Be Careful What You Wish For...part 2

Another ex-boyfriend has materialized, out of the blue, after 6 years with no contact. In the immortal words of Joe Schmo, I ask you "What's Going On???!!!".

So, the quandry arises: Do I tell MB? Of course, there is nothing going on, no feelings, no nothing. That is gone, dead, done. We parted on bad terms and he wants to say sorry. Do I reply? Do I tell MB and then reply? I am perfectly aware of what MB's feelings would be on the subject, and replying to this guy after telling him would not be an option. Yet I (selfishly) want to know what he's up to. I know exactly how I'd feel if MB told me of some long-lost love proclaiming regrets and apologies...his response would, of course, mean abject pain in the t*sticular area and witholding of wifely duties (yes boys, I mean no more laundry). So why do I want to do this?

The answer is, that I'm terminally curious (aka nosy) about things, and this will be my downfall. I have yet to decide what to do.

I don't feel like being amusing today

I wake up in the morning at 5.50am
in the car by 6.45am
subway by 8am
work by 9am
work until 5.30pm
home by 7.30pm
gym until 9pm
bed by 10pm
repeat x 5

I sometimes think I'm too frail for this life, I'm not strong enough. How can I possibly do grownup things like fill out tax returns, buy stocks, or apply for a mortgage, let alone the things that really matter: get married, raise babies, deal with death? Not only do I have to wake up every morning and BE, but I also have to be smart, funny, flexible, dedicated, clever, analytical, loving, s*xy, calm, rational, understanding, and an upteen amount of other things to different people.

I'm not sure if I can do it. I'm too young and inexperienced for this. People have given up over less. I think I'm going to break.

And then I realize I'm being an idiot. Of course I'm strong enough. I am English after all.

Be Careful What You Wish For...

An earlier post pondered the whereabouts of The Evil Ex-Boyfriend. Little did I know that I would get a snippet of information about what he is doing / *crewing / up to in general. While watching TV, as I do way too often, I overheard the unmistakable few bars of one of his songs. Looking up in horror, I saw that a tv commerical is using some of his music. Such an intrusion! Now, I'm back to thinking about him, and no, not in a good way at all. This really strirred the pot, and I'm angry all over again. Seriously, be careful what you wish for, because now that I've been thrown this tiny scrap of information...I want more. Like, is he still with the str*pper?

Dear MB...

I just want to explain myself. I know you don't believe in blogs. I know that you think bloggers are, well, self-involved loudmouths who want attention. But I think I needed an outlet, you know, to get it all down. I forget things now, and I'm only 27! Until very recently, when purposely trying to remember all of the little details of my life, I had forgotten that I had a Swedish penpal when I was in primary school. I forgot what year I went to Sicily with my family, or for that matter, anything that happened when I was there (and no, my memory loss wasn't fueled by alcohol). I forgot so many great conversations, so many people, so many good and bad times, that it is time to start remembering again. Not only remembering things gone by, but remembering who I am again, outside of who we are together. I want something that is mine, that gives me an outlet for joy and pain. Someday, at some point, you are going to google me, or just look at the history file of my computer and you are going to find this. You are going to read things that you don't understand, and that you don't want to be true. But when you stop being shocked that I've been hiding something from you, you might begin to know more about me...the part that is private, the part that has hopes and dreams, the part that loves you forever, even if you hate me for hiding these feelings from you. And they aren't bad feelings, they aren't feelings like "Oh God, MB doesn't understand me, so I have to write things here instead of telling him, wah wah wah" because that isn't true. I just feel the need to get it out there...to be blameless, to be honest, to hide nothing. I hope you understand, I hope you do. I love you very much.

Barlet

Irrationality, Part I: I Need It / I Want It

I Need (the essentials of life):

• More money
• Coffee in the morning
• To pee
• A Tim Horton's Boston Cream Donut when I'm on a road trip
• Thongs
• A vacation (usually around April)
• Paper clips that have those little grooves on them so they hold your paper together better
• MB
• Contact Lenses
• Love
• Gloves
• My cats
• Groovy tunes

I Want (the innane):

• Something designer. Just once.
• A bunny
• An office
• To drink really good champagne. A lot.
• A big, honking diamond ring. Actually, any kind would be nice.
• My mummy
• Twin Peaks to come back
• To make everyone happy
• Kids (stupid, stupid, stupid)
• To know what happened to The Evil Ex
• Handcream that costs more than I make in a day
• To stay in an ice hotel

Soundtrack to my life...

My favourite coffee mug has the following printed on it. This is the soundtrack of my life:

Dum-dum de dum, dum-dum de dum, dum-dum de dum, diddly-dum,
Dum-dum de dum, dum-dum de dum, dum-dum de dum, diddly-dum,
Dum-dum de dum, dum-dum de dum, dum-dum de dum, diddly-dum,
Dum-dum de dum, dum-dum de dum, dum,
Wah, wah, waaaaaaahh,
Waaaaah wahhhhhh,
Wah wah wah, wah wah-wah
Dum-dum de dum, dum-dum de dum, dum-dum de dum, diddly-dum...

As Rolf Harris would say, "Can ye guess what it is yit?"

It's Official: I Know Nothing.

During a particularly uncultured moment (I think I was watching Survivor and eating my third slice of pepperoni pizza with bacon) I decided that MB and I should rejoin society and go to a more sophisticated event than "Thursday Night, Same Couch, Same Channel". Although infinitely popular with my tushie, sitting down and watching the world go by was definitely lowering my IQ (I now watch America's Funniest...and laugh...something had to be done). Anyhoo, so that's how MB and I ended up at a string quartet concert last night. Primo seats (score) and a steak dinner beforehand should make this a night for the annals, surely?

Me: Oh honey, do you remember when we went to our first string quartet?
MB: How could I forget? Your IQ went up 20 points that night, and you instantly got that job that pays you $70,000 to ruminate on the meaning of life.
Me: And then we got married and lived happily ever after!
Both: *simper*

Let me preface the next part by saying that the string quartet was very pretty. They sure...played those instruments...well...I think? Ok, ok, I just didn't get it. I don't get it. There, I've said it, I'm an evil, uncultured mush-for-brains plebian. Seriously, it all sounds great, but there was a whole system to the thing that I couldn't get. The quartet walks in, bows, bows again, sits, plays, it's pretty, they finish and nobody claps. I thought there should be clapping. I was almost that person, you know, the one who claps once really loudly before realizing that you aren't meant to clap. Then they play, finish, no clapping, play, finish, no clapping, play, finish, and then everyone claps. I guess I didn't receive the clapping memo. It was like being in Church and not knowing when to sit, stand, kneel or do the congo (ok, that's just my Mum's church). And the people were all so odd. Actual statement heard from man in line at coat check:

"Well, I found that the markings on the third Beethoven movement were both funerial and sad".

Clearly, I am outclassed. I am now relegated back to the couch, where I shall watch the Survivor I missed on Saturday. I'm ordering in KFC.

Whiney McWhiney Pants

MB (My Boyfriend) is sick. Oh so very sick. On the one hand, I want to fetch him things and talk in soothing baby tones, like "Aww, is oo de icky sicky? Is oo? As oo got de sniffoos?" and such. Fortunately (unfortunately), this routine wears on me very quickly...I am an impatient nurse. One day of death-bed agony I can take...but it's going on a week now, and I am now getting to the point where every "Sweeeeet-iiieeeeee? Can you fetch / bring / lift / wipe? request is beginning to make me resentful. Maybe it's because when I'm sick, life still goes on, you know? When I'm sick and take the day off, I still wash the dishes and clean the cat litter, otherwise I would feel totally useless and feel like I'm MILKING IT. Maybe I should milk it, just a little next time? Maybe I should take him to the hospital? Oh God, I'm a bad girlfriend, aren't I?

Ah yes, responsibility grows with age...

I've just realized that I build my tax return into my expected income for the year...how sad is that?

The Beginning...or is this The End?

I feel like writing something down before the Apocalypse. Yes, that sounds either very morbid or fanatical, but I mean it to be neither. I have just come to the conclusion, at this point in my life (i.e. my late twenties), that I am NOT going to write the "Next Great Novel". Somehow, someway, I let things like "earning money" and "cleaning the house" get in the way of my precious dream. Therefore, when the bombs drop and the dust settles, I will have nothing recorded for posterity, nothing for the kiddies to read, the students to study, or the new philosophers to pour over with puzzled expressions and exclamations of "Well, when you put it that way, it all just seems to make sense...".

Having watched the news substantially over the past year and a half, I am convinced that I am going to turn on CNN one day (the biggest offender of editorial journalism to date...oh, and Fox News can go to hell too), and see three of the four Horsemen asking a cameraman for directions to find their lost buddy in Iraq, because they have some business to take care of. I just figured that I haven't contributed anything of consequence to the world to this point, no children (although that may be a blessing...I am of course obligated to produce extremely ill-behaved art history majors), no miracle of science breakthrough, not even a world record for balancing things.

This has caused me to re-evaluate my contribution to society. The only thing I can give would have been that "Next Great Novel", but this blog will have to suffice until I get funded by an extremely wealthy but elderly gentleman with a cough. I guess I could work on the balancing things...I'll keep you posted. Regardless, welcome to my contribution to society, as it is. (Oh, and I'm also a little cynical...I didn't think you'd notice, so I had to point that out.)