Don't say you love me

I don't need you to tell me that I'm courageous and beautiful and strong.

I already know.

The trouble was that you didn't want me whole.  You said you loved me, but you only wanted the parts that fit.  You wanted someone to talk to, someone to listen, someone to meet the needs your other relationship didn't.

I told you from the beginning that I was tearing out a part of myself for the sake of this feeling, that I wouldn't be able to sustain it forever.  You said you could not change.  You didn't know how.

I did what you couldn't.

Last week I told you I was falling apart.  I couldn't do it anymore.  You asked me what I wanted, you offered to compromise for the first time.  So I told you.  Now you were torn.  You needed time to think.

This week I asked you, what is on your mind?  You stalled.  You offered ifs and whens and years-from-nows.  I asked again.  You can't make that sacrifice for me.  You offered ... a time limit.  Another kind of limited, not-real relationship.

I could have what I needed from you, for two months.  Maybe more.  No.

Now, later, after I've had some time, that is tempting.

But that would still be a suppression of my self.

I ended it.  But I let you see how that hurt me.  You wanted to stay in my life, as a friend, as something.  You told me I was wonderful.

I don't need to hear that from you.  I can do what you can't.  I make sacrifices and I give my whole heart when I love someone.

You can't make sacrifices.  You never wanted a whole heart.  You don't know what that kind of love is.  You can say it.  But it's just another expression of affection.  You might as well be saying "I think you're lovely and want to spend time with you".  There is more to love.

One day, I might find that.  It won't be with you.

Between Night and Day

We met years ago when he looked after me for a few days as I recovered from a heat stroke at a Summer event.  We bonded and went to a Celtic music concert.  Later, we kept in touch and spent time together at the next year's Summer event.  That Fall, when I was having suicidal thoughts, he was the one I reached out to, who talked me through some of it.  This past Summer, at the same event, we fell in love.  We spent as many evenings as possible walking through the forest and the tent city just to get some time to talk alone.  We went to the same concert we'd been two the past two years.  We said "see you soon" instead of "goodbye".

I live in Boston with my cat and my roommates.  He lives in St. Louis with his other girlfriend.  I made the decision to give this a shot.  Knowing the distance, knowing that I was putting my own needs as a monoamouros person on hold for the sake of exploring something I haven't felt this strongly in a long time.  I had decided before we started dating that I would never ask him to change.  I told him from the beginning that I didn't know how long I could stand to put my values, preferences, needs aside.  He said that he loved me, and hoped it would work out.  He said that he's flattered that I would be happy with just him, but that he doesn't even know how to not be poly.  It was a given that if he'd asked me to be poly for him, I would have washed my hands of the whole thing.  Somehow, I came to him instead, and chose to compromise myself.
We text frequently and send emails.  Phone calls are weekly at best.  When I ask him what he wants out of our relationship, he can't answer me.  He barely knows what he wants for his own future.  He is working on moving to Connecticut (separating from his other girlfriend for a few months, until she moves as well), but the moving day was postponed due to work - he must stay in St. Louis until at least the 24th of October.  He'd been planning for the 15th.

Maybe it doesn't seem like much time, but 1,192 miles makes every day a little longer.

When I returned home from the Summer event, I had decided to continue my single and dating lifestyle.  I was not happy about it.  But it seemed unfair to myself to be exclusive to him if he could not do so for me.  There were a few of the usual failed dates and sweet men who wanted more than the friendship I could give them.

Then I was nearly dropped during a lift-dip at blues.  My dance partner suggested we practice the move and I agreed.  We met the next evening at my apartment, and the same day every week after that to practice dance moves, talk about philosophy, and watch YouTube videos.

Much like this, except where we may have whacked some other dancers.
Fixed it in practice.

One of these dance nights, I was upset over a drawn-out argument with my boyfriend, and my dance partner brought dinner with him.  I told him everything over dinner.  He commiserated, and said that he was disappointed; he was planning to ask me for a date that night.
We practiced our dance steps after dinner and I walked him down to let him out of the garage with his bicycle.  He paused and hugged me, and asked me out anyway.  I asked him if he was sure.  He was also monoamorous, and Roman Catholic to my practicing Pagan.  He was sure.  We went on our first date that Friday.  The next day I dropped everything and asked him to come out hiking with me.  We spent the whole afternoon walking and getting lost in the autumn woods.

Dogtown in Gloucester, MA

That was two weeks ago.  I've been seeing my dance partner steadily since then.  He says that he loves me, but doesn't want to call it a relationship because of the other man in St. Louis.  He talks about what he wants for his future; either to be a writer and die at thirty-five of excessive art, or to have seven children he can raise Catholic.

I'm musical, but not that musical.

I don't think he realizes how terrifying that second scenario sounds in a week-old relationship.
To a Pagan Feminist, with dreams of her own career, her own business, her own creations,  it is a grab-the-cat-and-run-for-the-hills signal.

Before we started seeing each other romantically, he seemed fine with my religion.  He has shared that the idea of witchcraft makes him nervous; but he is very respectful of me.  Lately, such as when he talks about his life, his religion, his future, I get the feeling he doesn't see my religion as a real thing.  But it's only been a week, and I haven't had the chance to address it with him specifically.

There's that darn "expectation vs. reality" again...

I've always had my own plans.  I don't know if I'll ever find a real partner for life and love.  What I want is to pursue my own goals, develop a steady enough income and lifestyle that I can adopt an older child, and perhaps go through one or two pregnancies at most, if I do find that partner.  The adoption I will go through with, whether I become a single parent or not.  It's been something I have wanted to do for my whole life.

I do not want a partner who tells me that I am enough for him, yet pursues other women for love and sex.

I do not want to be a stay-at-home mom worn out by too many pregnancies, whose children are raised with rigid religious ideas.

One seems to want too much of me.  The other does not want enough of me.

These issues may clear up with more communication.  But I can't shake the feeling that staying with either of them would be untrue to myself.  I am more unhappy with two men than I ever was single.  I think it is better to feel lonely for being alone rather than to feel lonely because those you love cannot love all of you.

24. Invisibility

In 24 hours, I will be standing in front of the (most recent) love of my life. Normally, the distance separating us is equivalent to 2800 miles.

A lot of people like to exaggerate and say "He lives like 4,000 miles!" or "That's an 8 hour plane ride!"

2,800 is 2,800. And it's a five-hour plane ride, thank you.

The corrections don't make it easier. It's hard to build intimacy through text message, so I'm lucky we've known each other for some time, and one of his best friends is one of my best friends; someone who has never steered me wrong or introduced me to someone I didn't like.

I'm not sure this post has a point or a moral like they usually do. I try to find a way to inspire the 40-75 people who eventually read my posts, to tell all of you something reflective.

I feel like when I tell my family and friends I'm in love, the correct response (or unsurprising response) would be, "What else is new?"

I took the six months I said I would. I dated (women) like I said I would. Got to know myself. Started exploring pieces of myself I didn't know were there. Stretched and rolled and reached for something higher. Had one of my best girl friends move in. Watched a few of my favorite couples dissolve. Got smack in the middle of one of them (god rest our souls).

And while he's 2800 miles away, I'm still exploring. So I guess the long distance is not so bad, after all. Although I'd dearly love a firm end date.

One of the first things I did in therapy was let go of narrative fantasy as entirely as possible, finally recognizing all I reaped from it over the years were a handful of fruitless relationships and broken hearts. That said, I'm having trouble breaking back into my heart and having as many feelings of romance without them. It's not that they aren't there, it's just hard to feel like me.

I suppose it's a matter of letting go and letting him in. It takes a long time.

I can try. It's all anyone can ask of me.

A shout-out to my hero

I tell other people all the time about my friend, who's also my hero. I tell her too sometimes, though probably not enough.

This is a woman who got her degree, the degree I wished I'd gotten, and moved to NYC, the city that matches my heartbeat and makes me feel alive. She was living my dream, and I was so proud of her.

Then she realized that her shitty writing job wasn't cutting it, and quit to become a full time professional dog-walker and pet-sitter. I've never seen her so happy, healthy, and fulfilled.

She is a fearless, radiant example of everything I hope to be, and I consider myself truly blessed to have her in my life.

This is a woman who can make the mundane seem fantastical through a beautifully crafted Facebook status or blog post. Someone who takes the lemons hurled at her by life, and crushes them with her bare hands, conjuring up spices, herbs and vodka and turning them into the most badass cocktail known to humanity. It's called the Hilary. It's not for the faint of heart.

Even during what can only be described as a hellish month, her online presence makes me laugh - huge, loud belly laughs - through the tears and my furrowed brow of fear and concern.

Thank you for somehow managing to make each life you touch happier and lighter. I hate to end this on such a cheesy note, but let's imagine it's the most delicious baked camembert or sharp cheddar or something else exquisite: Thank you for being you.

Hilary, you are spectacular.

xoxo

When You've Failed: Dear You

Congratulations: You!
12:00-1:00 p.m.
Biggest Conference Room in the Office

The meeting invite stares at me from the corner of my desktop. I scowl at it. My lips twist and eyes narrow. I have thoroughly failed in my planning for this meeting, and I’ve known of my failure for months. I’ve pondered this meeting in my head, rolled my choices along the roof of my mouth, worried the cracks with my tongue.

My company has a wonderful women in business group that my mentor hosts, and one of my dearest work friends is the Treasurer of Dreams. Many moons ago we had a meeting where we wrote our future selves congratulatory notes for the spring about our achieved goals and stored them in a box on her desk. I had two: moving to Seattle, and getting engaged to Lennon.

Lennon and I broke up in November. I suffered a psychotic break after I didn’t get my “perfect fit” job late this winter.

The past year has been hard on me. I have the gray hairs to prove it. But I started seeing a therapist, dyed my hair pink, and focused on my present self instead of what I thought my future should be. The box I thought I could cram myself into was not a viable future. The one I’m looking at now might not be either, I won’t know until I’m there. I have to remember this for my meeting in 70 minutes.

My friends Allen and Charli have a quote on their wall by their workstations (he's a programmer, they're a poet): Fail faster. Make better mistakes.

It's a quote about working tech; we create innovation by failing. It applies to our creative and "normal" lives too. If you're never failing, you're not pushing.

This is my new letter from present me to present me. I hope you, dear reader, get something out of it too.

Dear You,

Embrace the failure. These failures mark your survival, another groove worn into your hull of mistaken navigation and unclear signs. You are still here, and you are still fighting. Your eyes are open now, and you’re starting to understand that what you don’t agree with, you don’t have to do forever. You get an exit plan.

Now you’ve made an exit plan, and taken the very first steps towards getting there. The difference between this one and the other ones? The new plan is organically achievable; it runs into your blood like spring breezes. It grows flowers from your fingertips.

I am proud of you, even on the days when we mark high distress and shame on our Moodscope cards. Our plan may fail, more dreams may be broken, the plate might yet fall from your hands and shatter on the kitchen floor. Remember that plates and cakes are replaceable, but you are not.

You always say you never need anyone to save you - now, you’re living it.

Congratulations on avoiding trains for another year.

Congratulations on finally understanding the love song of your city, and writing yourself into it. Of wearing into your life with patience instead of hammering it like that’s going to do something besides make it weaker.

You lived. You win.

Love,
You

All's Well That Ends Well...I Think?

             I'm pretty sure I've typed up at least half a dozen of these to throw up here when I actually got the chance to type it all out again...and then just never did.

             Figured tonight would be a better night than any...

             In less than 24 hours, I take a test that will determine my future. Now, let me just give you a rather quick rundown of my relationship with tests go...

              It's a hate/hate relationship. Okay...it's a I'm-gonna-fuck-you-over/I'm-gonna-wish-I-could-rip-your-stupid-scantron-face-into-a-million-tiny-confetti-pieces-and-then-burn-you-to-the-fucking-ground-you-stupid-green-boxed-life-ruiner.

               Okay, now that that has been cleared up, I have this test tomorrow. My nursing final. It all comes down to this. The last test, of the last semester, of the last chance I'm giving nursing school. Ahh, yes...I failed it once already. Blame it on a boy, blame it on being too young, blame it on whatever you want...it all comes down to the fact that I messed up and I had to figure out what the hell to do afterwards ((and after breaking part of my hand for punching a wall and buying two bottles of whiskey)). I failed. Not sure there's a whole lot of things I've failed at...and this wasn't something I was too proud of. So, I did what any rational person would do.

                        I fought my way back in, and gave it everything I had.

                 So, here I am...6 years later...from start to almost finish...it all comes down to whether or not I can pass this test. ((Aside from that OTHER big test I have to take in order to actually BE a nurse...)). I'm not entirely certain how I'm supposed to feel about finally finishing this very long, very difficult, very frustrating, very EVERYTHING journey I've gone on...with everyone else that has stuck with me along the way...

              Or, maybe it's the fact that, in the near distant future, somebody out there is going to hand me a certificate to actually save people's lives...

The Anticipation is Palpably Painful

I am waiting for a phone call that will not come for another three and a half hours.

While I was in Washington last Monday, brushing my teeth, I got a phone call from a WA number. Thinking it was my host confirming our lunch plans, I picked up the phone with the toothbrush still in my mouth.

It was not Grace. It was an Amazon recruiter. Who wanted me to skip four phone interviews and come into the office for an interview “since you’re in town anyway.”

Well, there are a lot of things I do not know about in life, but one thing I do know is that you do not say no to a big company when they are asking you to interview for a job you don’t yet have, but are already extremely passionate about.

The interviews went okay. Parts of them went swimmingly, and parts of them I disconnected and couldn’t pull it in. When they asked about times I disagreed with something that my customers did, or something that happened in a project. I am not great at disagreeing with how things are done, because often when I disagree in my career, I’ve done it wrong. I’ve been told simply to hush. Because I don’t know what I’m talking about yet. Sometimes I am pulled into a meeting and corrected.

I’m not great at talking about myself, and I am a rambler. I should be more succinct. I should have been more succinct. It would have allowed for deeper questions. Maybe I should have taken a Xanax those two interview days, but I wanted a sharper edge - not the fluffy girl who gets by easy, cloud-like in her glory.

I emailed the hiring manager today asking for a timeframe of when I might expect to hear about next steps. She had not responded to my previous emails of follow-up questions. She asked if I had some time this afternoon to chat.

So I’m sitting here, expecting a rejection. Anticipating this rejection. Oscillating between being zen about it, and coming close to tears the next minute. I am very good at internalizing “everything happens for a reason.” I am also very good at grieving. But I am so tired of being teased by the universe. I am tired of, with each rejection, re-committing to New York and re-realizing that I’ve put a band-aid over a sucking wound that this landscape cannot heal.

This is not the blog post I wanted to write. I had a dalliance on my vacation - I wanted to write you the beginning of a love story about mud flats and misty forests and really big dogs. I wanted to tell you maybe not a wife after all. I wanted to tell you about how you should only kiss sober, touch each other sober. Remember what potential feels like without the help of bourbon because I had it for days at a time.

They can’t say they want me. It’s only been three days. And when you ask for a timeframe response to hiring, they come back with a time frame, not “let’s chat.”

Let’s chat about my dreams for what you’re building. Let’s chat about moving vans and relocation assistance; let’s chat about the things I can’t allow myself to think about for the next three hours. Give me a timeframe. Please, give me a timeframe or welcome me home.

UPDATE: I did, in fact, not get the job. I failed in my success metrics and analytical capabilities, as I have failed in both those things for every job I have applied to. I am unsure where to go from here besides to business school, which is supposed to start on April 5th.

Positively Wrecked

Things with my mother are officially back to normal.

I know, because even though I'm a nervous wreck and stressed to the point of passing out about my MTEL on Friday, I was able to call mom.  We both said sorry and talked about our problems.  I sympathized with her recent illness and issues with her new doctor.  She listened and gave me good advice about my myriad woes - Some to do with finances, a lot to do with the MTEL, and more to do with the ridiculous social situations stressing me out and distracting me from studying.

So, I'm a total train wreck.  I'm sitting here, crying at my keyboard, in my pajamas.  Worried because in less than two days, I have to pass an English MTEL with nothing but a Theater degree, a personal driving interest in language and literature, and whatever flashcards I can come up with.  I am not prepared.  Over the last few weeks, I've managed to get into enough personal drama to make it impossible to concentrate on studying until these last few days.

On the other hand, I shouldn't worry.  I've never in my life had an issue with standardized tests.  I've never scored less than 80% equivalent on a bad day for any state-run standardized test.  English has always been my best and favorite subject. Theoretically, there is not a large chance of failure.

But I have a lot riding on this.  Something like the rest of my life and career of choice.
The MTEL costs one hundred and fifty dollars each time you take it, I have to pass the English MTEL to get accepted into grad school, and I have to take the standard Literacy & Communication MTEL as well.  I'm honestly not sure what I would do in the case of failure.  "Try, try again" is a lot easier said than done when the first try already puts you three hundred dollars in the hole on unemployment.

But I never really let much stop me before.  I really shouldn't start now.  So I'm going to finish my tea and take a shower.

Then I'm going to make some damn flash cards.

I'm a bad depressive citizen

A post by my favorite blogger:

http://www.theferrett.com/ferrettworks/2014/03/how-to-be-a-good-depressive-citizen/

Yeah. I'm depressed and my supposed emotional support network of friends and family has basically shut down. So I'm a bad depressive. I write about family issues on this blog because I feel I don't have any other outlet. Some of the communication breakdown was my fault.  I didn't want to call people I haven't seen in a long time only to dump my issues on them.

Some people have been great about this.  There are people on facebook that really helped me get back some perspective and talk things out with my mother.  The vast majority of comments have been positive and supportive.

With a few exceptions.

One supposed friend told me I was a horrible person to say anything in public about my mother.
Another friend decided that it was hurtful to her that I didn't want to personally dump all of my issues on her specifically, even though we talk less than a few times a year.

Fine. Maybe I've fucked up my life even further by taking the only avenue I felt was open to me. Maybe I've found out more about who my friends are.

There are some people I owe phone calls to.

Follow up on Family

I exchanged some emails with my mom about the racism argument from last week.  I'd been considering posting them here, but I feel like that would be a breach of her privacy.

Basically, I sent her an email explaining why I said what I did, and why her arguments shocked me.  She's replied that she and my stepfather see my point and apologized.

But then I had to raise the issue on what she said about me, personally.  Her response was to take a day to think about it, and then reply that she didn't know what she meant by it at the time.  But that she would never intentionally hurt me and doesn't think badly of me.

So I guess it works out.

Except that I still feel betrayed, and there's guilt mixed in there too.  Because I feel that she might think I don't have a right to feel this way at this point, after she's apologized, or might hold it against me.  Maybe she doesn't.  Maybe she wouldn't.  But after last week, I can't just blindly trust in her anymore.

Part of the issue is that at the end of the argument, she treated me like a child.  Telling me that if I didn't want dinner, I could wait in the car.  We were ten minutes from my house.  My mom and I tried to talk about this on the phone last night, and she seemed angry.  As if she couldn't understand how I would leave in that situation when she was being nice enough to give me a ride home from central MA in the first place.

But I'd asked her to take me straight home after the argument.  She could have stopped for dinner after dropping me off - only ten minutes away.  But she'd rather I wait in the car like a stubborn child or a dog while they had dinner, because I'd disagreed with her.

That's humiliating.  And she doesn't understand why I don't find it acceptable.  Yes, it was very kind of her to drive me home.  But that doesn't mean I become less of a human or less of an adult.

Now it's on me to decide what happens to our relationship.  How I want this to go.  Mom doesn't want anything to change.  She got upset when I said that this might have changed our relationship - How?

I don't know.

Family and Racism

We were in the car, a few miles down the road from Friendly's, about to stop for dinner on the way to dropping me at home.  My stepfather in back as a courtesy to my motion sickness, my mom driving, and me in the passenger seat. It was the start of rush hour and we narrowly avoided a collision with two other vehicles.  My mother and I exclaimed on the terrible driving and relief of safety when I heard from the back seat: "Other diver must have been a niggro".
"Really?" Me, shocked.
"What do you mean?"
"Did... did you really just say that?  That was really racist."
"Negro isn't racist, they say it."
"I don't care if they say it.  It's still racist.  And what do you mean they?  As far as I've seen, most black people don't like that word."
"Well are you sure they're black?  Are they African American?" asked my mom.
"What does that even matter?"

I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with my parents of all people. It didn't end there, and it did get uglier.  Eventually it was my mom that decided to make it into a personal attack.
"Are you ever wrong?  And do you admit it when you are?"
It was the way she said it.  As if I was purposefully instigating a fight so I could arrogantly assert my "rightness" - instead of trying to speak up to my parents on something that makes me incredibly uncomfortable.

Somewhere in there, my stepfather apologized and asked us to stop arguing.  I said thank you, but I'm trying to discuss this with my mom.  She tried to turn it into me being ungrateful for her care, and I realized that she really must think I'm that stuck up to be able to say things that way.  I wondered how long she'd thought that, and I asked her to just take me home.  She said they were going to dinner, and I could either come in or wait.
I didn't say anything.  What could I say that wouldn't make it worse?
When she parked the car, I got out and walked out of the parking lot and to the plaza across the street, and started calling friends to find a ride home.

I've always been really close with my mom.  She's always had very liberal and democratic views.  Hell, that's how I ended up the way I am.  She's only been with my stepdad for about six years, and he's always been republican and a little off-color.  But it wasn't until the both of them started trying to justify using the word "negro" that I realized that they just refused to listen that times might have changed since back in the day.  I honestly don't know how to deal with this, especially since my mom seems to have been holding me in veiled contempt for who-knows-how-long.

A friend tells me that benign or ignorance based racism  is a problem with baby boomers.  I just have a problem of my own.  Is there a way for my relationship with my mother to be repaired?  Or will it just devolve to nominal communication and uncomfortable holidays?

The Breeder vs Shelter Debate

To begin, I will always advocate getting a shelter dog, always. You will literally save a life by doing so. However, I know not all people are comfortable with the shelter decision, so I wanted to touch upon all of the options out there, when someone is considering adding a family member to the pack. This is for anyone who may not be educated on how some of these options work.

The biggest questions to begin with is, are you ready to have the dog anywhere from 8-16 years? They live a long time, and would like to spend all of that time with you. Do not drop them at the shelter when they turn gray because you just can't stand to see them deteriorate in their old age. It's not fair, and is heartbreakingly confusing to them. Do you have time to walk them several times a day? They are living animals. They need their exercise and stimulants just like you and I do. Plus, they live to spend time with you. You have your whole life, friends, work to occupy you. Your dog only has you. Be their friend. Are you financially stable enough to get them their yearly shots and checkups at the vet? Or buy their dog food every month? Every little thing adds up, and I think a lot of first time dog owners don't fully understand the cost of keeping your dog in the best health they can be in. If even one of these things doesn't work for you, then now is not the time to be looking for a dog.

If you are ready to get a dog after all of the considerations, then it is now time to figure out where to get them from. First, don't ever buy from pet stores. This only fuels their revenue, and keeps puppy mills in business. The puppy mills will continue to pump out puppies in poor health due to the torture of the poor parents that are tightly caged to breed them. The same can go for irresponsible, smaller breeders. Don't keep those kinds in business. It's a tough enough task to find loving homes for all of these "unwanted," unhealthy dogs as it is. We don't need them churning out any more. And when you purchase from them directly, you just fuel their business and continue the torture for those poor dogs that are stuck in that system.

The unfortunate reality of most puppy mills.

Now, I don't disagree with breeding entirely, but there is a huge difference between a puppy mill and a responsible breeder. And I understand that there actually are responsible, smart breeders out there, and I commend them for raising litters the right way. After all, we can't stop breeding dogs entirely. Without responsible breeders, there would be no more dogs. However, even if they are raised the right way, it does not guarantee that the new owners will do the same. There is a common misconception that any shelter dog has issues. It obviously is unwanted by the previous owner because it has a defect, or is aggressive, or it just "doesn't want to listen," right? I mean, why else would a perfectly healthy dog be in the shelter then? (Heavy sarcasm.) Well, in most cases, the cute puppy the couple bought for their kid got too big, and they don't want to deal with it anymore. Or, they are moving and their new residence doesn't allow dogs, or dogs of a certain weight, or dogs of a certain breed. Or, a couple bought the dog together, and now they broke up and neither wants to keep it on their own. Or, they have a baby and assume that the dog won't be safe around them. NONE of these reasons are due to any defect or attitude of the dog itself. The dog was just unwanted by a family they loved. And this goes for all types... Purebreds and mutts alike. It's amazing how many purebreds are found within rescues and shelters. It's an unfortunate misconception that only mutts are in shelters. (Although mutts are my favorite kind!)

**Here is a link to the AKC website for a list of RESPONSIBLE breeders**

https://www.akc.org/press_center/facts_stats.cfm?page=responsible_breeder

So the next time you think of purchasing from a breeder, do your homework. Are they responsible? Do they have any complaints? When you go see the puppies, do the conditions look healthy and safe? Really do your research.

But even before all of that... Please consider a shelter dog. Breeders will always find homes for their puppies, that I assure you. If you don't take them, someone else will, trust me. Not to mention, they are already in a home, and do not face the risk of being euthanized at any moment.

**Pet Finder is a wonderfully easy website to find dogs in your area by breed, sex, age, etc**

http://www.petfinder.com/

And if you just don't think you want to "risk it" with a shelter dog, consider going to a rescue at the very least, where the dog has been in a foster home and they can report more accurately on the dog's behavior and condition, if that is what worries you. When you pull a dog from a rescue, it frees up a spot for another dog in the shelter, to go to a loving, foster family environment until they find their forever home.

OH MY GOODNESS how can you say no to this face?!

But all of that aside... We rescued our Tiger boy from a shelter. He was picked up as a stray and went unnoticed in the shelter for THREE MONTHS before we came across him. We met him once, and he actually didn't want anything to do with us. (Don't expect an instant connection at the first meeting. Pay attention to volunteer notes from the shelter. The dog may just be shy, since this is their first time meeting you.) Fast forward two years later and he is currently curled up by my feet as I type this. He is always at my heel, so much so that I joke that we should've named him Shadow. The vet compliments him every time we go in, because he is in picture perfect health. He is the best, most mellow dog I have ever owned.

This is the actual photo of Tiger we saw on Pet Finder that made us go meet him!

I understand that Tiger's story may not be the same for every shelter dog out there. But I can tell you with certain confidence that a shelter dog will always, always love you. And isn't that the point of getting a dog anyways? To love something, and to be loved, unconditionally? I really believe a shelter dog knows they got a second chance... And they will love you until their last breath if you let them.

If there is any point to my crazy dog lady rambling, it's that I hope you make a smart choice when you purchase your new family member... whichever avenue you choose to go. And I would hope that you wouldn't turn your nose up to any of these options, as I truly hope that most of us are in for the common goal... To give a dog a loving home.

And if you are a huge softie, like I plan to be someday, open your home to those dogs who are less fortunate. An old face doesn't mean an old heart. No sight doesn't mean they can't see right through to your soul. Less legs doesn't mean that they won't run to you with all of their might when you come home. And no hearing doesn't mean they don't listen to what you say. These dogs need homes and love just as much, if you are willing to give it.

This is Emma, from "Everything Emma" on Facebook. She is unable to use her back legs, but have you seen her viral video on youtube when she dragged herself so excitedly across the hallway to see her daddy who just got home from Afghanistan?! Grab some tissues.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2317357/The-heartwarming-moment-disabled-dog-finds-special-burst-energy-drag-greet-Air-Force-owner-returning-Afghanistan.html

All in all, love can come in all forms from all different places. Please consider saving a life before you decide to go to a breeder. And if you still decide to go to a breeder, just please be smart about it.

Wanted: A Wife

Em and I parted ways this evening. We hadn’t been together very long, or even seeing each other in any kind of “this is my girlfriend” capacity, but I did like her enough that I told my parents she existed. We had a lovely catch-up dinner (hadn’t seen each other in three weeks - now there’s a tip-off), and parted ways really simply, with kindness and care for each other. Ironically, we were both going the same way on the subway, which did not happen once in the short weeks we were romantically linked.

I said after my last break-up that I needed to be alone for a while, I wanted to experience what that was like. And I do. We also broke up because I have a not-so-sneaking suspicion that the pendulum of my sexuality has swung very deeply into the heart of Ladytown, and it's about damn time I allowed myself to explore that. So I'm doing that, too. It's been a fight - sometimes I feel disingenuous to myself, but I know that if I don't take the time to do it, I'll regret it later.

It struck me as I walked home over the icy sidewalks of my less-than-stellar neighborhood that perhaps the reason I’ve never been alone is my ease of independence. I prefer challenging environments and being partnered, to me, is much more of a challenge. I’m good at selfish and self care; I’m bad at taking a partner’s feelings into account - I either go too far, or not far enough, and it’s a daily crapshoot as to which. I know being single doesn’t always encourage me to grow as a person. It does encourage my creativity, but I often don’t take advantage of that extra time. When I do, I’m holed up and unreachable in a way my friends find frustrating.

I’ve been in search of my other half since college. It’s always at least in the back of my mind. I have been ready to build a life with someone else, and I have had ample opportunities and many not-so-false, but less than stellar, starts. Maybe I’m not ready to get married - I absolutely do not feel like sharing my bedroom with somebody else (maybe that’s because it’s so small?) - but I am ready to know the person I want to walk into the future with.

It doesn’t matter how firm the logic inside of me says that love is something you build with your hands, I believe that when I meet my wife, I will Have Met My Wife. There will be some inescapable magic there. She will be inescapably human, and our bond wholly sacred. I don’t expect it to be easy, I know we’ll fight because being partnered doesn’t come easy to me.

I see glimpses of her in other women, I saw pieces of her in Em.

It takes me a long, long time to open up all the way and love somebody with the intensity a long, loving relationship deserves. The last person to crack me open that far was Grace, and it took me until last year (two years after her wedding to another person!) to realize I had been in love with her the whole time. It still took her a year to pull me apart and set herself in my bones. This is why I don’t like dating - who is going to have the patience for that?

I hate dating. I find it exhausting. I always have. It feels inorganic and forced. I don't really like going out in public all the time, I prefer quiet intimacy. (Plus, nobody ever messages me and I am always pursuant. I loathe pursuit. I am too shy and awkward for that shit - if you want me, come and claim me, or whatever.) I really liked dating my friends in college, and I wish I had more single friends now so I could date them instead. It can be so easy to fall in love someone you already care for. If only I wanted a husband.

I am frightened that I will meet my wife, and she won’t be able to wait. She won’t have the patience I require, she won’t have enough love left to give me. There will be too much sex in the beginning, and not enough heart. I need the heart. Grace was the most organic relationship/friendship I was ever in; we started with poetry camp, spent three months of long lonely winters sending letters across oceans, and grew together through a lot of post-college bullshit. We relied on each other and the only thing we were (and are, frankly) afraid of is life without the other. We never had the pressure of a romantic relationship, because we never said we were in one.

I think about my friend Anna, who walked out on her boyfriend, saying “It’s been a year, you either love me or you don’t.” He spent three weeks drinking scotch and crying in his cups until he showed up on her doorstep and said he loved her. He said he knew he’d made a mistake the second his door closed behind her, it just took him that long to find the courage to ask her home. They’ve been together for almost five years now. Will that be me?

Is it already?

Two Weeks

It's been a strange two weeks.

Ten days ago, I was excitedly getting ready for a first date, with a cute guy I'd met online. I felt nervous, a little nauseous even, but I'd been feeling under the weather all week. I brushed it off as pre-date jitters and got on my bike to meet him in the city. We met in the park, and left our bikes outside a cafe as we strolled around, talking music, movies, work, and about our friends and families. The time flew by, and as I raced home on my bike, I couldn't wait to see him again. I couldn't stop smiling, and, for the first time in almost a year, I had butterflies.

* * *

Later, as I sat in my home office typing an email, I started to suspect the butterflies had given way to PMS. As I fidgeted in my chair trying to find a comfortable position, I thought back to my earlier nausea, and how I'd been feeling a little off all week. Was I coming down with something? Or was it just the monthly trials of womanhood? My period should be starting any day now, right? I glanced at the calendar, counting back the weeks. I counted again.

I'm late.

* * *

It's 4 p.m. The pharmacy doesn't close until 7 p.m., but I have a team meeting via video conference at 5 p.m. For the next hour I sit there, a slow panic rising, as I try to trace back over the last four, five, six weeks.

    Before my vacation. That guy I'd been seeing. The condom that broke.

    But he'd realized right away; he didn't finish inside me. I know the chances of being pregnant are slim to none, but my periods have always come like clockwork. If I am pregnant, that's when it happened.

    I log in to the video conferencing suite, smiling at my colleagues. Working remotely, we rarely all see each other, and under normal circumstances I'd welcome the chance to see everyone's faces. But all I can think about is peeing on a stick.

* * *

I've always been a list-maker. To-do lists, shopping lists, packing lists . . . living a life as unpredictable as mine equipped me with not only the desire for order, but the ability to soothe any anxieties or upheaval with lists.

    My eyes are glazing over as my colleagues nod along to what our boss is saying. I pull my notebook towards me, the same notebook I'm writing this in now, and flip it open, drawing a line down the middle of the blank page. At the top of the left column, I write PROS, on the right, CONS. 

    Forever linked to a guy I don't want to date, I wrote in the right-hand column. I knew from my brief time in childcare how hard co-parenting was when you loved someone, and how impossible it could be when you didn't share any of the common values and beliefs child development depends on. I knew I didn't want to raise a baby with someone I didn't want to be with.

    In the left column, without thinking about why, I write But it's a baby, reminding myself of the famous List in Friends, when Ross realizes that though Julie was a great woman, she wasn't the right woman for him, because she wasn't Rachel (or, you know. Rachem. Oh, typos and the trouble they cause!)

    Costs a lot of money, under CONS. Then, under PROS, but I make a lot of money. A new category is drawn up at the bottom of the page: QUESTIONS.

    How would work and having a baby . . . work? I ask myself. Back up to the CONS: mom isn't here, and I don't want to raise children in the UK. Another PRO: My friends here are wonderful mothers, and would be an incredible support system. Also: I can make really good baby food, a nod, I think, to my general sense of feeling better prepared for family life after my time in childcare. I have no illusions about knowing everything I need to, but I know I have a better idea than many single women my age.

    Last question: How would having a baby affect my application for immigration to the US?

* * *

 

Finally, my team meeting is over. I grab my phone, keys and jacket, pull my shoes on, and race downstairs, pushing my bike out the door. I weave through the dark streets to the pharmacy and pull up outside. Deep breath.

    Silently cursing the condoms as I walk past them, I scan the shelves, looking at the many options in front of me. Some boxes have three tests, others only two. Some come with ovulation tests, or tell you how far along you are. I figure this isn't the time for thriftiness, and grab the box of three, the most highly recommended - and most expensive - brand, and turn in the direction of the check-outs. Waiting in line, I see a basket of caramel-filled chocolate eggs, and (thinking they'd probably help no matter what the results of the test are) I grab three.

    The young guy at the register picks up the box, turning it over in his hands.

    "These don't have security tags, do they? Don't want them setting off the alarms."

    "No," I say evenly. "Because that would be embarrassing."

    He looks up, mortified, and I smirk at him, letting him know I'm just busting his chops. I don't want to be a cliché, I want to be the woman who can buy a pregnancy test as if it's no big deal, a big joke.

    He bags the test and chocolate and I walk out, stuffing one of the eggs in my mouth whole. If I'm about to give up drinking, my body's going to have to get used to me mainlining chocolate as a coping mechanism.

* * *

I'd heard people say those three minutes can be some of the longest minutes we experience as women. I plugged my iPod into my stereo and hit play. At the end of this song, I'll go back into the bathroom and check, I tell myself. Another chocolate egg disappears.

* * *

There it is, then.

    Not Pregnant.

    The instructions say to take another test in three days if I still haven't gotten my period. I tidy the box away, throw out the stick, wash my hands. I make a cup of tea, and take it upstairs with the last chocolate egg, sitting back down at my desk, where my PROS and CONS list still sits.

    I smile, breathe, flip the page, and start a new list for tomorrow. FRIDAY TO-DO LIST....

* * *

 3 days later and still nothing.

    It's Sunday morning. I've pretty much forgotten Thursday's events; I'd been on another date with the cutie from the park, seen a great live concert, made plans for a weeknight dinner date. I'm getting dressed for a long walk on the beach, packing a picnic, pulling my walking boots on. I'm enjoying the weekend, with last week's drama far from my mind.

    As the pebbles crunch and shift beneath my feet and the wind whips my scarf about my head, my thoughts drift back to the moment I walked back into the bathroom. In that moment, I knew which outcome would disappoint me, and it was right there, glaring at me from the sink.

    All the logic and reasoning I had couldn't take away the sadness that softly washed over me when I saw the single blue line. Not even a hint of that second line that would have turned my life upside down. No lists could tell me how I felt better than that fleeting, painfully authentic moment.

    I was relieved, of course I was. I was glad I didn't have to think about the money, whether I'd need to move, the conversation I'd need to have with the guy. I was glad I didn't have to call him and turn his life upside down too, or figure out how to raise a child with someone I didn't want to be with.

    But when I looked inside myself, I saw how much I'd wanted the test to read positive. And now . . . now I had to find a way to un-see it.

    By the time I get home that evening, my period has started. Again, expecting relief, I am hit with another wave of sadness. No excitement, no thanking God for my freedom. Just a gaping 'what if?' in my apparently empty womb.

* * *

I spend the next week focusing on other things. I work, I flirt with the guy, go on two more dates. I start to really like him. We share so many core values, appreciate similar things in life, want the same things out of life. He has a great smile, and although there are no big fireworks, I am definitely attracted to him. I've learned to value the fireworks much less in recent years, and our compatibility speaks to me much louder than sexual chemistry. There's definitely something between us, though I know he's not in a place where he wants a serious relationship, so I try to move slowly, hoping I don't scare him off.

    It doesn't make a difference. After only ten days, he tells me as I'm walking through the park where we first met that he doesn't feel the necessary spark, or perhaps just isn't ready to date at all. "Still broken" he says. Either way, it's over. I cry, just a handful of tears that were as surprised to find themselves on my cheeks as I was to feel them there.

    I look out at the river, gazing at the blue skies, thankful for such a beautiful day when the forecast said rain. I wrap my scarf around my neck a little tighter, dig my hands deeper into my pockets, and walk away.

Goodbye, Baklava

I know we never met frequently, Baklava, but I cherished our moments.  I will miss you.

I'm hypoglycemic.  Over the last year, it's come to the point where I can't eat more than a quarter portion of an average piece of cake without feeling very nauseous.  I gave away my Christmas candy and I don't even put sugar in tea anymore.  For the most part, I don't mind.  I've never been very big on sweet foods, they were always a sometimes treat.

What I hadn't considered was baklava.  It's already in small pieces.  It has nuts in it.  It should be ok to have just a tiny bit.  Baklava has always been one of my favorites for occasions.

Alas.

I've been very ill lately and my roommate kindly brought home a piece of baklava for when I feel better. Today, I'm feeling much better and thought I'd have a little bit of it.  One. Single. Bite. And I'm nauseous.  I put the rest of the pastry carefully back into it's little box.

I would still rather give up sweets entirely rather than take insulin injections.

Goodbye, baklava.  I will remember you fondly.