Friday, July 13, 2012

Friday's Random Thoughts - Pride (No Prejudice) Edition

Sometimes I write serious posts and then I worry that people who love me will worry. So don't worry. I'm fine. Occasionally I stay up too late and I listen to sad songs and I pour my feelings onto the virtual page. I have some spectacularly dramatic shit to deal with but I can handle it. I'll keep on keepin' on. I don't know how to do anything other than that.

The kitten is driving me nuts. Why does she only want to sleep stretched out on the sofa right behind my shoulders, like a scarf with a constantly running motor?

I have no food in the house so I ended up making a peanut butter and bacon sandwich, like I'm Elvis or something. It was delicious. But here's why I'm brilliant: I had no paper towels on which to drain the bacon so I used the heel of a loaf of bread to sop up the grease. I know. I'm like the Martha Stewart of pathetic dinners for one.

Today, Tina texted me to say that she hates the episode of Sex and the City when Carrie goes on and on about the scrunchie in Berger's book. I texted her back and said, "I'm totally watching that right now." That's the same episode with the famous (and best advice ever): "He's just not that into you." SATC is full of plenty of silly stuff but that one thing is the best thing any woman can ever remember. If a guy doesn't call? Doesn't make a second date? Acts like he doesn't give a shit? He DOESN'T give a shit. He's just not that into you.

Tina also pointed out that the scrunchie episode is also when Carrie wears the most ridiculous little hat.

What is it about SATC reruns? I've watched them a ridiculous number of times. The other night, for what might have been the 75th time, I watched Big go to Paris to tell Carrie he loves her. I'm certain there are more productive ways I could be spending my time.

 I'm super excited about the premiere of Breaking Bad's fifth season Sunday night. I'm trying to remember the last time I loved a show this much. I'm so glad my son introduced me to it. I wish he was going to be home to watch it with me. We had such a good time during that week when it was just him and me here and, as soon as the week was over, I missed it. I'm in such a weird place right now where nothing seems to be happening and, at the same time, everything seems to be passing by too quickly.

I'm reading Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn and I'm reading it really slowly because it's so good. Right before this, I read Dark Places and Sharp Objects also by Gillian Flynn. Discovering Gillian Flynn has been almost as awesome as discovering Breaking Bad. I'm just bummed this is only her third book. I hope she's out there somewhere pounding out her fourth fantastic novel. She used to be the television critic for EW, back when EW was really a great magazine. It's OK now but it used to be better. Whenever I pick up books, I always look at the back inside jacket first, the author photo and information. I'm fascinated by these published authors who broke through somehow. She looks like someone I'd be friends with. It's not really envy I feel anymore when I look at author photos. It's really just like I'm trying to solve a mystery. How did you get someone to believe in your book?

The other night I finally watched The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (the American version). Much like the book's first 100 pages, the movie's first half hour or so had me wondering what the hell was going on. (I could never get past those first 100 pages, it was just so damn boring. Did Stieg not have a decent editor, for Pete's sake?) It was a good movie (I fast-forwarded during the rape scenes), but the end made me terribly sad. Like I-woke-up-the-next-morning-thinking-about-it sad.  Poor Lisbeth. I'm not going to describe it in case you haven't seen the movie yet.

It reminded me of this thing that happened when I was in college. An ex-boyfriend who I had not completely gotten over called and invited me to hang out over the weekend. I was pretty excited about it. Like stupid excited. He was house sitting and he said he'd call me Friday and we'd make plans. He never did call. I stupidly called him Saturday morning. A girl answered the phone and, as she passed him the phone, she said, "I didn't realize you guys were still talking." I don't even remember what he said to me exactly. He was hanging out with these two girls (one of whom he ended up going out with); he'd call me later. He never did call me back.

I realized who I was then. I was some girl who he thought was an easy lay. He'd called me for that reason and then someone else had come along. I knew then, or felt then even if it wasn't totally true, that anything we'd been to each other before didn't matter. I wasn't special. I was convenient. It's a really shitty feeling to have about your first love. I hated him for years after that. Hated him in a way that felt like protection. I cried all weekend. I talked to my mom and I don't even know what I told her exactly, but Sunday night she came to my dorm and brought me a Calvin and Hobbes book, a collection of comics called The Lazy Sunday Book.

It was one of those moments that defines you in a way you don't really recognize until later. Twenty years down the road, I can see it, of course. I'm a hard person to get to. (That's not quite right. I'm easy to get to. I'll just be damned if you're going to know when you've gotten to me.) When it comes to men, I never get my hopes up. If someone doesn't call me back, they will never hear from me again. I will never call to see why someone hasn't called me when they said they would. I will say a big ol' fuck you in my head and that will be that. Maybe people get wiser with age, but I can't really see this changing about me. Once you start protecting yourself, it's hard to give up your armor. It's such a shitty pride thing. I sometimes envy people who just put themselves out there all the time.

Sometimes I think about Kate and how she'll be a teenager next spring and she will eventually have all these experiences and all this pain, pain that feels like it will never go away. And she won't believe me when I tell her that it does go away, that eventually you forgive people even if you never forget. You grow and you move on. But you also carry it with you and you see all the little experiences and how they make you who you are. And that it's hard not to be that person who is the sum of her broken parts. I worry that I won't even be able to teach her lessons about putting yourself out there or any of that crap. I'll only be able to teach her stuff like DO NOT let someone make a fool of you and "He's just not that into you."

Maybe I can just hand her a Calvin and Hobbes book.

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