thinking. I should be able to have an attractive roommate without falling victim to his charms. Or body. Right? Maybe we can just all get along.

We get into the car and before we drive off Rawboy gently wipes a piece of hair out of my face. My reaction was to look at him and laugh, as he said "We might as well have fun with it...." Great. Fuck YOU, Rawboy. That's fine. Let's do that. Now pull down your pants.


Stay tuned, my good people. In a few weeks I'll either be pregnant or dead. -DYVACREEM

Fuck.

"Whoomp! There it is." For those of you old folks that don't know- that is a phrase from a somewhat recent hip-hop song that I thought I'd prelude my FUCK statement with. Tonight I was staring at my computer for a long while before I thought of something worth saying. During this period of deep thought, the one word that repeatedly came to mind was "FUCK."
Staring at the computer...fuck. Stroking back my hair....fuck. God, I'm pretty tired....fuck. Damn, I'm really horny...fuck. Fuck, what do I write?...fuck. Sometimes I wonder how I'd get through life without the word. I need it to survive.

Sexual energy. It is undeniable. It is ever present. It is stronger than you think. It begs you to fall victim. I'm falling. God help me. Or Jesus. Or MotherFatherSonandSpirit. Or Allah. Whatever. Rawboy has cast his spell and I am vulnerable. Fuck.

I cannot have sex with my roommate. I need one of my high school teachers to pop out of my closet and make me write it on the board 100 times. I CANNOT HAVE SEX WITH MY ROOMMATE. If you ask someone why, they say "Bad. Just bad." And that's pretty bad.

I mean, I thought he was gay!! Massage therapist, raw foodist, take long in the shower, Ani DeFranco concert watchin' roommate! What is the world of men coming to? Can we really encounter a straight man who has a feminine side? One who might be able to really understand us?

I'm not going to get into all the reasons why I think this may be a possible union. I just know I called two of my girlfriends tonight in need of an intervention. It would be wrong. And I need to be nursed back to health. Thank Ghandi for girlfriends. Girls- really. What would we do without each other? I mean, who else would send you a text message at 2 A.M. that says "Don't do it!"?

I can't go on. I'll keep you posted. Have faith.

Yours truly,
DYVACREEM