It is a bit of a cliche isn’t it? That after a break-up one struggles to sleep on the other side (or in the middle) of your bed. Well, at least I thought it was.
That is, until I found myself propping pillows up on my side of the bed.
It was a long day, and there was absolutely nothing on TV. I was about to settle in with some Law & Order reruns, when it occurred to me that it had been awhile since I had read and as I was approaching the middle of Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song, I decided it was time to pour myself a glass of wine, get in my jammies and settle into my bed with Norman.
I put the glass on my nightstand, and started propping up my pillows to make the perfect back rest. As I reached for an extra pillow from the other side, it hit me -- why the hell am I only using one side of my bed.
I had never spent enough time in a bed with one guy to have a side of the bed until Houdini. Before him, I slept right in the middle unless someone else was in it, in which case I would lie awake on my side, worried that my tossing and turning was keeping my partner awake.
But with Houdini, I crossed some grown-up threshold and actually slept with a guy; not just passed out next to him. Once he was gone, I guess I never crossed back. Or at least, I never crossed back onto that side of the bed.
It seemed ridiculous that I had been using only one half of my bed for so long. I rearranged my pillows, creating the perfect prop right in the middle of my bed. I crawled in, pulled the covers over my legs, and double checked that I could still reach for my glass of wine.
That night, I fell asleep in the middle too. Sure, I woke up the next morning right back on my side, but I’m still counting it as a success.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Twins
So, I have been feeling kind of down on myself lately, with no real apparent cause.
I’m not saying I am perfect. Quite the opposite. I don’t have a real job or a real boyfriend and I haven’t been running all that much. Really, the only thing I have going for me is my hair and even that has been boring me lately.
My point is, this situation is not new. I haven’t had a job since March and a boyfriend since a long time before then.
Maybe it is the weather. Or the Eagles. Or that I have been spending so much time holed-up in my apartment studying for the GRE. Whatever it is, I needed a boost.
Now, I don’t know about all of you, but for me, whenever I start feeling this way, I like to blame something that is completely out of my control (so I can't simply stand up and say, Tatiana, you should go for a run -- it will make you feel better) and absolutely ridiculous when spoken out loud (or in this case printed in black and white) but at the time, it made complete sense to me. And my favorite thing to blame my woes on is my lack of a chest.
That’s right, I wrote it. Sometimes I think my life would be better if I had bigger boobs.
This past weekend I took myself off of social probation to go out for Theresa’s birthday and a benefit for the Mummers with the Duchess. And because it was my first big weekend out in a long while, and my last for the foreseeable future, I decided to do it up really big; really, really big. Like almost a size C big (though the bra promised to make me almost a size D, I think that is pushing it).
I don’t know what I expected.
At first, I was impressed; particularly when I put on a new top. For the first time in my life I had cleavage. I wasn’t used to it. I kept looking down at it to make sure it was still there.
But it didn't make my life any better. In fact, my night ended much the same way it always ends: talking to some guy I have no interest in whatsoever. This time there was a twist, we had met before, he just couldn't remember.
The next night, at the Mummer’s event, you couldn’t see the cleavage. Just the girth of the girls. Every time I got the chance to look at them in a mirror, I didn’t feel sexy or more confident. Just big. Maybe it was the tunic, though the last time I wore this exact outfit, I felt little and cute. Worse, the long necklace I was wearing with the sweater kept falling to the far side of my fake breasts, instead of just laying in the middle like it was suppose to.
I also kept bumping into them. With my arms or on tables. And when I pushed them the wrong way with my arm, the underwire would dig into the skin of the opposite boob and it hurt damnit.
Finally, there was the heft of them. Now, it was just padding, but it got pretty heavy. I can only imagine what carrying around real ones would be like. I was complaining to the Duchess about this, when she laughed. The Duchess is naturally endowed and always says, “You can make them bigger, but you can’t make them smaller.”
She was saying something to this effect when I sighed and responded, “Yes, but when I do, on nights like tonight. I feel a bit phony, like I’m falsely advertising myself.”
The Duchess smiled, “Yeah, but if that is the case then you know the guy isn’t really interested in you. Would you want to be with a guy like that?”
Man, the Duchess can be so smart.
Now if only I could get a refund on that bra. Then again, I may find some future use for it.
I’m not saying I am perfect. Quite the opposite. I don’t have a real job or a real boyfriend and I haven’t been running all that much. Really, the only thing I have going for me is my hair and even that has been boring me lately.
My point is, this situation is not new. I haven’t had a job since March and a boyfriend since a long time before then.
Maybe it is the weather. Or the Eagles. Or that I have been spending so much time holed-up in my apartment studying for the GRE. Whatever it is, I needed a boost.
Now, I don’t know about all of you, but for me, whenever I start feeling this way, I like to blame something that is completely out of my control (so I can't simply stand up and say, Tatiana, you should go for a run -- it will make you feel better) and absolutely ridiculous when spoken out loud (or in this case printed in black and white) but at the time, it made complete sense to me. And my favorite thing to blame my woes on is my lack of a chest.
That’s right, I wrote it. Sometimes I think my life would be better if I had bigger boobs.
This past weekend I took myself off of social probation to go out for Theresa’s birthday and a benefit for the Mummers with the Duchess. And because it was my first big weekend out in a long while, and my last for the foreseeable future, I decided to do it up really big; really, really big. Like almost a size C big (though the bra promised to make me almost a size D, I think that is pushing it).
I don’t know what I expected.
At first, I was impressed; particularly when I put on a new top. For the first time in my life I had cleavage. I wasn’t used to it. I kept looking down at it to make sure it was still there.
But it didn't make my life any better. In fact, my night ended much the same way it always ends: talking to some guy I have no interest in whatsoever. This time there was a twist, we had met before, he just couldn't remember.
The next night, at the Mummer’s event, you couldn’t see the cleavage. Just the girth of the girls. Every time I got the chance to look at them in a mirror, I didn’t feel sexy or more confident. Just big. Maybe it was the tunic, though the last time I wore this exact outfit, I felt little and cute. Worse, the long necklace I was wearing with the sweater kept falling to the far side of my fake breasts, instead of just laying in the middle like it was suppose to.
I also kept bumping into them. With my arms or on tables. And when I pushed them the wrong way with my arm, the underwire would dig into the skin of the opposite boob and it hurt damnit.
Finally, there was the heft of them. Now, it was just padding, but it got pretty heavy. I can only imagine what carrying around real ones would be like. I was complaining to the Duchess about this, when she laughed. The Duchess is naturally endowed and always says, “You can make them bigger, but you can’t make them smaller.”
She was saying something to this effect when I sighed and responded, “Yes, but when I do, on nights like tonight. I feel a bit phony, like I’m falsely advertising myself.”
The Duchess smiled, “Yeah, but if that is the case then you know the guy isn’t really interested in you. Would you want to be with a guy like that?”
Man, the Duchess can be so smart.
Now if only I could get a refund on that bra. Then again, I may find some future use for it.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Meet Brandi
I have a new upstairs neighbor that I’m going to call Brandi (mostly because the first time I met her she said her name and in my head I said, huh, she looks like a Brandi). I’m sure Brandi is a fine girl, but I won’t be serenading her this morning.
Brandi moved in with what I can only assume is a 500 pound dog from what I hear through my ceiling. When they first moved in the dog barked incessantly and howled whenever Brandi left. I rolled my eyes, but I was patient. Moving is hard on animals. I knew after a short adjustment period the dog would settled down. And it has. Now it only barks when someone comes into the building.
Though, it stills runs around the apartment above me, wrestling down chew toys, beating them into submission.
And that was fine, until last night.
Last night -- or more accurately, 3:30 this morning, Brandi came home with a guest and the dog, predictably, barked until she and her gentlemen friend made it to the second floor.
Fine. I get it. I lived with a dog. There is really no controlling their barking. And maybe I would have fallen right back asleep if they didn’t decided 3:30 in the morning was a good time to play catch with the dog.
Playing catch with a 500 pound dog in the room above my bedroom at 3:30 in the morning. Awesome.
When they got bored with that, the dog took whatever toy was being tossed around and chewed and beat it, just above my head, until he felt victorious -- about 15 minutes later.
Then the dog and the party were moved to another room where I got to listen to Brandi have sex.
Now, I know Brandi was not the first person to have sex in the apartment above me. The last tenant and her boyfriend moved out because she was pregnant and they needed more room. However, Brandi is the first person I heard. My point, well, if I wasn't already awake, I probably would have slept through it as she really wasn’t loud.
But instead I got to listen to that unmistakable, rhythmic squeaking of a bed being rocked back and forth. Up and down. Back and forth.
It was really difficult to get back to sleep after that as I started practicing my math skills, calculating how much time I had left before my alarm went off, how many times I could hit snooze before I had to get out of bed, just how long it has been since my bed springs squeaked like that.
When I did get up this morning, after a simultaneously relaxing and reviving cup of chai tea, I heard Brandi and the beast return from their morning walk. I wanted to step out into the hallway and have a talk with Brandi, but I thought better of it. Give her time, see if this was a one night thing or if she plans on partying like this every school night. I got the feeling that Brandi had enough regrets this morning.
It did sound like stranger sex, after all.
Brandi moved in with what I can only assume is a 500 pound dog from what I hear through my ceiling. When they first moved in the dog barked incessantly and howled whenever Brandi left. I rolled my eyes, but I was patient. Moving is hard on animals. I knew after a short adjustment period the dog would settled down. And it has. Now it only barks when someone comes into the building.
Though, it stills runs around the apartment above me, wrestling down chew toys, beating them into submission.
And that was fine, until last night.
Last night -- or more accurately, 3:30 this morning, Brandi came home with a guest and the dog, predictably, barked until she and her gentlemen friend made it to the second floor.
Fine. I get it. I lived with a dog. There is really no controlling their barking. And maybe I would have fallen right back asleep if they didn’t decided 3:30 in the morning was a good time to play catch with the dog.
Playing catch with a 500 pound dog in the room above my bedroom at 3:30 in the morning. Awesome.
When they got bored with that, the dog took whatever toy was being tossed around and chewed and beat it, just above my head, until he felt victorious -- about 15 minutes later.
Then the dog and the party were moved to another room where I got to listen to Brandi have sex.
Now, I know Brandi was not the first person to have sex in the apartment above me. The last tenant and her boyfriend moved out because she was pregnant and they needed more room. However, Brandi is the first person I heard. My point, well, if I wasn't already awake, I probably would have slept through it as she really wasn’t loud.
But instead I got to listen to that unmistakable, rhythmic squeaking of a bed being rocked back and forth. Up and down. Back and forth.
It was really difficult to get back to sleep after that as I started practicing my math skills, calculating how much time I had left before my alarm went off, how many times I could hit snooze before I had to get out of bed, just how long it has been since my bed springs squeaked like that.
When I did get up this morning, after a simultaneously relaxing and reviving cup of chai tea, I heard Brandi and the beast return from their morning walk. I wanted to step out into the hallway and have a talk with Brandi, but I thought better of it. Give her time, see if this was a one night thing or if she plans on partying like this every school night. I got the feeling that Brandi had enough regrets this morning.
It did sound like stranger sex, after all.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Good Touch Bad Touch
For the record, yes, I am procrastinating again, but I also really wanted to share this moment from happy hour.
So, I’m standing with Marie and a couple of other former co-workers when another walks up, stands next to me, places his hand on my lower back and joins our conversation.
By now you should know I am not one for being touch. I’m also not a huge fan of public displays of affection. But this specific touch, when a guy I’m with or into firmly places his hand on the small of my back, typically makes me weak in the knees.
Wharton was the first guy that this happened with; I remember because when Bridie pulled me aside and asked me what the heck was going on with me and Wharton (we were broken up at the time, but not acting like it) I said I couldn’t help myself, when he touched my back like that, shivers ran up my spine.
She said that was my self-respect leaving my body. She was probably right.
However, when Creepy-Co-worker placed his hand there, there were neither weak knees, nor shivers. Well, there were shivers, but a different sort.
When he finally walked away and Marie could ask what the hell was wrong with me (obviously my face was contorted into a why-is-he-touching-me-there grimace) I told them where CC’s hand had just been. She rolled her eyes. She was used to CC’s weird and inappropriate touches. I then maneuvered so that my lower back wasn’t exposed when CC returned from his cigarette.
As upset as I was at CC for turning my previously good touch bad, it could have been worse, at least there were no good looking guys in the bar misled by that very possessive move.
So, I’m standing with Marie and a couple of other former co-workers when another walks up, stands next to me, places his hand on my lower back and joins our conversation.
By now you should know I am not one for being touch. I’m also not a huge fan of public displays of affection. But this specific touch, when a guy I’m with or into firmly places his hand on the small of my back, typically makes me weak in the knees.
Wharton was the first guy that this happened with; I remember because when Bridie pulled me aside and asked me what the heck was going on with me and Wharton (we were broken up at the time, but not acting like it) I said I couldn’t help myself, when he touched my back like that, shivers ran up my spine.
She said that was my self-respect leaving my body. She was probably right.
However, when Creepy-Co-worker placed his hand there, there were neither weak knees, nor shivers. Well, there were shivers, but a different sort.
When he finally walked away and Marie could ask what the hell was wrong with me (obviously my face was contorted into a why-is-he-touching-me-there grimace) I told them where CC’s hand had just been. She rolled her eyes. She was used to CC’s weird and inappropriate touches. I then maneuvered so that my lower back wasn’t exposed when CC returned from his cigarette.
As upset as I was at CC for turning my previously good touch bad, it could have been worse, at least there were no good looking guys in the bar misled by that very possessive move.
Friday, November 13, 2009
I Am A Terrible Blogger
I know, I know. I don’t bring you flowers, I don’t sing you love songs, I hardly talk to you anymore.
But I can explain.
See, I have been working on Plan B.
I know. I know. I was going to shun Plan B until my unemployment ran out and I was facing eviction. But I can’t do it. I’m a planner. I need a back up plan.
At first I was going to make Plan B finding a new job. But then, as I was searching job listings, I remembered I really don’t want to work in PR anymore. Even if it is for a really terrific company, it is still not the creative outlet I seek.
So, I’m doing what countless others have done before me. I am going back to school. Specifically, I am hoping to get into an MFA program for creative writing.
And since I waited until the eleventh hour to do this, all of my time, recently, has been occupied with studying for the GRE, writing personal statements (why I can’t just direct them to this blog is beyond me) and creating short fiction for their consideration.
By the way, I am really bad at writing short fiction, which is why I am putting that off by writing this post.
But, you argue, I can always find time to post. True. But I have nothing to post about because literally all I have been doing is studying vocabulary words and rules for right triangles.
I even turned down happy hour with the Duchess and assistant DAs the other night. Believe me, reading her texts about the tall, hot guys there was like taking a bullet.
I promise I will be back soon with all sorts of fun stories. Just let me get through the GRE.
Oh, and if I can ask you a favor, please keep you fingers crossed that I get in somewhere. As finding a real job has been relegated to Plan C.
I really don’t want to implement Plan C.
But I can explain.
See, I have been working on Plan B.
I know. I know. I was going to shun Plan B until my unemployment ran out and I was facing eviction. But I can’t do it. I’m a planner. I need a back up plan.
At first I was going to make Plan B finding a new job. But then, as I was searching job listings, I remembered I really don’t want to work in PR anymore. Even if it is for a really terrific company, it is still not the creative outlet I seek.
So, I’m doing what countless others have done before me. I am going back to school. Specifically, I am hoping to get into an MFA program for creative writing.
And since I waited until the eleventh hour to do this, all of my time, recently, has been occupied with studying for the GRE, writing personal statements (why I can’t just direct them to this blog is beyond me) and creating short fiction for their consideration.
By the way, I am really bad at writing short fiction, which is why I am putting that off by writing this post.
But, you argue, I can always find time to post. True. But I have nothing to post about because literally all I have been doing is studying vocabulary words and rules for right triangles.
I even turned down happy hour with the Duchess and assistant DAs the other night. Believe me, reading her texts about the tall, hot guys there was like taking a bullet.
I promise I will be back soon with all sorts of fun stories. Just let me get through the GRE.
Oh, and if I can ask you a favor, please keep you fingers crossed that I get in somewhere. As finding a real job has been relegated to Plan C.
I really don’t want to implement Plan C.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
A Bitch is Born
So a friend (and by friend I really do mean a friend and just not me in disguise) was recently on a date with a gentlemen (used very loosely in this context) who asked her not once, not twice, but thrice, how it was that she wasn’t married.
The first time she giggled it off.
The second time she smiled and answered “I guess I have just been lucky.”
The third time, having now learned that he was previously married answered, “I have better judgment than you.” She then downed the rest of her scotch and called out to the waiter for the bill (or at least that is how I imagine it).
Despite her obvious contempt for her date, he has called her everyday since.
I wasn’t going to write about Why Men Marry Bitches. One, because it didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t read already, and two, because I think I am done reading these books. None of them tell the truth -- that there is no formula for falling in love. That you can do everything right and the guy still may not call you for a second date. Or you can do everything wrong and six months later your walking down the aisle.
Except, I’m not sure I believe that anymore. I am starting to think game playing is the way to go.
Stanley called me a couple of weeks ago because he wanted to fix me up with someone. Mind you, he didn’t know this person, only spoke to him once, but since he sounded nice and Stanley knew he was tall, he thought of me.
I said why not. I decided to try this new thing where I actually try new things. The next day I got a call from him -- still working on a nickname, so for now we will just go with Him.
Him and I spoke for about fifteen minutes. We laughed a lot and before it ended, Him said he would call me in a couple of days to plan to get drinks.
Then he friended me on Facebook.
I was in a cab on my way to a wedding when I got the e-mail alert. I wanted to click accept, mostly because I was interested in knowing what Him looked like. But then this tiny voice inside my head said, “this is a bad idea. You shouldn’t friend Him. Remember what that book said.”
See, bitches don't accept friend requests from would-be suitors. Bitches always allow for a little mystery.
What? I was really listening to the advice from this book. Obviously I have read too many of these. I immediately clicked accept.
I haven’t heard from Him since.
Now, I’m not unattractive. There aren’t any pictures of me on my Facebook page surrounded by cats and knitting. Nor are there any pictures of me drunk, squatting in an alley taking a dump. My interests do not include weddings and babies and crying during Kleenex commercials. For the most part, I think my Facebook page is pretty unremarkable and so I can’t understand what about it would make Him not call.
Well, except for the fact that I suddenly became too available to him. The kiss of death according to everything I have read.
I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t.
So, I am reconsidering my approach. Which is why the next day, when Mr. Tuesday Night called to see if I wanted to get dinner, I didn’t take his call. I also haven’t returned it. I figured in a couple of days he will call again, begging me to let him buy me dinner.
As for Him, well, we’re still friends on Facebook.
The first time she giggled it off.
The second time she smiled and answered “I guess I have just been lucky.”
The third time, having now learned that he was previously married answered, “I have better judgment than you.” She then downed the rest of her scotch and called out to the waiter for the bill (or at least that is how I imagine it).
Despite her obvious contempt for her date, he has called her everyday since.
I wasn’t going to write about Why Men Marry Bitches. One, because it didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t read already, and two, because I think I am done reading these books. None of them tell the truth -- that there is no formula for falling in love. That you can do everything right and the guy still may not call you for a second date. Or you can do everything wrong and six months later your walking down the aisle.
Except, I’m not sure I believe that anymore. I am starting to think game playing is the way to go.
Stanley called me a couple of weeks ago because he wanted to fix me up with someone. Mind you, he didn’t know this person, only spoke to him once, but since he sounded nice and Stanley knew he was tall, he thought of me.
I said why not. I decided to try this new thing where I actually try new things. The next day I got a call from him -- still working on a nickname, so for now we will just go with Him.
Him and I spoke for about fifteen minutes. We laughed a lot and before it ended, Him said he would call me in a couple of days to plan to get drinks.
Then he friended me on Facebook.
I was in a cab on my way to a wedding when I got the e-mail alert. I wanted to click accept, mostly because I was interested in knowing what Him looked like. But then this tiny voice inside my head said, “this is a bad idea. You shouldn’t friend Him. Remember what that book said.”
See, bitches don't accept friend requests from would-be suitors. Bitches always allow for a little mystery.
What? I was really listening to the advice from this book. Obviously I have read too many of these. I immediately clicked accept.
I haven’t heard from Him since.
Now, I’m not unattractive. There aren’t any pictures of me on my Facebook page surrounded by cats and knitting. Nor are there any pictures of me drunk, squatting in an alley taking a dump. My interests do not include weddings and babies and crying during Kleenex commercials. For the most part, I think my Facebook page is pretty unremarkable and so I can’t understand what about it would make Him not call.
Well, except for the fact that I suddenly became too available to him. The kiss of death according to everything I have read.
I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t.
So, I am reconsidering my approach. Which is why the next day, when Mr. Tuesday Night called to see if I wanted to get dinner, I didn’t take his call. I also haven’t returned it. I figured in a couple of days he will call again, begging me to let him buy me dinner.
As for Him, well, we’re still friends on Facebook.
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