This morning, Monica and I were having perfectly normal gchat session about bikini waxing, when...
Elle: remember when we were in college and you were like, "I just want someone to hold hands with"?
Monica: yes
Elle: those were simpler times
Monica: yeah, now i realize thats just my way of having my cake and eating it too... i want to have my cake, but i don't want to have to have sex with it all the time... ew
Elle: lol... I had a friend I just held hands with once
Monica: was he gay? i hold hands with brian mahoney
Elle: no, I married him
Monica: aww... sounds so good on paper
Elle: now I hold hands with this other guy, and it's like... I can't marry him too
Monica: lol
Elle: so it was a flawed plan to begin with
Monica: well, i think we get confused cus the hostess cupcakes come in packs of two
Neuf and Steven are almost done watching Twin Peaks, which means we get to start watching something else soon, like Freaks & Geeks, or Weeds.
Irish bought The Purpose-Driven Life, and is going to read a chapter a day for 40 days, starting on Monday. During that time, he's not going to drink any more than one-with-a-meal sort of thing. "I can't believe I bought a self-help book," he said.
"I know, especially after I just offered you one for free the other night... What changed?"
"I don't know... I think it took you - or just a friend in general - offering me one to make me realize that maybe I have more of a problem than I thought."
Whatever. I'll take it.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
"Pain is weakness leaving the body"
Turns out, my brother Joey is having a thing with Emma - a flying-to-London-to-meet-up-with-her-as-we-speak sort of thing. Turns out everyone in our family knew about this but me, that is until Tuesday evening. So of course I flipped - the situation, while not ideal (he's into monogamy and has only ever slept with one girl; she's a social whore who thrives on infatuation until she gets bored, with a knack for manipulating guys into doing bizarre things for her - like flying to London maybe?) isn't the end of the world, but the secrets and lies? Totally are. I found out, through various IMs and texts, while half-asleep on the couch, so that I wasn't quite sure whether I'd dreamed the whole thing until Lui called me and then admitted he'd known for a while. I hung up on him, immediately called Irish (yes, in part because I knew it would piss Lui off), woke him up, tried my best to explain what had just happened (I was still half-asleep and not-quite-sure) and asked if we could go do something. He told me to meet him outside work in ten minutes.
So he returned the favor, so to speak, of all my "babysitting". He drove us to get coffee, then to the mall where we walked a lap of all three floors and looked at puppies in the pet store. We listened to Dennis Leary and Dane Cook and Chris Rock in his car so I would laugh and forget about the whole Joey-Emma ordeal, and he played more country songs for me and raved about how great they were. He also made me sing "Whiskey Lullaby" with him and was again impressed by my voice (maybe mostly by my ability to hit high notes). When I was about to leave, I gave him a hug and thanked him.
"Oh, of course," he said. "I only owe you about a billion talks by now." So he gets it too. That's good to know. And I went home feeling so, so much better.
Last night, I went out for ice cream (in the form of a breakfast burrito at Pokez) with Squeak. To sum up our conversation in two sentences: "What's up with the affair?" "What's up with the bulimia?"
Oh, also, my body is getting its revenge. I figure since I'm only getting one period a year, it thinks it gets to be 12 times worse. Yesterday and the day before were miserable (and not just because of the drama). I stole one of Lui's Vicodin tablets and have been carrying it in my wallet in a in-case-of-emergency-break-glass sort of way. But since I'm not sure what effect it'll have on me, I haven't brought myself to take it yet. Today's been better, too.
Irish asked me to hit him last night, sitting in the car after he'd brought me back from downtown. We'd been talking about how I've never punched somebody, but "it's on my list." We'd also been talking about how it was the five-month anniversary of his fiancée's death. He hadn't realized it until then, and I was holding his hand again, and he finally admitted to himself that she was actually gone. I mean, he was really amazed when he said it out loud. "I've been in denial for five months," he said. "Denial's not supposed to last that long - I read this article, on the stages..."
"It's different for everybody," I told him. "Not everyone experiences the same stages in the same order for the same length of time..." I wish he'd have taken the Grief Recovery Handbook when I'd offered it to him, but of course he'd refused, and now, instead, he was begging me to punch him in the face, to "snap him out of it."
I told him no. Repeatedly. First of all, he didn't deserve it. Secondly, I've never done it before, and I want my first time to be special, to really mean something - I'm saving myself for Piano Man, or Emma (that brother-stealing social whore), or at least some drunk guy trying to feel me up in a bar. Third, I didn't want to hurt him. But mostly, I couldn't help but think of the time Lui had asked me to slap him (I'd offered that service to Irish, as a substitute, but he said he didn't want to be "bitch-slapped") and my immediate instinct after I'd done it was to kiss it better. And I just couldn't guarantee that the same wouldn't happen this time. Already, it was kind of all I could do not to kiss the proffered cheek. Not that I would - like I've explained to those of you who've expressed concern (some on a daily basis), I could never make a first move here, because the whole situation just doesn't lend itself well to that sort of thing. Oh, and also because I'm married. Fuck.
For the record, Squeak met Irish last night. Didn't like him. Said he seems like one of those guys who stopped growing, physically and emotionally, in fifth grade. I didn't try to defend that statement, just corrected it, because - hello?! - it was seventh grade when he started dating [fiancée]. It's kind of uncomfortable, though, knowing that you're all probably reading this wondering what I see in this guy, even in the most platonic sense, and why I keep putting up with him. You're all shaking your heads thinking, "God, Elle has such horrible taste in men." Aren't you?
Great. It's just like old times, then.
So he returned the favor, so to speak, of all my "babysitting". He drove us to get coffee, then to the mall where we walked a lap of all three floors and looked at puppies in the pet store. We listened to Dennis Leary and Dane Cook and Chris Rock in his car so I would laugh and forget about the whole Joey-Emma ordeal, and he played more country songs for me and raved about how great they were. He also made me sing "Whiskey Lullaby" with him and was again impressed by my voice (maybe mostly by my ability to hit high notes). When I was about to leave, I gave him a hug and thanked him.
"Oh, of course," he said. "I only owe you about a billion talks by now." So he gets it too. That's good to know. And I went home feeling so, so much better.
Last night, I went out for ice cream (in the form of a breakfast burrito at Pokez) with Squeak. To sum up our conversation in two sentences: "What's up with the affair?" "What's up with the bulimia?"
Oh, also, my body is getting its revenge. I figure since I'm only getting one period a year, it thinks it gets to be 12 times worse. Yesterday and the day before were miserable (and not just because of the drama). I stole one of Lui's Vicodin tablets and have been carrying it in my wallet in a in-case-of-emergency-break-glass sort of way. But since I'm not sure what effect it'll have on me, I haven't brought myself to take it yet. Today's been better, too.
Irish asked me to hit him last night, sitting in the car after he'd brought me back from downtown. We'd been talking about how I've never punched somebody, but "it's on my list." We'd also been talking about how it was the five-month anniversary of his fiancée's death. He hadn't realized it until then, and I was holding his hand again, and he finally admitted to himself that she was actually gone. I mean, he was really amazed when he said it out loud. "I've been in denial for five months," he said. "Denial's not supposed to last that long - I read this article, on the stages..."
"It's different for everybody," I told him. "Not everyone experiences the same stages in the same order for the same length of time..." I wish he'd have taken the Grief Recovery Handbook when I'd offered it to him, but of course he'd refused, and now, instead, he was begging me to punch him in the face, to "snap him out of it."
I told him no. Repeatedly. First of all, he didn't deserve it. Secondly, I've never done it before, and I want my first time to be special, to really mean something - I'm saving myself for Piano Man, or Emma (that brother-stealing social whore), or at least some drunk guy trying to feel me up in a bar. Third, I didn't want to hurt him. But mostly, I couldn't help but think of the time Lui had asked me to slap him (I'd offered that service to Irish, as a substitute, but he said he didn't want to be "bitch-slapped") and my immediate instinct after I'd done it was to kiss it better. And I just couldn't guarantee that the same wouldn't happen this time. Already, it was kind of all I could do not to kiss the proffered cheek. Not that I would - like I've explained to those of you who've expressed concern (some on a daily basis), I could never make a first move here, because the whole situation just doesn't lend itself well to that sort of thing. Oh, and also because I'm married. Fuck.
For the record, Squeak met Irish last night. Didn't like him. Said he seems like one of those guys who stopped growing, physically and emotionally, in fifth grade. I didn't try to defend that statement, just corrected it, because - hello?! - it was seventh grade when he started dating [fiancée]. It's kind of uncomfortable, though, knowing that you're all probably reading this wondering what I see in this guy, even in the most platonic sense, and why I keep putting up with him. You're all shaking your heads thinking, "God, Elle has such horrible taste in men." Aren't you?
Great. It's just like old times, then.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Pregnancy test!
So hypothetically... If I were having sex with my husband, and then got up to go pee after (because you know, I'm a smart girl and do my best to avoid UTIs) and discovered that my period had just started... for the first time in almost 11 months...
Chances of my just having been impregnated?
Chances of my just having been impregnated?
Grocery clerk by day...
Margot, C-List, & I have been shooting an email back and forth comparing lives. My succinct update: "I'm working at Trader Joe's. And now have a full-time job babysitting a grieving, alcoholic 21-year-old, apparently..."
I may have made the mistake of reverse-drunk-dialing Irish after getting an email saying he'd left my number at home. He'd already played the Century Club, then started shooting tequila, then gone back to beer, and, he told me proudly, had "already puked six times." I won't give you the details - last I heard from him was an email at 7:30 saying they were about to start another Power Hour (60 shots of beer in 60 minutes), and as far as I know, he's still drinking.
While we were on the phone, though, he asked me if Lui knew I was talking to him. "Lui's not here, he's out picking up something for dinner," I explained. And then when he expressed concern that Lui would come home and be upset, "Don't worry, I'm watching out the window for his car."
Irish laughed. "Elle, we have to stop doing this!"
"This? There is no this!"
He agreed, vowing to have a man-to-man chat with Lui, some other time, when he was sober.
But now that I'm thinking about it, I can't help but wonder: is there a this? I mean, I'm pretty invested. And like I said, it feels like a full-time gig. He's giving me explanations and excuses, apologies and promises, like I'm someone he has to answer to. And I understand he might feel like nobody else cares or worries about him, but how much can I really do here? My cousin/voice of reason, Lev, just told me I seem kinda depressed. And... maybe. It's a lot to handle. I can only imagine how he must feel. And then we're back at square one, where I just want to help him, because... poor kid.
And besides, it is sort of gratifying, to feel needed.
I may have made the mistake of reverse-drunk-dialing Irish after getting an email saying he'd left my number at home. He'd already played the Century Club, then started shooting tequila, then gone back to beer, and, he told me proudly, had "already puked six times." I won't give you the details - last I heard from him was an email at 7:30 saying they were about to start another Power Hour (60 shots of beer in 60 minutes), and as far as I know, he's still drinking.
While we were on the phone, though, he asked me if Lui knew I was talking to him. "Lui's not here, he's out picking up something for dinner," I explained. And then when he expressed concern that Lui would come home and be upset, "Don't worry, I'm watching out the window for his car."
Irish laughed. "Elle, we have to stop doing this!"
"This? There is no this!"
He agreed, vowing to have a man-to-man chat with Lui, some other time, when he was sober.
But now that I'm thinking about it, I can't help but wonder: is there a this? I mean, I'm pretty invested. And like I said, it feels like a full-time gig. He's giving me explanations and excuses, apologies and promises, like I'm someone he has to answer to. And I understand he might feel like nobody else cares or worries about him, but how much can I really do here? My cousin/voice of reason, Lev, just told me I seem kinda depressed. And... maybe. It's a lot to handle. I can only imagine how he must feel. And then we're back at square one, where I just want to help him, because... poor kid.
And besides, it is sort of gratifying, to feel needed.
Maybe I need to keep more uplifting company?
I dreamed last night that my dad had died, and that my mom killed herself because she couldn't live without him. They left these medals hanging from the branches of a tree, which was covered in similar hangings - it was in lieu of a graveyard, I guess, sort of like last words from the dead, and my mom's said exactly that: "I can't live without him."
[I've been learning the female part of "Whiskey Lullaby," by Alison Krauss and Brad Paisley, because Irish was so disappointed that I couldn't sing it with him in his car the other night, and, thanks to my dad's obsession, I happen to have access to an Alison Krauss CD. So this may have something to do with that .]
Looking at the two medals (I can't remember what my dad's said), I started to cry, even though I already knew they were both gone - it'd been a while. And just as I was sobbing, loudly, "Neither of my parents lived long enough to see me do anything successful!", my alarm went off.
I wondered, briefly if it was a sign that I should start making more of an effort to do something with my life. Then I got up and went to work at the grocery store.
[I've been learning the female part of "Whiskey Lullaby," by Alison Krauss and Brad Paisley, because Irish was so disappointed that I couldn't sing it with him in his car the other night, and, thanks to my dad's obsession, I happen to have access to an Alison Krauss CD. So this may have something to do with that .]
Looking at the two medals (I can't remember what my dad's said), I started to cry, even though I already knew they were both gone - it'd been a while. And just as I was sobbing, loudly, "Neither of my parents lived long enough to see me do anything successful!", my alarm went off.
I wondered, briefly if it was a sign that I should start making more of an effort to do something with my life. Then I got up and went to work at the grocery store.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
WTF?
Now I'm getting drunk-dials? Now this I'm sure I didn't sign up for.
"Ok, I'll make you a promise - because you seem to actually care a little, because I can actually detect a note of concern in your voice - that I will not drink anymore tonight, and go to bed right now." (It took two phone calls and a total of about 20 minutes to get to that point from the original, "I'm so drunk - where are you? - I don't think I can drive that far - I wanna go out and drink more - you should come with me.")
Lui is pissed, demanding an Irish-free night, and saying wonderful, caring things like, "I don't care what he's been through, and I know he's been through a lot, but his problems don't need to become my problems."
Oh, I can see the headline now: Elle-Même saves Irish from himself, ruins her marriage
"Ok, I'll make you a promise - because you seem to actually care a little, because I can actually detect a note of concern in your voice - that I will not drink anymore tonight, and go to bed right now." (It took two phone calls and a total of about 20 minutes to get to that point from the original, "I'm so drunk - where are you? - I don't think I can drive that far - I wanna go out and drink more - you should come with me.")
Lui is pissed, demanding an Irish-free night, and saying wonderful, caring things like, "I don't care what he's been through, and I know he's been through a lot, but his problems don't need to become my problems."
Oh, I can see the headline now: Elle-Même saves Irish from himself, ruins her marriage
Friday, September 21, 2007
But wait!
I swear there's a good explanation for why, when Lui called me at 3:00 this morning, panicked because he'd woken up to sirens and I wasn't in the bed next to him, I was actually sitting in a car just outside our apartment, holding hands with another man.
It was meant to be a group outing - the trip over to TGI Friday's to get a drink after work - and Lui had been invited too, except that he was concerned about his own early start time this morning, and was thinking of going out with some of his own colleagues instead. So of course, it ended up just being me and Irish, and we vowed to make an alibi of a couple of the other guys, have them say they'd come out with us too (I mean, it wasn't a total lie - they'd been invited, and they'd wanted to go, they just couldn't for whatever reasons).
"You know that's gonna make it even worse, though," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, they're gonna give me so much shit for having to cover for us. People already come up to me all the time and ask what's going on."
"Really? No one says anything to me..."
"That's because you're the girl. But I can't tell you how many times I've heard, 'So... You and the new girl?' Or like when Kali pulled me aside and warned me, 'Careful, you know she's married.' Or how Danny and Kaine keep coming up to me and saying, 'So, you hit that yet?'"
I beamed, devilishly pleased to be thought of as something to be hit. Yep, quarter-century and she's still got it. "So what do you tell them?"
"What do you think I tell them? First of all, I'm not ready to date yet, at all. And even so, I mean, you're married. I tell them that we're friends, that you're easy to talk to, and that's it. I asked Kali [also married], 'So what is it when you and I go out to dinner, just the two of us?' That shut her up."
...
Two drinks in, I had enough balls (stupidity?) to joke with him that some of his stories are too good to be true, and how do I know he isn't just fabricating his whole life?
"I wish I was," he said sadly, then added, "But if somebody were to make up a life, with everything I've been through, that's just fucking sick and twisted."
"Well - don't be offended if I ever play the 'prove it' card - like, in a worst-case scenario, 'prove your family really lives in Ireland; prove [fiancée] really existed and that she really died' - that sort of thing."
"No, I won't be. You're just being guarded. I get it."
And I was satisfied on that topic.
...
We pretty much closed the restaurant - not quite, we left around last call - and after trying to prove that his car could get up to 80 on a quarter-mile hill leading away from the store ("There are certain things about you that remind me of [fiancée], like how we can just sit for hours and talk about nothing, or how she was the only girl that liked my reckless driving - all the other girls who've been in the car with me think they're gonna die..."), we sat in his car out front of my apartment, debating whether I'd be ok walking up the stairs on my own, or whether he should brave the cold, Autumn Equinox air and walk me up.
And then somehow the conversation turned, and we were talking again about his life, his past, his world being turned upside-down. "I probably won't sleep tonight," he said. "I'm just gonna go home and stare at the ceiling - I do that a lot."
"You should paint something on the ceiling, so you'd have something to look at," I offered.
"I like it white though. Because then... it's blank... it's nothing... it's... me." It seemed a little contrived, or maybe a little too perfect. He went on. "If you don't think, you can't feel; if you can't feel, you can't feel pain."
I think that was the point when I reached out for his hand, and in an incredibly smooth move, hit the armrest between our two seats and made a loud noise, disrupting the moment just enough to make him look and make me feel stupid. I grabbed his hand anyway. He didn't hold mine back, just kept staring straight ahead, telling me how God had totally deserted him, how he didn't know what happens next. So I didn't let go. Then he gave me a couple anecdotes: the time he parked his car at Torrey Pines Beach as the marine layer was coming in, paddled out on his surfboard until he was exhausted, and then fell asleep, only to wake up on the beach about 20 miles south in Point Loma, having been pulled in instead of out as he'd planned; the time he drank a handle each of Jack & Jim before bed, but still woke up the next morning. ("Damn Irish blood," he joked.)
"See? You haven't been completely deserted," I offered.
"Yes I have!" he shot back emphatically. Then, "Or I had, up until about three weeks ago."
It took a second to register, and then I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time, that wash of cold blood inside you when you realize you're sharing a moment. I squeezed his hand a little tighter, but didn't say a word - I was at such a loss.
At some point, Irish turned his hand over and started holding mine back, and the blood was just starting to drain from my fingertips from all the active listening, when we heard the sirens go by. We started joking about how Lui had sent the cops out looking for... one or the other or both of us, really. "Mr. Même, we found your wife," I said sarcastically, and that's when the phone rang.
I fumbled one-handedly with my new flip phone before finally letting go of Irish's hand. Made my excuses to Lui - I'd just gotten back, I told him, we'd closed the bar and then talked in the parking lot for a while, I'd be right up - and then gave Irish an awkward, inside-the-car hug. "Take care of you," I said against his cheek. (I don't know why I keep using that line, but thanks to Monica, I finally know what movie I stole it from (Pretty Woman). I guess it just sounds less formal and threatening than the grammatically correct, "Take care of yourself.")
"I will," he said against mine.
It was meant to be a group outing - the trip over to TGI Friday's to get a drink after work - and Lui had been invited too, except that he was concerned about his own early start time this morning, and was thinking of going out with some of his own colleagues instead. So of course, it ended up just being me and Irish, and we vowed to make an alibi of a couple of the other guys, have them say they'd come out with us too (I mean, it wasn't a total lie - they'd been invited, and they'd wanted to go, they just couldn't for whatever reasons).
"You know that's gonna make it even worse, though," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, they're gonna give me so much shit for having to cover for us. People already come up to me all the time and ask what's going on."
"Really? No one says anything to me..."
"That's because you're the girl. But I can't tell you how many times I've heard, 'So... You and the new girl?' Or like when Kali pulled me aside and warned me, 'Careful, you know she's married.' Or how Danny and Kaine keep coming up to me and saying, 'So, you hit that yet?'"
I beamed, devilishly pleased to be thought of as something to be hit. Yep, quarter-century and she's still got it. "So what do you tell them?"
"What do you think I tell them? First of all, I'm not ready to date yet, at all. And even so, I mean, you're married. I tell them that we're friends, that you're easy to talk to, and that's it. I asked Kali [also married], 'So what is it when you and I go out to dinner, just the two of us?' That shut her up."
...
Two drinks in, I had enough balls (stupidity?) to joke with him that some of his stories are too good to be true, and how do I know he isn't just fabricating his whole life?
"I wish I was," he said sadly, then added, "But if somebody were to make up a life, with everything I've been through, that's just fucking sick and twisted."
"Well - don't be offended if I ever play the 'prove it' card - like, in a worst-case scenario, 'prove your family really lives in Ireland; prove [fiancée] really existed and that she really died' - that sort of thing."
"No, I won't be. You're just being guarded. I get it."
And I was satisfied on that topic.
...
We pretty much closed the restaurant - not quite, we left around last call - and after trying to prove that his car could get up to 80 on a quarter-mile hill leading away from the store ("There are certain things about you that remind me of [fiancée], like how we can just sit for hours and talk about nothing, or how she was the only girl that liked my reckless driving - all the other girls who've been in the car with me think they're gonna die..."), we sat in his car out front of my apartment, debating whether I'd be ok walking up the stairs on my own, or whether he should brave the cold, Autumn Equinox air and walk me up.
And then somehow the conversation turned, and we were talking again about his life, his past, his world being turned upside-down. "I probably won't sleep tonight," he said. "I'm just gonna go home and stare at the ceiling - I do that a lot."
"You should paint something on the ceiling, so you'd have something to look at," I offered.
"I like it white though. Because then... it's blank... it's nothing... it's... me." It seemed a little contrived, or maybe a little too perfect. He went on. "If you don't think, you can't feel; if you can't feel, you can't feel pain."
I think that was the point when I reached out for his hand, and in an incredibly smooth move, hit the armrest between our two seats and made a loud noise, disrupting the moment just enough to make him look and make me feel stupid. I grabbed his hand anyway. He didn't hold mine back, just kept staring straight ahead, telling me how God had totally deserted him, how he didn't know what happens next. So I didn't let go. Then he gave me a couple anecdotes: the time he parked his car at Torrey Pines Beach as the marine layer was coming in, paddled out on his surfboard until he was exhausted, and then fell asleep, only to wake up on the beach about 20 miles south in Point Loma, having been pulled in instead of out as he'd planned; the time he drank a handle each of Jack & Jim before bed, but still woke up the next morning. ("Damn Irish blood," he joked.)
"See? You haven't been completely deserted," I offered.
"Yes I have!" he shot back emphatically. Then, "Or I had, up until about three weeks ago."
It took a second to register, and then I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time, that wash of cold blood inside you when you realize you're sharing a moment. I squeezed his hand a little tighter, but didn't say a word - I was at such a loss.
At some point, Irish turned his hand over and started holding mine back, and the blood was just starting to drain from my fingertips from all the active listening, when we heard the sirens go by. We started joking about how Lui had sent the cops out looking for... one or the other or both of us, really. "Mr. Même, we found your wife," I said sarcastically, and that's when the phone rang.
I fumbled one-handedly with my new flip phone before finally letting go of Irish's hand. Made my excuses to Lui - I'd just gotten back, I told him, we'd closed the bar and then talked in the parking lot for a while, I'd be right up - and then gave Irish an awkward, inside-the-car hug. "Take care of you," I said against his cheek. (I don't know why I keep using that line, but thanks to Monica, I finally know what movie I stole it from (Pretty Woman). I guess it just sounds less formal and threatening than the grammatically correct, "Take care of yourself.")
"I will," he said against mine.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Ever get the feeling you're watching someone else's life, when really it's your own?
We got our wedding photos back. To be honest, I'm a little disappointed. There are some where I feel like I don't look good, some that are in black-and-white that I think would've looked better in color (and probably vice-versa), and some that I know were taken that are flat-out missing (like the one of me & Suzy pretending to be golfers, something that may not have made sense to the photographer, but that really means something to us). Of course, I've only looked at them once, quickly, with Lui and my brother Joey, and should really look again and start focusing on the good ones, the 50 "chosen ones" that will go into the real album. But still. I expected miracles.
I had a brief moment on Tuesday, where I decided that Irish's girlfriend is not dead at all, that the girl he showed me pictures of is actually living with Irish's crazy-non-roommate, just a few blocks from here. Since then I've decided that I can't be kept up at night wondering whether myspace reflects life or life reflects myspace, and that to question the sanity of my only friend at work would be tantamount to self-sabotage (thanks, Mon). Besides, I've done this before - gone all Nancy Drew, made assumptions, made accusations, and then been proven totally wrong. And besides, if he really was fabricating his entire life (and not just to me either), he'd have to be stupid to keep hanging out with me, for fear that I'd figure it out eventually. So obviously there's just something I'm missing here.
At work yesterday, I'd mentioned to Irish that Lui was going down to the pool hall again, and that I'd be left at home to look at myspace all night (which I'm pretty sure qualifies as self-destructive behavior).
"You can come play volleyball with me," he offered.
"Yeah right, I haven't played volleyball since middle school, and I'm pretty sure I sucked."
"Well, you can come watch, if you want. I mean, it might be a little boring, but you'll get to see my really competitive side."
"Isn't that what I saw when we went bowling?"
"No, ten times worse."
So then it occurred to me that if I was going to skip the gym to go watch some guy play some sport, maybe I should tag along to Lui's pool match instead. Because as my cousin/voice of reason put it, "going to watch some guy play volleyball just screams girlfriend." I asked Lui, and he told me that actually, last night wouldn't be a very good match for me to go to, and that I could go with Irish if I wanted, and that we'd take a raincheck on the pool hall. So I did.
I can't say it was super-entertaining (basically just a pick-up game of people that knew how to play - maybe more exciting than pool), but it was nice to be out doing something different. And Irish was showing by far the most bravissimo of anyone on the court, cussing and punching the ground when he missed a shot, once even throwing his hat across the room into a trashcan, so that was kind of, well, funny.
On the way home after asking, "Do you trust me?" and then proceeding to take the S-curved on ramp at 65mph ("Usually I go like 80"), he gave me a tour of his music - mostly country - and kept admonishing the fact that I didn't know the words to the songs. "I wanna find one you'll sing along to!" he pouted, still not satisfied after I'd known the chorus to "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" (presumably because that's more shouting than singing anyway). Then he found Carrie Underwood.
"Okay, you wanna hear me sing?" I asked. "Let's go." And I sang the whole song - every word, every note, pretty much just as she does (except, as I explained to him during a musical break, I lack her breath control) - I should know it well enough, I've listened to it on repeat enough since Sunshine burned me the CD over a year ago.
"Damn, where'd you learn how to sing?!" he asked, impressed, midway through the song.
I was so fucking pleased.
I had a brief moment on Tuesday, where I decided that Irish's girlfriend is not dead at all, that the girl he showed me pictures of is actually living with Irish's crazy-non-roommate, just a few blocks from here. Since then I've decided that I can't be kept up at night wondering whether myspace reflects life or life reflects myspace, and that to question the sanity of my only friend at work would be tantamount to self-sabotage (thanks, Mon). Besides, I've done this before - gone all Nancy Drew, made assumptions, made accusations, and then been proven totally wrong. And besides, if he really was fabricating his entire life (and not just to me either), he'd have to be stupid to keep hanging out with me, for fear that I'd figure it out eventually. So obviously there's just something I'm missing here.
At work yesterday, I'd mentioned to Irish that Lui was going down to the pool hall again, and that I'd be left at home to look at myspace all night (which I'm pretty sure qualifies as self-destructive behavior).
"You can come play volleyball with me," he offered.
"Yeah right, I haven't played volleyball since middle school, and I'm pretty sure I sucked."
"Well, you can come watch, if you want. I mean, it might be a little boring, but you'll get to see my really competitive side."
"Isn't that what I saw when we went bowling?"
"No, ten times worse."
So then it occurred to me that if I was going to skip the gym to go watch some guy play some sport, maybe I should tag along to Lui's pool match instead. Because as my cousin/voice of reason put it, "going to watch some guy play volleyball just screams girlfriend." I asked Lui, and he told me that actually, last night wouldn't be a very good match for me to go to, and that I could go with Irish if I wanted, and that we'd take a raincheck on the pool hall. So I did.
I can't say it was super-entertaining (basically just a pick-up game of people that knew how to play - maybe more exciting than pool), but it was nice to be out doing something different. And Irish was showing by far the most bravissimo of anyone on the court, cussing and punching the ground when he missed a shot, once even throwing his hat across the room into a trashcan, so that was kind of, well, funny.
On the way home after asking, "Do you trust me?" and then proceeding to take the S-curved on ramp at 65mph ("Usually I go like 80"), he gave me a tour of his music - mostly country - and kept admonishing the fact that I didn't know the words to the songs. "I wanna find one you'll sing along to!" he pouted, still not satisfied after I'd known the chorus to "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" (presumably because that's more shouting than singing anyway). Then he found Carrie Underwood.
"Okay, you wanna hear me sing?" I asked. "Let's go." And I sang the whole song - every word, every note, pretty much just as she does (except, as I explained to him during a musical break, I lack her breath control) - I should know it well enough, I've listened to it on repeat enough since Sunshine burned me the CD over a year ago.
"Damn, where'd you learn how to sing?!" he asked, impressed, midway through the song.
I was so fucking pleased.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Changing the world, one shot of beer at a time
Lui started work this morning, and so decided that Saturday night was his last night of freedom, and that he wanted to celebrate it by joining the Century Club. Since it was last-minute, we ended up with a small gathering: Lui, my brother Joey, Joey's friend Keri, Keri's mom (yes, she's one of those moms who got divorced and decided to reclaim her lost youth), Irish, and me. And only four of the six were playing, and it was pathetic: Keri got to 20 then gave up, Lui got to 28 then puked, Keri's mom got to 33 then gave up, and Joey got to 50 then puked. Thus we can conclude that women are smarter than men.
In the meantime, Irish and I drank our own beverages at our own pace, and sat on the floor, the barstools, the couch, talking, mostly about his ex. (Is "ex" the right term if she died? It seems so negative...) He told me how he's spent the last six months in a grief-and-alcohol-induced haze (I feel like he's got a bunch in common with Sunshine's dad in that respect), how he always has a bottle in his car, how he filled one of his punching bags with gravel and broken concrete and hits it till he bleeds, how he won't go to grief counseling because that would be to show weakness, how he'll never get over her...
"Do you usually talk to people?" I asked him.
"No, never. But for some reason, it's different with you."
So I believe very strongly that everything in life has a meaning - everyone you meet, every decision you make, is all going to play out to some greater purpose. It's why when I first met Irish, my reaction was, "So this is the guy I'm going to cheat on my husband with..." I was pretty far off with that one, but I do believe that I started working at the store, that Irish asked me to come out that first night, that I asked him out last week, all for this reason of being able to help him. That I was sent to him for that - I know how frickin' weird that sounds.
He started showing me her old myspace profile, showing me the pictures, repeating, "That's her... That's my girl... That's her..." It may have been one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life. I put my arms around him while he stared at the screen, and held on tight for a minute before offering to show him my own ridiculous myspace pictures to take his mind off it.
When everyone finally left at like 4 a.m. (I had work at 10; yesterday was pretty miserable because of it), I walked him out onto the porch. And as soon as the door was closed, we sort of fell into a hug.
"I'll try to drink less," he said into my ear. I hadn't asked.
"You know if you ever need anything, I'm here," I offered back.
"I know. Thank you."
Today at work, one of the guys asked us if we'd been friends before I started at the store. To be honest, I'm a little overwhelmed. But in a really good way, because I really think I can make a difference.
In the meantime, Irish and I drank our own beverages at our own pace, and sat on the floor, the barstools, the couch, talking, mostly about his ex. (Is "ex" the right term if she died? It seems so negative...) He told me how he's spent the last six months in a grief-and-alcohol-induced haze (I feel like he's got a bunch in common with Sunshine's dad in that respect), how he always has a bottle in his car, how he filled one of his punching bags with gravel and broken concrete and hits it till he bleeds, how he won't go to grief counseling because that would be to show weakness, how he'll never get over her...
"Do you usually talk to people?" I asked him.
"No, never. But for some reason, it's different with you."
So I believe very strongly that everything in life has a meaning - everyone you meet, every decision you make, is all going to play out to some greater purpose. It's why when I first met Irish, my reaction was, "So this is the guy I'm going to cheat on my husband with..." I was pretty far off with that one, but I do believe that I started working at the store, that Irish asked me to come out that first night, that I asked him out last week, all for this reason of being able to help him. That I was sent to him for that - I know how frickin' weird that sounds.
He started showing me her old myspace profile, showing me the pictures, repeating, "That's her... That's my girl... That's her..." It may have been one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life. I put my arms around him while he stared at the screen, and held on tight for a minute before offering to show him my own ridiculous myspace pictures to take his mind off it.
When everyone finally left at like 4 a.m. (I had work at 10; yesterday was pretty miserable because of it), I walked him out onto the porch. And as soon as the door was closed, we sort of fell into a hug.
"I'll try to drink less," he said into my ear. I hadn't asked.
"You know if you ever need anything, I'm here," I offered back.
"I know. Thank you."
Today at work, one of the guys asked us if we'd been friends before I started at the store. To be honest, I'm a little overwhelmed. But in a really good way, because I really think I can make a difference.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Side plot
So the promised story about Irish and his friend/roommate. Basically, he's been friends with this girl for a long time - since like high school - they coach volleyball together, and seem to spend a lot of time together. So Tuesday night, he started telling me about how she has a thing for him (as though this wasn't obvious from her flipping out that he was going out for dinner with a girl who wasn't her, in the manner of a jealous girlfriend).
After we parted ways that night, he walked over to her apartment, intending to sleep on the couch as he usually does when he can't drive home, only to find that one of her roommates' friends was already there. So he gets in the bed with his friend. She rolls over and puts her head on his shoulder. He looks down, confused. She kisses him. And because he's drunk off his ass, he lets her. Apparently it wasn't until the next morning when he got up to go back to work that he realized how awkward the whole thing was.
She, however, didn't realize how awkward it was at all. She even planned a menu of dinners for them for the week (remember, she's moving into his house and spends a lot of time there already).
The whole story sort of made me feel sick - and please let me know if this is just because, in a parallel universe, it would be possible for me to have designs on this guy myself, or if it really is that creepy. But I mean...
"If I were you," I told him, "I would never quite be able to shake the thought that maybe she was secretly happy when [fiancée] died, thinking now she could have you to herself."
"Actually, I do worry about that," he said.
He's since told her that he's not ready to have a female roommate yet - his excuse being that he spent the past three years living with a girl, and just wants to have a bachelor pad for a while - and that he's thinking about starting to date casually, but definitely won't be looking for a serious relationship for a while. (When pressed, he admitted the translation of the latter was, "I just don't want to date you.)
I had a dream that I met this girl, and that the first thing she said to me was to ask if I was planning on pursuing him. "No," I'd told her. "I'm married."
"Oh good. Because I am like totally in love with him."
Creepy creepy creepy. I hope I never meet her for a long time.
After we parted ways that night, he walked over to her apartment, intending to sleep on the couch as he usually does when he can't drive home, only to find that one of her roommates' friends was already there. So he gets in the bed with his friend. She rolls over and puts her head on his shoulder. He looks down, confused. She kisses him. And because he's drunk off his ass, he lets her. Apparently it wasn't until the next morning when he got up to go back to work that he realized how awkward the whole thing was.
She, however, didn't realize how awkward it was at all. She even planned a menu of dinners for them for the week (remember, she's moving into his house and spends a lot of time there already).
The whole story sort of made me feel sick - and please let me know if this is just because, in a parallel universe, it would be possible for me to have designs on this guy myself, or if it really is that creepy. But I mean...
"If I were you," I told him, "I would never quite be able to shake the thought that maybe she was secretly happy when [fiancée] died, thinking now she could have you to herself."
"Actually, I do worry about that," he said.
He's since told her that he's not ready to have a female roommate yet - his excuse being that he spent the past three years living with a girl, and just wants to have a bachelor pad for a while - and that he's thinking about starting to date casually, but definitely won't be looking for a serious relationship for a while. (When pressed, he admitted the translation of the latter was, "I just don't want to date you.)
I had a dream that I met this girl, and that the first thing she said to me was to ask if I was planning on pursuing him. "No," I'd told her. "I'm married."
"Oh good. Because I am like totally in love with him."
Creepy creepy creepy. I hope I never meet her for a long time.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Plotline
Setting
I was so proud of myself when, while stocking wine on Tuesday, I turned to Irish and said, "Being around all this alcohol is really making me want to go out drinking - wanna go out drinking after work?"
"My shift ends way before yours..."
"So? My shift ends way before stuff closes."
"I guess I could swing back by at 6:30..."
I finished my shift, figuring I'd give him until about 6:40 before I gave up and went home. So I didn't bother telling Lui about the possibility of my getting a drink after work, because I figured it was unlikely. But about 10 minutes before the end of my shift, I saw Irish up front talking to someone at the desk. It was the first time I'd seen him in his own clothes, and God bless him, the boy cannot dress: Chargers jersey, backwards cap, baggy shorts - straight out of Clueless, which, given my last post, seems appropriate.
To stay within walking distance of my apartment, our choices were TGI Friday's and Chevy's, so we opted for Chevy's which I maintain has slightly better food and much better drinks. I texted Lui to tell him I was going out and that we'd postpone the meal I'd gotten the night before - a meal which had already been postponed because he'd gotten drafted into a pool league and stayed late to play at the last minute on Monday.
Conflict
When Lui called me right back, I knew I was in trouble. I told him I was just going out with Irish - who he knew and liked and trusted, right? - and that he could come meet us if he wanted. I also told him that I figured it would be ok since he'd kinda bailed on me the night before. He didn't want to join us. Irish relayed an anecdote wherein his friend/future roommate freaked out when she heard he was going out one-on-one with a girl - but oh, there will be more on that pretty little situation later.
We ate, we talked, we joked around, we had a good time. We drank too much, including double-shots of Tuaca that Irish insisted on buying, joking with the waiter about how he was "trying to get the girl drunk". He ended up more drunk than I was, how, I don't know, and we walked back to my place, giggling, with me physically helping him stay on the sidewalk when cars came by - because he was enough of a gentleman to walk on the outside, but I was more worried about him falling into traffic than I would've been about myself. We got back to my apartment and sat down with Lui to watch the end of a CSI episode. I got us each a glass of water. After the show ended, I walked Irish to the end of the complex, so that he could find his way to his future roommate's current apartment down the street. Then he insisted on walking me back to my door so I'd be safe. Just as we'd turned around, Lui drove up in my car and made me get in so we could go pick up his car from the lot at work (apparently he really had no idea how drunk I was).
Climax
So I drove my car home, drunk, and burst into the apartment yelling about how I'm not allowed to have any friends. Lui followed me into the bathroom while I showered, and we fought through the curtain. We continued fighting after I got out, sitting on the bed yelling at each other, despite the fact that Neuf and Steven were in the next room. Words were thrown around - mostly by me - things like "unhappy" and "used to love you more than I do now" and "only got married because we were too far in it already to get out" and "don't ever make me choose between you & Monica because I'd choose her every time." I don't even remember the context of, or need for, some of these words; I just know that I said them because he, heartbroken, repeated them to me the next morning.
Resolution*
The next morning, Lui and I exchanged hugs and apologies, and I went to BodyPump with a hangover. Stopped by work on the way back to a) get a protein shake, and b) ensure I wouldn't have enough time at home to continue the conversation before I had to leave for work. Once on shift, Irish and I talked across our facing registers: "So on a scale of 1-10, how bad was it last night?" he asked me. I thought about it for a minute. "Ten being divorce papers? Eight-point-five." Probably an exaggeration, or maybe just diluted with retrospect. A few of my customers sympathized with me - one woman, one man - reassuring me that the first year of marriage is the hardest, and that trust is key - the woman even offered that coming from a family of strong women made it all the worse for her husband trying to tie her down, and I agreed wholeheartedly. After Irish's shift ended, he came with me while I took a 10 (which turned into a 20, but nobody noticed), and we gave each other a play-by-play of the disasters our nights had become. (Again, stay tuned for his story.) He suggested that we all go bowling the next night, a supposed group outing - even if it turned out to be just the three of us - to show Lui that he is invited to things, that Irish is not a threat, that we really all can get along - a ploy to give me more leeway when Irish & I want to go out after work in the future. I told him I'd try to get through the rest of my shift, with my lack of sleep and excess of emotion, without crying too much, and he told me not to cry at all (and if he could say that, well...). And best of all, I noticed that when we're one-on-one, talking, things are a lot less flirty and a lot more adult, and that he's turning out to be a really good friend, one that I probably need, or vice versa: I believe that everything happens for a reason, and that somehow this will all play out, as obvious as the sky is blue.
I got home that night and everything was fine. Lui, still a little shaken up from the aforementioned words, didn't harp on the issue nearly as much as he's been wont to do in the past. And I apologized, and hugged him, and told him of course I love him best, and we watched Chasing Liberty with Neuf and Martin.
And the bowling plan? Totally worked.
*I know there's a fancy French term for this, but as I can't think how to spell it, pride is keeping me from using it at all.
I was so proud of myself when, while stocking wine on Tuesday, I turned to Irish and said, "Being around all this alcohol is really making me want to go out drinking - wanna go out drinking after work?"
"My shift ends way before yours..."
"So? My shift ends way before stuff closes."
"I guess I could swing back by at 6:30..."
I finished my shift, figuring I'd give him until about 6:40 before I gave up and went home. So I didn't bother telling Lui about the possibility of my getting a drink after work, because I figured it was unlikely. But about 10 minutes before the end of my shift, I saw Irish up front talking to someone at the desk. It was the first time I'd seen him in his own clothes, and God bless him, the boy cannot dress: Chargers jersey, backwards cap, baggy shorts - straight out of Clueless, which, given my last post, seems appropriate.
To stay within walking distance of my apartment, our choices were TGI Friday's and Chevy's, so we opted for Chevy's which I maintain has slightly better food and much better drinks. I texted Lui to tell him I was going out and that we'd postpone the meal I'd gotten the night before - a meal which had already been postponed because he'd gotten drafted into a pool league and stayed late to play at the last minute on Monday.
Conflict
When Lui called me right back, I knew I was in trouble. I told him I was just going out with Irish - who he knew and liked and trusted, right? - and that he could come meet us if he wanted. I also told him that I figured it would be ok since he'd kinda bailed on me the night before. He didn't want to join us. Irish relayed an anecdote wherein his friend/future roommate freaked out when she heard he was going out one-on-one with a girl - but oh, there will be more on that pretty little situation later.
We ate, we talked, we joked around, we had a good time. We drank too much, including double-shots of Tuaca that Irish insisted on buying, joking with the waiter about how he was "trying to get the girl drunk". He ended up more drunk than I was, how, I don't know, and we walked back to my place, giggling, with me physically helping him stay on the sidewalk when cars came by - because he was enough of a gentleman to walk on the outside, but I was more worried about him falling into traffic than I would've been about myself. We got back to my apartment and sat down with Lui to watch the end of a CSI episode. I got us each a glass of water. After the show ended, I walked Irish to the end of the complex, so that he could find his way to his future roommate's current apartment down the street. Then he insisted on walking me back to my door so I'd be safe. Just as we'd turned around, Lui drove up in my car and made me get in so we could go pick up his car from the lot at work (apparently he really had no idea how drunk I was).
Climax
So I drove my car home, drunk, and burst into the apartment yelling about how I'm not allowed to have any friends. Lui followed me into the bathroom while I showered, and we fought through the curtain. We continued fighting after I got out, sitting on the bed yelling at each other, despite the fact that Neuf and Steven were in the next room. Words were thrown around - mostly by me - things like "unhappy" and "used to love you more than I do now" and "only got married because we were too far in it already to get out" and "don't ever make me choose between you & Monica because I'd choose her every time." I don't even remember the context of, or need for, some of these words; I just know that I said them because he, heartbroken, repeated them to me the next morning.
Resolution*
The next morning, Lui and I exchanged hugs and apologies, and I went to BodyPump with a hangover. Stopped by work on the way back to a) get a protein shake, and b) ensure I wouldn't have enough time at home to continue the conversation before I had to leave for work. Once on shift, Irish and I talked across our facing registers: "So on a scale of 1-10, how bad was it last night?" he asked me. I thought about it for a minute. "Ten being divorce papers? Eight-point-five." Probably an exaggeration, or maybe just diluted with retrospect. A few of my customers sympathized with me - one woman, one man - reassuring me that the first year of marriage is the hardest, and that trust is key - the woman even offered that coming from a family of strong women made it all the worse for her husband trying to tie her down, and I agreed wholeheartedly. After Irish's shift ended, he came with me while I took a 10 (which turned into a 20, but nobody noticed), and we gave each other a play-by-play of the disasters our nights had become. (Again, stay tuned for his story.) He suggested that we all go bowling the next night, a supposed group outing - even if it turned out to be just the three of us - to show Lui that he is invited to things, that Irish is not a threat, that we really all can get along - a ploy to give me more leeway when Irish & I want to go out after work in the future. I told him I'd try to get through the rest of my shift, with my lack of sleep and excess of emotion, without crying too much, and he told me not to cry at all (and if he could say that, well...). And best of all, I noticed that when we're one-on-one, talking, things are a lot less flirty and a lot more adult, and that he's turning out to be a really good friend, one that I probably need, or vice versa: I believe that everything happens for a reason, and that somehow this will all play out, as obvious as the sky is blue.
I got home that night and everything was fine. Lui, still a little shaken up from the aforementioned words, didn't harp on the issue nearly as much as he's been wont to do in the past. And I apologized, and hugged him, and told him of course I love him best, and we watched Chasing Liberty with Neuf and Martin.
And the bowling plan? Totally worked.
*I know there's a fancy French term for this, but as I can't think how to spell it, pride is keeping me from using it at all.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
This blog is being reduced to nothing but a sick recounting of pseudo-flirtatious interactions
I can't help but think of Tai in Clueless: "He's always finding ways to touch me, or tickle me..."
The quote may not be exact, but it took me all day to come up with that much - and the realization that I may not be as bad at flirting, that this whole thing may not be as desperate and one-sided, as I thought.
I was at a register when Irish came in, walked by, put his hand on my back as he passed. I knew it was him, because I think I'd actually seen him come in a few minutes before, so even though I was talking to my customer, I called out, "Hi!" mid-sentence without even looking away from my work.
Out on the floor later, he was finishing up a load of bread, and I held my hand up for a five. And I guess neither of us wanted to be a passive high-fiver, because what we ended up with was something The Todd would've been proud of. "Good one!" Irish said, as I cried, "Ow!", shaking my hand, which was stinging through my rubber gloves.
"Actually, that did kinda hurt," he said, and the woman working demo - a sweet-as-pie older woman who's kind of a store mom - laughed, having watched the whole interaction. And I wondered how obvious this all is to anyone but me - the worst being that I can't not smile around him.
Near the end of my shift, at a point where I was so exhausted from getting like four hours of sleep last night - thanks to this sort of bullshit over-analyzing - that I felt dizzy and ready to cry at anything, I was standing in the office counting out my drawer, when someone came up behind me and put a hand firmly on the outside of each of my shoulders. This time I didn't know it was Irish until he moved me aside so he could get into a drawer I'd been blocking.
"Aww, and here I thought you were actually being nice to me," I said. (Because the details I'm sparing you are the ones with the same stupid teasing we've been doing since the day we met.)
"I was being nice to you," he insisted. "I could've just opened the drawer and hit you in the knees with it." I thanked him for not doing that, because I'd have probably just cried on account of being exhausted.
When I finally got to leave, I bought some stuff for dinner, then stopped by Irish's register on my way out.
"You're out of here?" he asked.
"Yes. Finally." I held out my hand again, and this time I think we were both careful to be a little more gentle. (What am I, the queen of high-fives? And since when?!) "If you need a couch to crash on, you have my number." He'd been telling me earlier about how his shift ends tonight at 11, and he works again tomorrow at 6 a.m., so he was planning to show up at his friend/future roommate's nearby apartment to crash on her couch, but that she didn't know that yet...
"Yes I do." He went back to what he was doing.
"See you tomorrow," I called over my shoulder.
One of my supervisors stopped me on the way out to tell me that my drawer had checked out perfectly, down to the penny.
The quote may not be exact, but it took me all day to come up with that much - and the realization that I may not be as bad at flirting, that this whole thing may not be as desperate and one-sided, as I thought.
I was at a register when Irish came in, walked by, put his hand on my back as he passed. I knew it was him, because I think I'd actually seen him come in a few minutes before, so even though I was talking to my customer, I called out, "Hi!" mid-sentence without even looking away from my work.
Out on the floor later, he was finishing up a load of bread, and I held my hand up for a five. And I guess neither of us wanted to be a passive high-fiver, because what we ended up with was something The Todd would've been proud of. "Good one!" Irish said, as I cried, "Ow!", shaking my hand, which was stinging through my rubber gloves.
"Actually, that did kinda hurt," he said, and the woman working demo - a sweet-as-pie older woman who's kind of a store mom - laughed, having watched the whole interaction. And I wondered how obvious this all is to anyone but me - the worst being that I can't not smile around him.
Near the end of my shift, at a point where I was so exhausted from getting like four hours of sleep last night - thanks to this sort of bullshit over-analyzing - that I felt dizzy and ready to cry at anything, I was standing in the office counting out my drawer, when someone came up behind me and put a hand firmly on the outside of each of my shoulders. This time I didn't know it was Irish until he moved me aside so he could get into a drawer I'd been blocking.
"Aww, and here I thought you were actually being nice to me," I said. (Because the details I'm sparing you are the ones with the same stupid teasing we've been doing since the day we met.)
"I was being nice to you," he insisted. "I could've just opened the drawer and hit you in the knees with it." I thanked him for not doing that, because I'd have probably just cried on account of being exhausted.
When I finally got to leave, I bought some stuff for dinner, then stopped by Irish's register on my way out.
"You're out of here?" he asked.
"Yes. Finally." I held out my hand again, and this time I think we were both careful to be a little more gentle. (What am I, the queen of high-fives? And since when?!) "If you need a couch to crash on, you have my number." He'd been telling me earlier about how his shift ends tonight at 11, and he works again tomorrow at 6 a.m., so he was planning to show up at his friend/future roommate's nearby apartment to crash on her couch, but that she didn't know that yet...
"Yes I do." He went back to what he was doing.
"See you tomorrow," I called over my shoulder.
One of my supervisors stopped me on the way out to tell me that my drawer had checked out perfectly, down to the penny.
Monday, September 10, 2007
New wave of mid-20s crisis
W says there's no such thing as a mid-20s crisis - do (straight) men just not have them? He says he never feels old, never thinks of himself that way, and that there's no such thing as "too old to have fun". I hate him.
Work today was interesting, from the broken-bag-of-used-cat-litter I found in a cart at the beginning of my shift, to the sorry excuse for a conversation I had with Irish at the end of it.
I feel like the flirting is so childish - a sarcastic comment here, a stuck-out tongue there - and obvious - because I don't treat anyone else that way, don't smile at anyone else that way - and nearing desperate - like I want so badly to have a friend. So even though in retrospect we had a totally normal conversation while he walked me out of the store: he'd gone to a brewery with his roommate last night and spent $250 on beer for the two of them, so I told him I'd have to start going out with him if he was buying; he was talking about his hangover (duh?) and saying how he looked like shit, and I refrained from telling him I thought he looked good by saying instead that I thought he looked the same as he always looks, and that he could take that however he wanted to; he mentioned how the girl who's now his roommate was once the person whose house he'd crash at when he went drinking after work and couldn't drive home, so I reminded him that I walk to and from work every day, and that therefore I'm someone he wants to be friends with - he made some comment about how he has to suck up to me now; we compared schedules for tomorrow (not the same shift, but we'll cross paths for a few hours), and I went home.
I really wanted to invite him over, or out, or something. But I knew that by the time he got off work, I'd be wearing my glasses, and my shorty pajamas with the little pink bunnies on them, and probably a towel on my head. And also, asking him to hang out feels too much like asking him out out: I mean, what if he said no? Again, I feel so desperate.
I came home and had a back-and-forth complaining session with C-List, which made me feel a little better (read: slightly less like a total moron). Then Lui got home and kept telling me I was sweaty, so I yelled at him and went to take a shower, with the bathroom door locked so he couldn't come in and try to give me kisses through the shower curtain.
Work today was interesting, from the broken-bag-of-used-cat-litter I found in a cart at the beginning of my shift, to the sorry excuse for a conversation I had with Irish at the end of it.
I feel like the flirting is so childish - a sarcastic comment here, a stuck-out tongue there - and obvious - because I don't treat anyone else that way, don't smile at anyone else that way - and nearing desperate - like I want so badly to have a friend. So even though in retrospect we had a totally normal conversation while he walked me out of the store: he'd gone to a brewery with his roommate last night and spent $250 on beer for the two of them, so I told him I'd have to start going out with him if he was buying; he was talking about his hangover (duh?) and saying how he looked like shit, and I refrained from telling him I thought he looked good by saying instead that I thought he looked the same as he always looks, and that he could take that however he wanted to; he mentioned how the girl who's now his roommate was once the person whose house he'd crash at when he went drinking after work and couldn't drive home, so I reminded him that I walk to and from work every day, and that therefore I'm someone he wants to be friends with - he made some comment about how he has to suck up to me now; we compared schedules for tomorrow (not the same shift, but we'll cross paths for a few hours), and I went home.
I really wanted to invite him over, or out, or something. But I knew that by the time he got off work, I'd be wearing my glasses, and my shorty pajamas with the little pink bunnies on them, and probably a towel on my head. And also, asking him to hang out feels too much like asking him out out: I mean, what if he said no? Again, I feel so desperate.
I came home and had a back-and-forth complaining session with C-List, which made me feel a little better (read: slightly less like a total moron). Then Lui got home and kept telling me I was sweaty, so I yelled at him and went to take a shower, with the bathroom door locked so he couldn't come in and try to give me kisses through the shower curtain.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
And somehow I come out on top
I got offered the job at my dad's company.
The guy who'd interviewed me called me four times while I was at work on Wednesday, and left two messages, telling me to call back on his cell phone, even if it wasn't until later that evening. Evidently he'd also called my parents' house (still my listed "home" phone number) and told my brother he wanted to make me an offer.
I felt horrible about calling him back, knowing that I was going to turn down whatever that offer was, in favor of continuing to work at Trader Joe's. But I did call when I got home, just after 8:00.
"Hi Steve, it's Elle-Même, returning your call. How are you?"
"Oh, hi Elle. Are you still available?"
"Noooooo..." It came out as a whine, so I elaborated. "And I may be making a huge mistake, but the more I thought about it, I just don't think I'm ready to get into tech writing until I spend a little more time trying to find a way to do the sort of writing I'm really interested in..."
"That was exactly the answer I wanted to hear. Your honesty and candidness" - why does no one use the word candor? - "are exactly why we liked you so much. I wouldn't want you to take a job you're not passionate about and then come to work every day feeling like you'd made the wrong choice."
"Thank you. And if I end up feeling like I've made the wrong choice the other way, I may give you a call back in a few months to see if you've still got anything available."
"Please do - call me anytime, Elle, because I'd pick you again."
"Thanks - oh, and please don't tell me how much you were going to offer me, because it would probably only make me feel worse about all this..."
"I won't. But it wouldn't have made you feel so much worse anyway."
.
I hung up, a little shook up, but feeling altogether good about myself. And later I would tell my dad about how his company is one of the few I'd encountered that actually had integrity, and my dad would email Steve to thank him for making me proud of him and Steve would email him back to compliment my honesty and intelligence even further and convey his belief that I'll find what I'm looking for very soon... And I, of course, would be CC'ed on the whole thing.
The guy who'd interviewed me called me four times while I was at work on Wednesday, and left two messages, telling me to call back on his cell phone, even if it wasn't until later that evening. Evidently he'd also called my parents' house (still my listed "home" phone number) and told my brother he wanted to make me an offer.
I felt horrible about calling him back, knowing that I was going to turn down whatever that offer was, in favor of continuing to work at Trader Joe's. But I did call when I got home, just after 8:00.
"Hi Steve, it's Elle-Même, returning your call. How are you?"
"Oh, hi Elle. Are you still available?"
"Noooooo..." It came out as a whine, so I elaborated. "And I may be making a huge mistake, but the more I thought about it, I just don't think I'm ready to get into tech writing until I spend a little more time trying to find a way to do the sort of writing I'm really interested in..."
"That was exactly the answer I wanted to hear. Your honesty and candidness" - why does no one use the word candor? - "are exactly why we liked you so much. I wouldn't want you to take a job you're not passionate about and then come to work every day feeling like you'd made the wrong choice."
"Thank you. And if I end up feeling like I've made the wrong choice the other way, I may give you a call back in a few months to see if you've still got anything available."
"Please do - call me anytime, Elle, because I'd pick you again."
"Thanks - oh, and please don't tell me how much you were going to offer me, because it would probably only make me feel worse about all this..."
"I won't. But it wouldn't have made you feel so much worse anyway."
.
I hung up, a little shook up, but feeling altogether good about myself. And later I would tell my dad about how his company is one of the few I'd encountered that actually had integrity, and my dad would email Steve to thank him for making me proud of him and Steve would email him back to compliment my honesty and intelligence even further and convey his belief that I'll find what I'm looking for very soon... And I, of course, would be CC'ed on the whole thing.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Mortar and pestle
For a brief moment on Saturday night, I believed I had met the guy I was destined to cheat on my husband with.
I was working a fairly late shift, training in PRC (Produce/Refrigerated/Cheese), and had just dropped some boxes off at the baler (giant cardboard crushing machine - so much fun), when I turned to find myself confronted by an attractive young man with a goatee, who couldn't have been more than 5'7", which, as we know, makes him totally my type.
"How old are you?" he asked me.
I guess I thought nothing of the forwardness of his question, because I dutifully answered in turn. "Twenty-five."
"Sweet, [New Guy] owes me a dollar. We made a bet on how old you were, and he said you couldn't be more than 18 or 19, but I guessed early twenties..."
"Shouldn't it be my dollar, then?" I asked. "Since 25 is really more like mid-twenties, and therefore you were both wrong."
He laughed, refused, and walked back into the dairy box. I could tell my quick wit had totally impressed him.
(An aside: Trader Joe's is really a bit of a boys' club. Most girls who start there weed themselves out within the first couple weeks because, as one of my female trainers so eloquently put it, "they can't hack it." Physically, yes - there is a lot of heavy lifting involved and thank God for my years of Cas Anon Sex - but I'm guessing they can't quite keep up with the banter, either, girls being easily offended as we are. But honey, believe you me, I can give as good as I get.)
A few hours later, I was restocking bread when the same guy poked his head out from between rows of yogurt and asked if I wouldn't rather help him in the dairy box.
"No way - too cold," I said. Because I know this weekend was ridiculously hot, but let's face it, when it comes to climates in which milk can avoid going off, I am just a girl.
"What are you talking about? It's perfect in here!" he insisted.
Another guy walking by grinned at me and said, "Don't mind him; he's Irish."
Irish managed to spark up conversation with me a few more times during our shift, saying how he and a friend were going to TGI Friday's to get a beer after work, and since his friend was getting off half an hour earlier than he was, he was going to go save a table and order Irish his beer so it would be there when he got to the restaurant. "But he's not going to order it too early," he added, "because I'm not drinking warm beer."
"Why not? I thought you were Irish."
And so I found out that he was actually born in Ireland and moved here when he was eight; we talked about the superiority of Dublin-brewed Guinness, and he gave me a high-five when I told him that yes, I do know what an Irish Car Bomb is, and actually really like them; I mentioned that my husband was Welsh, and he said he'd have to meet him; and before I left the store, he told me that I'd better meet him and his friend at Friday's, with or without Lui in tow.
Fortunately for me, because I never would've been allowed to go out drinking with some guys I'd just met on my own, Lui was down for the adventure. So after he got home from babysitting (which gave me enough time to shower, change, and reapply just enough makeup to make it look like I hadn't), we headed over to TGI Friday's. I walked in first and took the seat next to Irish, who was a little surprised, but genuinely pleased we'd shown up. He and Lui hit it off as well, talking about Premiership Football and cars. And there were several more instances where I impressed him with my ability to back-talk, once even prompting him to dub me his "new favorite," after which he turned to the friend he'd come with and said, "No offense - you can still be second."
But then we all got to know each other a little better, and I learned that he's 21, making him ineligible in accordance with Elle's First Commandment of Dating: Thou shalt not date anyone younger than thy brother. And then, when Lui and the friend were talking about something on their side of the table, Irish turned to me and asked how long we'd been married.
"Almost two months - we don't even have the pictures back yet."
"Wow, congratulations," he said. "I was with my girlfriend for seven years, and then we were engaged for about a month when, seven months ago, she passed away in a car accident."
What do you say to that? He's handling it incredibly well - doesn't want sympathy but admitted he still has some bad days, but is generally just trying to get on with his life. And, he admitted, he's not ready to date yet. (It didn't stop him from flirting with the waitress, but then I guess, it hadn't really stopped him from flirting with me either. And I'm married, but that didn't stop me from flirting with him. So there's that.)
So with that quick drop back to reality, despite all the obvious chemistry, I had to admit I probably haven't met the guy I'm going to cheat on my husband with. But still, it's nice to have a friend at my new job. And, I have to admit, it's even nicer to have a crush. I mean, it's been so long...
I was working a fairly late shift, training in PRC (Produce/Refrigerated/Cheese), and had just dropped some boxes off at the baler (giant cardboard crushing machine - so much fun), when I turned to find myself confronted by an attractive young man with a goatee, who couldn't have been more than 5'7", which, as we know, makes him totally my type.
"How old are you?" he asked me.
I guess I thought nothing of the forwardness of his question, because I dutifully answered in turn. "Twenty-five."
"Sweet, [New Guy] owes me a dollar. We made a bet on how old you were, and he said you couldn't be more than 18 or 19, but I guessed early twenties..."
"Shouldn't it be my dollar, then?" I asked. "Since 25 is really more like mid-twenties, and therefore you were both wrong."
He laughed, refused, and walked back into the dairy box. I could tell my quick wit had totally impressed him.
(An aside: Trader Joe's is really a bit of a boys' club. Most girls who start there weed themselves out within the first couple weeks because, as one of my female trainers so eloquently put it, "they can't hack it." Physically, yes - there is a lot of heavy lifting involved and thank God for my years of Cas Anon Sex - but I'm guessing they can't quite keep up with the banter, either, girls being easily offended as we are. But honey, believe you me, I can give as good as I get.)
A few hours later, I was restocking bread when the same guy poked his head out from between rows of yogurt and asked if I wouldn't rather help him in the dairy box.
"No way - too cold," I said. Because I know this weekend was ridiculously hot, but let's face it, when it comes to climates in which milk can avoid going off, I am just a girl.
"What are you talking about? It's perfect in here!" he insisted.
Another guy walking by grinned at me and said, "Don't mind him; he's Irish."
Irish managed to spark up conversation with me a few more times during our shift, saying how he and a friend were going to TGI Friday's to get a beer after work, and since his friend was getting off half an hour earlier than he was, he was going to go save a table and order Irish his beer so it would be there when he got to the restaurant. "But he's not going to order it too early," he added, "because I'm not drinking warm beer."
"Why not? I thought you were Irish."
And so I found out that he was actually born in Ireland and moved here when he was eight; we talked about the superiority of Dublin-brewed Guinness, and he gave me a high-five when I told him that yes, I do know what an Irish Car Bomb is, and actually really like them; I mentioned that my husband was Welsh, and he said he'd have to meet him; and before I left the store, he told me that I'd better meet him and his friend at Friday's, with or without Lui in tow.
Fortunately for me, because I never would've been allowed to go out drinking with some guys I'd just met on my own, Lui was down for the adventure. So after he got home from babysitting (which gave me enough time to shower, change, and reapply just enough makeup to make it look like I hadn't), we headed over to TGI Friday's. I walked in first and took the seat next to Irish, who was a little surprised, but genuinely pleased we'd shown up. He and Lui hit it off as well, talking about Premiership Football and cars. And there were several more instances where I impressed him with my ability to back-talk, once even prompting him to dub me his "new favorite," after which he turned to the friend he'd come with and said, "No offense - you can still be second."
But then we all got to know each other a little better, and I learned that he's 21, making him ineligible in accordance with Elle's First Commandment of Dating: Thou shalt not date anyone younger than thy brother. And then, when Lui and the friend were talking about something on their side of the table, Irish turned to me and asked how long we'd been married.
"Almost two months - we don't even have the pictures back yet."
"Wow, congratulations," he said. "I was with my girlfriend for seven years, and then we were engaged for about a month when, seven months ago, she passed away in a car accident."
What do you say to that? He's handling it incredibly well - doesn't want sympathy but admitted he still has some bad days, but is generally just trying to get on with his life. And, he admitted, he's not ready to date yet. (It didn't stop him from flirting with the waitress, but then I guess, it hadn't really stopped him from flirting with me either. And I'm married, but that didn't stop me from flirting with him. So there's that.)
So with that quick drop back to reality, despite all the obvious chemistry, I had to admit I probably haven't met the guy I'm going to cheat on my husband with. But still, it's nice to have a friend at my new job. And, I have to admit, it's even nicer to have a crush. I mean, it's been so long...
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Workin' for the weekend
No, literally. I'm working tomorrow and Sunday, and probably Monday too, though I don't have my trainee schedule for next week yet.
On Tuesday, I went in for an interview at my dad's company, for an entry-level position on a tech writer team. I don't know why I keep going to these interviews knowing I don't really want to get the job, but it makes my dad and Lui feel so much better to think I'm not just settling for a career in grocery. Plus, my dad had called in a favor to his friend in the staffing department, and this was the best she could find for me.
I went to the interview, employing my new job search strategy: to go as myself, answer as myself, and know that when the right position comes along, the honest answers will be the right answers, and I will be the one who gets hired, not some watered-down, nicey-nicey version of me. (It has already been brought to my attention that this is strikingly similar to C-List's dating policy.) And with that philosophy in mind, I wore low heels, city shorts, and a long black t-shirt - a nice one, but still totally classable as a tee - and I went in there and answered all their questions honestly: and the honest answer to most of their questions was no, I don't know what that particular technology term means. Actually, it was kind of humiliating.
So I felt pretty good about starting work at Trader Joe's the next day. And to extend that comparison between job-hunting and dating, isn't it unfair how you have to commit to your job after like two dates? Or just one, if there's only one interview. And you never really find out what the sex is like until after you've committed, because really those preliminary dates are only conversation - they never let you take the job for a test drive. So by the time you actually get to experience the physical side to your new relationship, it's too late. I mean, not too late, but you know, there are W-2s involved...
Fortunately, I think it's gonna work out between me and Joe. Ada, the girl that's been training me loves me, and spent most of today introducing me to people by saying, "Have you met my rookie? It's only her second day and she can already run her own register." And the First Mate (assistant manager - Joe is so dorky) came into the break room while I was eating lunch to tell me that Ada had been raving about me. As though I hadn't heard it firsthand. Quarterly raise, here I come!
I came home feeling pretty hot, only to find I'd gotten the following email from my dad's staffing friend:
"Hi Elle: Actually, the feedback i received was that it was a good interview. Am i interpreting this right, that after your discussion/interview, you are not interested in the position in that it quite isn't what you are seeking? Thanks, Phyllis"
Now, aside from an adult professional not capitalizing her "I"s, what am I supposed to make of that?
On Tuesday, I went in for an interview at my dad's company, for an entry-level position on a tech writer team. I don't know why I keep going to these interviews knowing I don't really want to get the job, but it makes my dad and Lui feel so much better to think I'm not just settling for a career in grocery. Plus, my dad had called in a favor to his friend in the staffing department, and this was the best she could find for me.
I went to the interview, employing my new job search strategy: to go as myself, answer as myself, and know that when the right position comes along, the honest answers will be the right answers, and I will be the one who gets hired, not some watered-down, nicey-nicey version of me. (It has already been brought to my attention that this is strikingly similar to C-List's dating policy.) And with that philosophy in mind, I wore low heels, city shorts, and a long black t-shirt - a nice one, but still totally classable as a tee - and I went in there and answered all their questions honestly: and the honest answer to most of their questions was no, I don't know what that particular technology term means. Actually, it was kind of humiliating.
So I felt pretty good about starting work at Trader Joe's the next day. And to extend that comparison between job-hunting and dating, isn't it unfair how you have to commit to your job after like two dates? Or just one, if there's only one interview. And you never really find out what the sex is like until after you've committed, because really those preliminary dates are only conversation - they never let you take the job for a test drive. So by the time you actually get to experience the physical side to your new relationship, it's too late. I mean, not too late, but you know, there are W-2s involved...
Fortunately, I think it's gonna work out between me and Joe. Ada, the girl that's been training me loves me, and spent most of today introducing me to people by saying, "Have you met my rookie? It's only her second day and she can already run her own register." And the First Mate (assistant manager - Joe is so dorky) came into the break room while I was eating lunch to tell me that Ada had been raving about me. As though I hadn't heard it firsthand. Quarterly raise, here I come!
I came home feeling pretty hot, only to find I'd gotten the following email from my dad's staffing friend:
"Hi Elle: Actually, the feedback i received was that it was a good interview. Am i interpreting this right, that after your discussion/interview, you are not interested in the position in that it quite isn't what you are seeking? Thanks, Phyllis"
Now, aside from an adult professional not capitalizing her "I"s, what am I supposed to make of that?
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