Tony Danza

weird-statues-2-1507518Typing away.  So, yeah, last night I kind of fucked up and in trying to gather quotations for this writing project idea thing…I ended up reading the whole sequence of posts around Mr. Confusion and last year.  You know, that time when I wrote my heart out to this guy or at least a very literary and clever facsimile of my heart and things were weird.  We had this very intense back and forth for a while, then he disappeared for a while, and then he was back for a second but told me that he needed like…a real girl…or whatever and this motivated me to say, hey, you want to meet – let’s meet.  And that seemed like a good thing and then we had this nice, not excessively or problematically awkward date where I kinda thought he was kind of cute and and then…we never talked again.

That was a fun time to relive.  Fuck. Progress? Is there any progress in my heart whatsoever on that front?  I don’t…honestly think so.

Today might require bullets.

  • Having gone over to my parents when my sister did – she’s staying over to drive them to the airport tomorrow morning – like at 3:30a.m.  I basically went there because I wanted to raid the larder and I was 99% sure that they had a frozen pizza in their freezer and I sort of walked my arse off so that I could go.  Walked a ways beforehand around the subdivision listening to music mostly with that pizza in mind.  I’d basically had like rice and broth earlier and coffee to keep all those calories controlled and nope.  No pizza available to poor little me.  So instead, ate some chips and guac (very nearly too much) but was able to cut it just below the quota with that walking and call it good.  I don’t feel hungry, but I would, I think, like some wine.  I kind of feel like I am going to buy a bottle tomorrow for all that writing I want to do.
  • Watched an episode of Monarch of the Glen because my mother has decided it is the best show ever and I was briefly into it.  It’s a BBC dramedy and that’s my catnip.  I will probably try and watch more, but maybe just from the episode I saw – so the start of season 3, I guess.
  • Finished this Dragon Age: Inquisition run.  I have feelings.   Still.  Again.  More.  Oh, darling babby Solas. I want to keep writing fanfic that is not useful to anyone but me with my very specific tastes.  Not planning to restart another playthrough, but I want to find whatever what I can to extend my mental holiday in Orlais.
  • Also got to have some house of solitary pleasures time – watching the Oscars and bleating happily with the lovely friends on Skype about it all.  Golly, they make me so happy.

Also: because we want it written down, immortalized in script forever, Fuck Sam Smith.

Terra Caloris

846687_66048698Oh, looooooord.   Oh, great and powerful thing up and around and about.  I am yours in great and profound befuddlement.

I went to therapy this morning as previously mentioned. I don’t know why it was hard, but it was.  To talk about Mr. Confusion and my moment of brief connection, to reckon with it.  She was over the moon for me that I did it.  She said three hours was an excellent length of time for a coffee date.  She said I was trying to demand things of myself based on expectations I was putting on him that he had no knowledge of.  She said that she was trying to point out and poke at some of the things I tell myself, see how logical they are.  Or aren’t, mainly.  I mumbled and dithered and finally found myself drawing up the feeling that I’m sure I’ve mentioned here…that I think it’s down to body issues.   How I can’t really handle or absorb people’s responding to me in that regard.  That I had all those nice Facebook likes and it felt like I couldn’t even accept or process their positive opinions of me.  Then she said, that she had her own body issues, but she was just thinking how nice I looked in this dress with my new hair color.  That she was a bit jealous of me which I can honestly say nobody in my whole life has ever said anything like that.  Even the check-in lady commented on how nice I looked and I wish, I wish I could feel complimented, buoyed, lifted up by those words.

And mostly, I think, fuuuuuck, I find that hugely uncomfortable.  Like someone’s leading you out on a ledge just to push you off.  it almost, actually, hurts.  I turned my head away which she noticed.

There’s more to say, but my assignment at first was to find someone else to go out on date with in the next month which I must have made some unholy facial expression because that got downgraded to just emailing a couple dudes which still feels like UGH, I don’t want to do that.  But she’s right.  It’s the same with my assignment to drive to work three out of five days every week.  Hate it, but I’m going to try and do it.

The group was less helpful, unfortunately.  I think I am in a different place than most of the folks who were there – probably fifteen or so of us.   Most of it was stuff I’m working on, deep breathing, what are the causes of anxiety, taking a few minutes a day to practice, just general good information and instead, I sort of found myself seeking around the room, feeling everyone’s silent, self-contained energy and pain.  I wonder if that’s going to be healthy for me.  At any rate, I did it.  Didn’t die.

Other positive things happened, but the best thing for me, right now is to just stop all of this and get writing.



I am in a waiting game with so many things in my life.

Work, we’re definitely waiting on a few things to happen, a few promises to be kept, so that we can keep a few of our own.  It’s stressful.  It’s unpleasant and I think I’m acting out, so to speak, by focusing on ways I can pacify my worries.  Essentially, I’m doing my own version of packing my head in ice.  Ice won’t last at the moment, anyway.  You’d dunk your head and find bathwater after a few minutes of this summer heat.  So instead, it’s food, it’s video games, it’s youtube self-help videos that make you feel something until you watch fifty of them in a row.

Obviously, the most expected and conventional phone I’m abeyante by has not yet rung.  Or chirped.  But I think the thing with Mr. Confusion is that I will always be confused by him and I have to say, I did an admirable job today trying not to pick at my memories and work out all of the resolutions to every possible path that might come up as a result of this single, remarkable but not flawless date.  I kept doing the Oprah trick that all of those self-help videos have embalmed me with: I surrendered it to the universe.  I don’t think the universe leaned back and thanked me for it, but the universe is going to have my confusion if it sends me such a soul as Mr. Confusion. Of course, she did that and got the thing she wanted most: her role on the Color Purple.  I, perhaps, am not surrendering it whole and entire for fear that my want would be plopped in my lap.  I suspect, though, that nothing happens because of my inherent ambivalence.  I want him in the most ideal, unobtrusive, teaspooned-out fashion.  Or I don’t want him at all and I want that not to mean than I’m shying away from some definitive and formative life experience.  I suspect that the universe has no idea where to go with that.

As for the rest, waiting for Fred soon enough.  Waiting for my sense of sensibility to return.   Waiting for the trip to Salida where I will regret all of the food choices I’ve made and my refusal to exercise and where I’ll wish fervently I gave a damn now, now in the precisely perfect damn-giving time.  Waiting for some prideful energy to rise up and say you deserve better, your health is on the line, waiting for a time when I am willing to sit with those awful feelings I have about my body and renegotiate something.  Beyond any of that, though, I am just waiting for me to clue in that I don’t get to drop back or out anymore.  I have to do real shit. All the time.  Even if I don’t like it.

Tomorrow, dentist.  Driving there, disturbing the peace of my apathy, having some new hygienist force her fingers around in there and tell me it’s bad.  That’s exciting.


The Hot Box



Feeling a bit like Blanche Dubois at the moment.  Typing away on this sweaty laptop.  M’s are being used.  I feel in a hundred thousand different little ways.  I have spent a lot of the day watching more Oprah self-help videos.  Clips of potent, rah-rah self-awareness.  I can’t get a perfect clarity, a perfect resolve, but I can get something out of it.

I refuse to second-guess what happened.  I refuse to dwell.  I refuse to live in those moments or to mischaracterize them.  They were an important three hours regardless of how anyone else spent them.  I rolled the dice and moved my piece further down the board.  I couldn’t have possibly done any better.  There are no stones been set.  There are no decisions made, no hearts broken, yet.  But they will be.  Life will happen, is happening, right now.  His purpose in this play is so secondary to this monologue I have in my throat, the song this good woman is singing, singing so hard she can’t even sit still.  Imagine me, feeling in real time, being willing, being open, feeling the outline of her heart, surviving the plating of that heart, the sipping of a macchiato over it, smiling because a smile wanted to play on my lips, no calculation taking place.  Willing to let myself imagine the good that could come of it.  Good because he calls me back, writes me back, asks me out again, thanks me for my effort and hies away.  Good because he doesn’t and the next searching soul I come across I won’t cause such a burr, because I have a precedent for bravery, because the stone will be one tumble closer to the gem.  I am so grateful that I went through with it, even for the wirrah-wirrah that is a nimbus around my head, because I know the feeling that not trying to connect offers me.  It is not a holy aloneness, more often than not.  It is a yearning, a water torture, a sad whisper you turn your head to hear and then second-guess, wonder if you made up.

I didn’t make it up.

My father, on this Father’s Day, seems the way I most remember him from childhood.  Genuine, watching a ball game, happy just for us to be there, eating hamburgers, telling us about some quail stamp he found on Ebay, a steal, naturally.   Having semi-retired, he seems less an exhausted shadow forever asleep during our visits, a Father Time whose daughter is desperate to waken him, and now he lives in his own body.  He isn’t so sold to the company that paid him that he isn’t allowed that.

Sunday night reverie and genius.  I have a wonderful father.  I have inordinate luck even to live in a house with no AC.  I am grateful to have opened up a new front on the war on perfectionism.  I have a wonderful mother.  I have wonderful sisters.  I have the taste of watermelon crossed the threshold of my lips.



The Girl Who Did Not Yet Die


Oy vey.

I would like to see if I could write a post entirely without the letter on this keyboard that is loose.  I have written about this before but it would be a sort of test to finish a post written in just this way.  And it would help this be written in haste.  If, also, create a tone that is obnoxious and bizarre, but I will not fight it.  It’s probably not going to be possible.  Ah, well, it’s some letters on the page.

But beyond that, obviously, the date.  I realize now what I need to call this feeling.  It’s vulnerability.  I feel deeply vulnerable about how it went.  Not that I feel it went well (or didn’t go well), I just feel like I tried, I pushed to express positivity, to speak what I know to be true.  I found it was quite possible to like his face.  I found a lot of things.  We stayed at the coffee shop for nearly three hours talking.  We didn’t stop talking really at all during that period.  He made me laugh, I think I either charmed him (charmed?) or was a letdown he properly and politely did not acknowledge.  We talked about Proust and Steinbeck and the Handmaid’s Tale and Neil Simon and Billy Joel and HBO and geography and songs from the eighties and writing groups and travel and the way things should be and the way things are.  We both appeared to smile a bit.  It had an awkward ending, though, one of those, ah, well, I guess I just go.  I guess we’ll email.  I tried to affirm that.  Of course we would email.  It was in the bright sunlight and I realized the sensation of owning a body once we left the table and I…was willing to do anything.  Ahem, not anything, but anything appropriate to that moment and I just sort of drifted, like there’s my car okay baiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.   Sigh.  Reliving that at the moment.

He was entirely genial, friendly, not awkward seeming if he were awkward feeling where as I am fairly sure I let my desire to seem relaxed make me seem stilted and rusty.  We talked about, in a roundabout way, how important it was to talk to people who understood you.  I used bigger words than I normally do.  I rambled and may have spoken about fucking dolphins.  I’m pretty sure I did.  But I suppose with context it would sound better, but possibly not..  I talked about how much I loved my friends.  I tried to stop talking for a bit and ask him about himself and he was able to describe himself just as you’d hope after reading his letters, with intelligence and an acerbic wit.

Did my laughs sound fake?  They weren’t.  They just are…rusty like so much of this.  Sigh.

I don’t want to beat myself up over it one way or another, but obviously this is perfect fodder to work over in my mind.  I hate to think, of course, that there are other girls he’s dated that all did something that I’m not doing.  I suppose all of this is natural, part of the giant wave of uncertainty single people go through when they decide to do something about their singleness.

I neither want to date him (except I kind of do) or not date him, but I don’t want, more than anything to have been weird in some way and not know it.  And I’ll never know if that’s the case.  So, yep.

Never Fear


Things to say in half an hour when your nails might still be wet.

So.  This sort of didn’t go as planned.  I sort of wigged out.  Sort of.  It wasn’t a fair wig-out.  But then, none of this was fair.  I tried to buy another dress and, did, eventually buy another dress, but it took a lot of walking down aisles and contemplating and thinking and then the idea of foundation garments came into the discussion and bras and I bought a dress thinking that it would work and now, having obviously not tried any of these things on,  I hate all of them.  Run-on sentence hilarity.

I was, in the midst of realizing I couldn’t make this decision, hating myself more profoundly and with greater fervor than has been the case in years.  Millenia.  Perhaps longer.  I couldn’t believe that with all of the dieting I’ve done in this time span, that my body looks like it does.  Even the rational parts of my mind were willing to join the chorus.  Everything looks awful, I felt like a makeup-less failure and all of this exists the day before this important date – meeting – coffee thing and there is nothing I can do except try to cover it up.  It just felt like this hamster wheel of anger and upset and worry started spinning full bore until finally, as I wondered whether or not to buy a forty dollar purse I thought was ugly but would match this dress I just barely tolerate, and I said, stop it.  There is nothing you can do.  You can go to this date and be nice.  Do your makeup, your hair, do the best you can and be okay.

So I gathered up this dress, this bra, this high-waisted pair of underwear, frazzled and irritated that it was already nearly nine and I had to find a way to get settled and ready for sleep and I could think of a thousand missions to be done for self-improvement.  Next to the register I spotted a book for children on display called “Do You See a Whale?”  which I thought, Jesus, okay, brain, leave me alone.  What was far worse, infinitely worse, was that the cashier knew my older sister, but didn’t know me and mistook me for her mother.


When I’m already feeling like a freak and a failure and a lunatic and an exhausted, frightened thing, that was the best fucking cap to the evening.

But here I am, in bed, nails painted, hair washed, a dress picked out that I like even if I am still in convulsions over the fact that my body will be noted, inescapably noted tomorrow and I am embarrassed and regretful and yet, I suppose I should be grateful that such a body will make any ambivalence I have about the date an entirely moot point.

Still, he wrote me.  I am now in possession of his phone number.  He is really excited about the catastrophe which is to befall him in the morning.  I spoke with my aunt and she said kind things I can’t believe.

All I am doing is staying on the road, all I am doing is understanding that the car can’t stop right here, I just have to keep going.

The Great Unknown


This is an effort to keep busy.  This is an effort to get things done in advance.  This is an effort to think clearly, if poetically, about the requirements of the next few days.

Tonight, we’ll visit the House of the Rising Sun. Setting Sun.  Neither of those are the right references.  I think I’m digging for Pearl S. Buck and coming up empty.  I’m going to my Aunt’s house where all is a bit more powerful.  I’m being thoughtful today, feeling meta, guessing at a bigger picture and feeling stronger about my place in it.  I’m wanting more.  I have to write something tonight and I’m finding it challenging.  I feel like not just five years away from the person who started this daily journaling project.  I feel a thousand years away, pulling at threads, pulling out boxes, locked up ideas, emotions I’d consigned to others.  I feel like…fucking hell,  I’ve invented a new color.  Everyone said ROY G. BIV was what we had to work with and I’ve come up with !.  And this is nothing but a weird beginning, a formless space I’m occupying while all of these alterations move me to new meridians, new coordinates on a new map.
I don’t like it or trust it, but I know that it’s right. Is this faith?  It’s a weird feeling, I don’t know if that’s its name.  Hope? I don’t trust that this is any better than mooning over someone on the internet whom I will never, even if I hoped and prayed, would be able to meet.  I don’t trust that a connection has more benefit to me than a crush, but I think I realize now that I don’t have enough evidence to compare.   I just want to go there and see.  It’s just like Florence.  It’s just like every journey I’ve ever undertaken on my own.  The wise old crone cannot compute this.  She is wildly uncomfortable with the possibilities and wants me to step behind her good sense and not risk the idea that this is going to throw the status quo out of the fucking window.   Because if it’s not this one guy, the idea’s started now and it’ll be someone else unless she has her way and I never date again.  A possibility, but so unnecessary, such a waste.
I have bought a dress online which may be too big and might have been a bad idea.  It may go back as soon as I get it.  I have no idea.  I just wanted a dress.  I wanted to feel a best foot put forward.  Because, if I had my druthers, of course, a thousand days of dieting documented here would have stuck.  A thousand haircuts and dye jobs would be settled on my head.  A thousand books would have been read, a thousand steps would have been taken towards a greater share of the perfection I hold as my personal goal.
He said thank you for not disengaging.  I felt something then, somewhere.