I think Superman was on to something.
Today, I feel that maybe it’s a bad idea for me to be dating anyone. After recently moving away from so much hurt, it’s still so close to the surface, and I can feel my old sensitivities being irritated all the time. For four years, I was in hot pursuit. I was adoring, attentive, I lavished love, and support, and so much care, and in turn spent much of my time waiting, and yearning, and wanting. I felt invisible, unwanted, unattractive, and largely unhappy. Every aspect of our relationship was on his terms so much of the time; when we went out, when we behaved like a couple, when we had sex. I felt I was always begging him to put down his work, or his emotional walls and live in the world with me. Mostly I felt really, really lonely which is a very strange way to feel when you are living with someone. I couldn’t wait or want anymore, and so that was it.
If I’m going to put my toes in the water of love right now it has to be very sweet, and perhaps I just need too much…maybe that water is just too deep while I still feel like a sinker.
When I love, that person becomes the centre of the universe for me. Everything in my life takes a backseat, and I think I’m realizing now that this is exactly what I’ve been doing wrong. Fine. I can get my head around that.
But you know, if I’m going to feel like loving you, I want your time, and your attention. I want to really be adored this time. I’m good for it. I’ll give it back, I swear, but I just don’t want to ever have to fight for it again. I just can’t do it.
If I’m going to plant a seed, it needs to be watered and fed this time. I can’t make something grow in a drought. I tried to make that happen. It’s a choking, tragic exercise in horticulture.
So, here’s what I’m going to do…
My crazy apartment will slowly become my fortress of solitude. I will build it full of the wisdom of my ancestors, treasured memories from my home planet, beautiful light-catching objects, and clean, crisp lines. Every now and again I may fly in a Lois Lane, to catch a glimpse of what my innermost world looks like, but I will accept and understand with a super-sized heart like this, a normal relationship might not be in the stars.
I lost my dog for four hours on Saturday, and it was the greatest hysteria I have ever known. It was a bad judgment call on my part. I left him in the yard, which wasn’t totally secure. He had spent lots of time there through the week, and had been just fine. Saturday he decided to fly the coop. It was sheer hell. I had to recruit my ex, which was the last thing I wanted to do, and panic ensued as we all went hunting for him. My friends were even awesome enough to borrow a friend’s car and do a High Park stake out, using their own pup as a make-shift bloodhound. Finally, someone in the neighbourhood called to say they got my phone number from animal services, and that her daughter had found Arthur wandering on my street. We scooped him up, and he was completely unscathed. In fact, I thought he looked a little smug. It was a tearful reunion for both parents, but I have never been so scared in all my life.
It started to make me wonder…
I am one of the most nurturing, care-taking people I know. This is not horn-tooting, it’s just simple fact. I’m built for love, and when I have someone or something to love, then I’m really in my element. The love I feel for my dog (which is more than I can get my head around sometimes) is a mere fraction of the love I would feel for a child. Now, I know I would one day like to have a baby, but I realized on Saturday that once you have a kid you must never really sleep properly again. How could you relax? How do parents stop themselves from spiraling into complete and utter hysteria? How do they not project that fear onto their children? I’m nearly hysterical just thinking about it. Do I have the chops to really take all that on if I can’t even manage to keep a dog in the yard???
Between the trauma of loosing my dog, my weekend was book-ended by a rapturous fever, which resulted in about 17 hours of sleep each night on Friday and Saturday. Sunday, my eyes are glittering like a consumptive, my lips are swollen and raw, and I feel almost completely numb. It’s like the weekend served me a great big slap to slow me down and have me take stock.
What am I taking stock of, exactly? My foothold in reality has felt a bit slippery, that’s for sure. It’s been impossible to focus on anything, and I think it’s the panic I’m feeling over not having a home. Still. If my renos aren’t finished soon, I’m going to totally loose it. All I want is my own bed, and a clean apartment, with a well stocked fridge. I don’t feel like that’s too much to ask for.
Fortunately, this week I’m house/dog sitting for my cousin and his partner at their amazing, clean, un-cluttered condo. It’s like a boutique hotel compared to what I’m used to. I’ll be purging a hell of a lot more once I’m back in my own place, because I know how sweet it is to live without crap everywhere. It’s very Parisian.
God, Paris feels like a far away dream these days.
This entry could only be more whiny if I included a high pitched squealing audio track.
I promise not to write again unless it’s more interesting, and less self-pitying.
Perhaps a little more sexy wouldn’t hurt either.
I’m back in sync with the moon. It took a while, but here we are, and now I have to be careful about when I decide to host dinner parties because it becomes a Like Water For Chocolate extravaganza.
I vow to use this power for good and not evil.
I have asked the universe for joy and love and laughter in abundance. As it turns out, I already have a lot of that. My friends are the greatest force in my world. They inspire me to be a better person, and they make my heart want to burst. I can cook for hours and create a ridiculous amount of food, and still want to send THEM a thank you email for being in my life, and giving me such a lovely, crazy family to cook for.
It makes me so happy to feed them, and give them a place to gather and laugh, and share battle stories.
Tonight, I think everything I cooked was infused with the love I feel for my friends.
One day, I hope that I have a huge table that easily seats a dozen people, and we can gather with kids and dogs, and I can spend two days preparing a glorious spread that will make each and every one of them know that they have given me such joy, and made me feel so strong in the moments that I needed it most.
I want to be the crazy auntie to their children, and I want the haven that they can escape to when they want out of the city. I want noble dogs that they can romp with, or curl up next to by the fire, and I want the most comfortable beds where they can lay their heads and rest. I want the fiercest fire pit with the most voracious playing of acoustic guitar, and raucous warbling of classic tunes that nobody really knows all the lyrics to.
I want a bed and breakfast where only the people I love are invited, and there is no such thing as off-season.
I also want someone fabulous to run it with me, who can make a mean breakfast, and who knows all the chords to my favourite songs, so to speak.
Can you hear me universe?
I brought Arthur to my client’s office yesterday. She’s out of town, and told me he was most welcome to keep me company. He hates traveling on the subway, but I can tell that he loves going everywhere with me, because he smiles up at me a lot and likes to sit right on top of my feet.
We woke to the exciting arrival of the roofers, here to fix my leaking bedroom ceiling, and I figured having him with me would be better for him than leaving him at home to all the ruckus. Am I ever glad I brought him along!
We came home at around 4:00 to find the entire apartment filled with thick, blue smoke from the tarring going on overhead. Because there was a gaping hole in the ceiling, all of the smoke had found its way into the apartment, and it was like a four-alarm fire. Thankfully, I left my patio doors open, so that helped a little, but my landlady freaked when she came upstairs, and dispatched immediately for an industrial fan. The night before last, at an impromptu bbq at my friend Oonagh’s, I wistfully told the gathering that all I wanted was for all of my clothes to smell like campfire. Be careful what you wish for, I suppose.
All is well now. The smoke has been cleared out, and though whatever they were doing on the outside of the roof totally burned the insulation on the inside, there seems to be no real lasting damage. I chalk it up to one more exciting way to claim my apartment.
I’m claiming my space in all kinds of exciting ways, and I so look forward to having my own complete bathroom, and spacious bedroom, and fully stocked kitchen. I can’t wait to have a dinner party here, and thank my friends properly in my home for all of their love and support. I can’t wait to unpack!
I’m building lots of love into the living room right now, that’s for sure. It’s where I sleep, and dream, and write, and work, and….hmm…play. It’s one very, very happy corner of my chaotic home.
So, if the apartment is a metaphor for my inner state of being, I’ve got one small corner that is functioning beautifully, which makes me realize that I don’t need much to survive. The rest is like a chrysalis, biding its time until it can unfurl into something truly magnificent. Or maybe the small corner IS my chrysalis, where I am cocooning, and dissolving into primordial goo, only to resurface soon with seriously kick-ass wings and antennae that don’t miss a damn thing.
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire…
I could sleep for a week…
There is a reason why in ancient civilizations women went away from the tribe to weather out their menses. (Oh, FYI this blog entry is all about periods. Stop reading now if that makes you feel funny.) If I had no calender to refer to, I would always know when I’m about to get a visit from Aunt Flow because I feel like I’ve lost my skin. I become ridiculously sensitive, and more than a little anxious. If I had a choice, I would check out from the world this week, and spend the time sleeping, watching sweeping costume epics, eating chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, taking baths and reading books. That’s what my cave would look like.
There would be no boys to confuse me, or make me feel awkward and uncertain. My girlfriends would brush my hair, and we would bake under the sun and whisper secrets to each other. Nobody would care that I’m bloated, and nobody would mind that I just want to cry for no apparent reason.
There would be a rocky outcrop to haul myself up to after a moon-lit skinny dip, and I would dry myself in the warm night air, while I felt the moon reminding me of my connection to the universe (apparently my period also turns me into a hippie). I’m not sure how we would McGuiver this, but there would be a hot fudge machine and an endless supply of vanilla bean ice cream and slightly salted cashews in my menstrual cave too. And all of the seasons of Sex And The City.
I would only be either naked or in flannel jammies, foot and bum rubs would happen without me even having to ask, there would always be a fresh pot of tea, a fluffy chick lit book to pick up, and the phone would only ring when my mom missed me, or cute boys wanted to tell me sweet things.
In summary; don’t ask me what’s wrong, because now you know, ok?