What's Happening Now.

It's so easy. I talk to him for the first time in a month because of a mutual friend's trouble, and I backslide immediately into sadness.

And then I can barely stand how much I miss him. Talking about music and books. The number one sex. The way how there's something about him that has always pulled on a part of my heart, and still does.

In everyday life I profess anger and intolerance for the way he treated me; the way he rejected me only until I walked away; and the way he has reacted to my moving on.

In everyday life I happily spend my time with someone new who is a mature and whole man.

But after just a brief conversation with this former man, I'm fully immersed in what we meant to each other and how much I miss him and what we had. I truly loved him and wanted to give him every part of myself, to an unhealthy degree. We were tremendously close.

For a long time, however, we both said that a real relationship between us wouldn't work. He told me to walk away, and I did. He changed his mind, but I did not.

I'm not saying that I basically revisit my opinions or decisions. Just that it's hard to feel all the stuff, to be in it and understand that it's part of the natural course of a break-up. Sucks, in fact. So that's what's happening now. In the middle of love and loss and sadness.

Single Mom 1, Barber 0.

Well that was hilarious. I just used the clippers on my boy's hair for the first time. I mean, I used to hack away with scissors when he was a baby to not terrible effect. He's hit the barber exclusively for the past two years or so. Tomorrow he flies to see his grandparents, and I wanted him to look sharp.

So I busted out the clippers.

Now, the only reason I have them is because a friend bought them when he thought his were busted. But they weren't. So I got the new ones. I've used them for my own - ahem - personal use.

But what do I know about clipping a boy's hair? Nada.

As usual, I just jumped in. How bad could it get?

Well, his bangs are hilariously short. But the rest of it looks pretty even and good.

Go go single mom!

Weirdo.

I seem to remember some meme for naming all the weird things about ourselves. It's late and I can't sleep (too hot!), so this is what I'll do.

1. Scared to look in a mirror at night, in the dark. Just don't know what I'll see. This draws from many many years of slumber party "Bloody Mary" incantations.

2. Have to sleep so the insides of my knees don't touch.

3. Obsessed with efficiency of motion while lathering up during the shower. Down one side, up the other, switch cloth to other hand, etc etc.

4. I hate $20 bills.

5. Used to have an OCD-style habit of clenching my teeth before and after every mailbox or street, while riding in the car.

6. When I smoke novelty cigarettes, have obsession with having too much spit in my mouth.

7. I never finish the crust, but always leave at least a very little piece.

8. One guys used to bite my heel and I loved it.

9. When I was in high school I had a medical thing called Geographic Tongue.


Cripes, is that all I can think of? I am certainly more of a weirdo than that.

No Better.

I can't extend the energy to get into it, but today was no better, made even worse perhaps because I'm more drained and even less prepared for another day tomorrow.

Spending a life surrounded by little children, mine and otherwise, is hard. My own boy taxes my nerves, and at some point, my fatigue and singlemom-ness clumps together into an exponentially larger pile.

I'm overwhelmed. I'm tense. I don't know what to do with all the cooped up and built up frustration and anger. Hard exercise would help. A thorough and aggressive fucking would help. Getting to vacation (6pm on Friday) would really help.

To bed, then. It's a start.

Days Like These.

I hate waking up tired. The mood taints everything onward. Even though the day itself brought no calamities, and even some points of pleasure, I was beaten low by the end of it.

A disappointing lip gloss. An inability to find The New Yorker on sale. Having to wait three days until vacation. My pizza order forgotten. . . really, these were the extent of my troubles.

Yet I was morose and exhausted by 5pm. Right now I despair that tomorrow will be any cheerier.

But fuck, I better get my attitude adjusted before the universe sends me something real to sweat.

My Weekend

Friday night I met up with the new man of two months (well, known him for two years prior to that). We tried a new restaurant to drink wine and eat cheese, plus the world's most amazing arugula salad. Hit two bars and a party. All would have been fine and hilarious had I not enjoyed the offered novelty cigarette. Whew. I was steered home gallantly and then I passed out, fully dressed. That was Friday.

Saturday I woke up and took many ibuprofen. When plans for brunch were thwarted, he gathered supplies and chefed up awesome fried egg sandwiches. Watched Beerfest. Went to the local bar and played the jukebox. Hung out with friends. By midnight, we were in my backyard, talking on the swingset.

Sunday meant coffee from the ice cream store, and eggs. Zoning out listening to Simon and Garfunkel's concert in Central Park, and the new Amy Winehouse. Hit the farmer's market and bought tomatoes, blackberries, arugula, and peaches. Ate the blackberries immediately. The man went home and I spent the next seven hours reading the Harry Potter. Took a shower and went to bed.

Now off I go to start the week.

Spin Spin Goes The Wheel.

It's so goddamn hot here. Unhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

At 1:30 am it's 83 degrees plus humidity and I don't have air conditioning.

Plus the boy has been coughing a lot and fussing so that keep me awake.

I start thinking about . . .well . . .everything:

I need a haircut but how short?

What will I get done this weekend?

Who are my friends?

Am I spending enough time with them?

Ebola!!

Can I wear the silk shirt with the linen pants? Will I be hot?

Why is the boy coughing?

There's no Ebola around here . . .

. . .yet!

Should I buy CD's or get an iPod and then a docking station, but do I have the right iTunes?

Christopher Walken cooking chicken hahahahaha. [youtube]

This fucking pillow!

Who does Yoda fight in the last Star Wars movies -- was it Count Dooku in 5 or Palpatin in 6? Both?

Eeeeeeebolaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

You get the idea.

Back to the shower to cool off and try again.