The Noise

The noise of their love-making escalated behind her. She couldn't bear to look any longer. She felt her entire body rebelling against what she had just seen. "Why in the hell did I agree to this? What was I thinking?" she admonished herself.

In the beginning, it had seemed like such a great idea to "liven" things up. But now all she could do was beat herself up and listen to the demise of her relationship as her lover and her girlfriend cried with pleasure behind her. Each fervent moan of passion twisting and distorting the thing of beauty that had once seemed so large, stretching out like a vast ocean into the distance, always with hope and promise on the horizon. These things were now replaced with pain and horror as her lover continued to do unspeakable things to the woman that only hours ago had been her best friend. She couldn't bring herself to turn and look back at the scrapyard of lives laying there like twisted metal.

They had had their troubles in the past, of course. She assumed every relationship had certain bumps along the way. But nothing could compare to what she now felt. It was so unexpected. The pain and jealousy that had gripped her had been so sudden and intense. It took all her power to stifle the sensation of her stomach convulsing, and to remain standing as her knees no longer desired to work. Before that moment, everything had been serene. She had felt impossible pleasures, and been touched in ways that she had never before experienced. She had allowed her friend to explore her and they became more intimate than she had ever imagined, all while her lover did the most unimaginable things to her own body, making her writhe in ecstasy. Even remembering it, made her lips quiver with pleasure, but it was only momentary as the moans of the couple behind her knocked her back into reality. She struggled to catch her breath and swallowed the bitter taste of bile in her mouth.

Just as she was glowing from her own euphoria, her lover had gripped that bitch -- that fucking whore -- and had torn into her like she was the best thing he had ever felt in his life. Their passionate moans and kisses had been deafening and each one of their thrusts had stabbed into her heart. As his hands traced her form, from her jawline, around her neck, down her chest and along the side of her body, she felt the burning sting, like he was using razor blades to cut into her flesh. Every kiss of his lips against that slut's flesh was like a brand being placed upon her, burning into her soft, tender skin that only moments ago had felt the most ineffable love for this man who now seemed to have forgotten she was even there. Her eyes burned and she tried violently to claw them from her face and erase the painful memories that were now forever etched in her brain.

Silently, she willed herself to turn around, to let the pain wash over her and sink herself deep into this utter sludge pit into which she had stepped, as she heard his words from the week before echo in her head: "Maybe we should invite Candy over and have a threesome." He claimed that he just wasn't feeling as passionate for her anymore -- that maybe they needed to bring the "spice" back to their relationship. Reluctantly, she had agreed, wanting more than anything to reclaim the vision of the glorious future they had once shared. No price was too high for the future she was so sure was there for them both. She shared drinks with Candy and the conversation took place. In retrospect, causing all of this destruction was far easier than she had ever expected. A couple of drinks and a few words between friends and the demise of her two most valued relationships was sealed.

Fighting back the tears that threatened to gush forth from her eyes at any moment, she picked up the remnants of her clothes and self-respect that lay scattered about the room, as the lovers carried on, seeming oblivious to both her presence and her pain. Her entire life was flashing through her head as she skulked through the room, asking herself how the hell she had gotten here. She had been such a good, sweet, innocent girl growing up. Already, she felt a filth and disgust on herself that no shower could wash off, and every breath she drew in brought their stink in with it. Just as she was about to open the door to leave she heard, "Babe, where are you going?" She turned to see his dick still inside her as the whore involuntarily kept moving against him, paused in mid-thrust. She walked out the door.

The Empty Bar Stool

He stumbled across the room and sat down next to me. I had hoped that I had exuded that certain aura that screamed, "Unless you're a hot coed, stay the hell away from me," but unfortunately, my internal transmission tower must have been down or maybe there was interference, it's not quite clear. All that was clear was that the bastard was sitting next to me and now I lived with the silent terror that he might want to talk to me.

I considered moving across the room, or maybe just down the bar, but the remaining cast of characters looked equally unsavory and I doubted I would find a better spot. Besides, he might be a nice guy. Perhaps his unkempt exterior and beleaguered looking appearance masked the heart of poet and mind of a scientist. Perhaps his lecherous leers at all the women were just a front and he softly worried to himself and wanted nothing more than to find that right woman and settle down.

"Hey, baby, get me a beer." The words slurred out of his mouth, having trouble making their way around his teeth. Clearly, this guy was all heart. "Fucking broads. They never let up. Always complaining and complaining. Like I don't have enough of my own problems. Now I have to listen to theirs? And, of course, I'm always to blame. Like it's my fault for every damn thing that goes wrong in her day. They're ridiculous aren't they?" Startled, I suddenly realized he was attempting to make conversation with me.

"Yeah. Crazy, huh?"

Apparently, his only his mind and not his mouth had reached its limit, "Like it's my fucking fault that her car got stolen and the rent is late. I'm out there bustin' my ass every damn day and all she can do is complain and demand the money. She doesn't even put out any more." The words stumbled their way off his tongue. The fact that someone had ever slept with this man in the past was a testament to the either the power of alcohol or the desperation of women. "I just don't get women, you know?"

"Oh, I know. I know."

I maintained a hidden hope that the conversation could end abruptly and I could escape, but I could see it was useless - I was now his brother-in-arms and we were about to take on the entire female race for their crimes against mankind. I was sure we were about to embark on an entire discussion regarding the emasculation of men by these evil creatures. I needed to get the hell out of there before he decided we were going to be best friends for life. Fortunately, just when I thought it would never end, the Vogons came through and killed him.

Update

Some of you may have noticed that I have been a little lax in updating - not that I was ever terribly good at posting more than a few times per week, but there have certainly been fewer posts coming out of me since my surgery. To all those people that noticed, I'd like to say two things: First, thank you; and, second, it's not my fault.

Surgery certainly did not help my ability to type blog posts on a regular basis, but neither did my laptop crashing, and having to wait for a new one to arrive. Yes, that's right kids - I'm running Vista and it really is just about as annoying as you've heard. (I have to approve practically everything my computer does now, and a lot of things seem to be incompatible with it - including the Internet security suite that shipped with the system. Brilliant. I spent a lot of time trying to remove Vista and replace it with XP but my computer doesn't play as nicely with XP and it seems to with Vista so it looks like I'll need to take some time and learn to love it.) Then I went on a trip to Chicago, and spent this past weekend with the lovely and talented Violet. (You can see photos from my excursion on Flickr.)

My weekend in Chicago was amazing. Not only was the company fantastic and special but the city itself is amazing. If it hadn't been so fucking cold, I would have simply stayed there and found a new job for me to utilize my legally trained mind. However, it was very cold. Most of my time was spent either indoors or walking outside, yearning for the next place that I would be able to feel the warmth of artificial heat, as the sun surely was not going offer me any relief. I got to see a great exhibit at The Art Institute of Chicago, sample delicious pizza at Giordano's and take in the downtown city sites - not to mention a fantastic brunch, and that was just the first day. The people there are really friendly and nice, the food is phenomenal, and the public transit system is quite impressive. Just a fantastic city to be in and I was sad to leave, but that likely more had to do with the company.

My laptop and I are still learning to get along. It finally got me to surrender last night and reinstall Vista. I do have to say that the system resumes from sleep much more efficiently in Vista than any other Windows OS I have used in the past, and I am going to try and run Open Office as my default Office program, as I see no reason to pay for a Microsoft office suite when I can get a perfectly good one for free, as can anyone else I want to share documents with. It has the inter-portability functionality of Adobe pdf, without the pdf. I may, however, lose my electronic journal, as the journal I was told would be compatible with Vista before I downloaded it, doesn't appear to be compatible with Vista now that I've downloaded it - go figure. I'll have to wait and hope that they release a patch, but until then, something else will have to be found.

My arm is still recovering. It's still really difficult to move in many ways, but it has certainly improved when compared to a month ago. Occasionally, I catch myself accidentally reaching for the car door with my left arm and it doesn't cause me nearly as much pain anymore. I have been doing stretching exercises for it - my arm, not the car door. These are, generally, some of the same physical therapy exercises I did before ever having surgery but now they really hurt when I do them, whereas before they only caused mild discomfort.

So far, my year seems to be off to an eventful and exciting start. I cannot wait to see what it looks like by the end of this year.

Let It Snow

I grew up walking a quarter of a mile to my bus stop, past the lake, in 80 below wind-chill factors in sneakers and jeans. Sure there was the winter coat that I would zip up and dig my face into, but a hat was rarely an accessory any of us wore. If I can swim in the lake while there is still ice on it, why the hell would I need a hat?

When I moved to Florida, I found it sweltering and oppressive. Then again, I also didn't have air conditioning and it was the middle of summer. I used to sit and pray for it to get cooler. It never worked. I'd be sitting there hoping that the heat would forget I was there, so that I could move without risking the production of additional sweat. Sooner or later the sun would set and it would only be 80 and maybe then I could sleep. Oh, sleep. Wouldn't that be nice. Why would anyone live here? Where had my mother dragged me to?

Then I started college. There is something to be said for living in a part of the country that allows for women to walk around scantily clad all year long. There was also something to be said for never having to worry about wearing boots, tracking in snow, slipping on ice, walking around the lake in the middle of the night, in the dead of winter, without anything more than a light jacket. And air conditioning helped immensely.

I remember going to visit one of my friends at the University of Massachusetts over a winter break and having to concern ourselves with whether the car would make it to the top of the icy steep hill. First of all, what the hell is ice, and second of all, what's a hill? It was quite the adventure, but I feel that if I'm going to take my life into my own hands, I should be doing it while jumping out of a plane, not driving around a university campus.

"But don't you miss the seasons?"

When I went to get my third advanced degree, I moved to northern Florida. They actually had days there when it wouldn't get above 40. Can you imagine? Not only that, but the humidity would drop to something less than fifty percent. Insanity, I tell you. I had to get a humidifier in an attempt to stop my then persistent nose bleeds and had to use moisturizers on my hands every day so that they wouldn't crack and bleed. This was in addition to the thick ski jacket I had to buy. How the hell is someone supposed to live in 30 and 40 degree weather? I couldn't wait for December to be over, so we could get back to warmth.

"Florida has made you weak."

I know I could live in the cold. I grew up in the cold. We used to get so much snow, the National Guard was called in every year to plow us out. We'd be trapped in our houses, waiting for the Guardsmen to arrive and rescue us from out own private prisons. I know all about boots and electric blankets, thermal underwear and Thinsulate gloves, hats, and scarves. I'm sure that if I took the time, I could recondition my body and be jumping into partially frozen lakes in no time. I could get used to starting my car in the morning to make it warm enough for my drive twenty minutes later, and shoveling the driveway. But why the hell would I want to? Especially when I can live in a lush tropical location where I look out my window and see palm trees and where I never, ever have to worry about lacing up my boots or donning my winter coat.

A Chance to Do Good

Alright, folks. Here's the post wherein I give you the opportunity to help women in shelters across our country and to do so at no cost to yourself - it's free dammit, so do it.

Women's shelters in the U.S. go through thousands of tampons and pads monthly, and while agencies generally assist with everyday necessities such as toilet paper, diapers, and clothing, this most basic need is often overlooked - feminine hygiene products.

Seventh Generation, a green paper products and cleaning products company, has a do-good attitude and will donate a box of sanitary products to a women's shelter in your chosen state - just for clicking the link. Talk about easy! Just click here.

Thanks for helping out. Please pass this on to others.

[Thanks, Question Girl]

No Television

When I was transitioning from college to law school and living off campus for the first time, I was robbed. They stole my CD player (and whatever CDs were in it at the time) and my television with the cable box. The robbers neglected to ever look in my roommate's room that contained at least $50,000.00 worth of musical engineering equipment. The loss of the television was particularly poignant, as I had just gotten the cable installed the day before. (Yes, I know that it might have been the cable guy that robbed me.) However, I think I felt the loss of the stereo much more severely, as it was the only item I replaced that year.

It was odd, the amount I accomplished when I had no job to speak of, no classes, and no television. I started reading books all the time. It was as though I had one growing out of my arm wherever I went. Anywhere I walked, my book was sure to be in hand. I'd show up an hour early, waiting for a movie to start and just sit there reading. One day, I missed two showing of a movie I wanted to see because I was too busy sitting in Barnes and Noble reading this book I had just bought. "You're still there?" "This book is so good."

People would start talking about TV shows and I'd have no idea what they were talking about. "Alyssa Milano is a witch?" "What the hell is a Pokemon?" My life consisted of reading books and watching movies. I had high hopes of perhaps finding a job, but not a lot of places were looking for a person with a degree in history and the places one might think of a a good temporary career didn't want to hire someone with a BA. "Why would you want to work here?" They really made such an excellent point. Why would I want to work there? I actually didn't. And then, just when it was starting to look like I could become an assistant manager for a local drug store, I got hired as an intern for a very, very large company - in their information technology department.

The time I spent without a television was perhaps the most productive time of my life, if one measures productivity by getting out of the house and reading massive quantities of pages. However, law school helped to change all of this. By the end of the day, I could barely convince myself to read a menu, let alone another book. I spent no less than 8 hours (often 12) doing nothing but reading and editing all day long, and when I wasn't editing, I was teaching other people how to edit or the finer points of tort law. Television became an escape - a place where I could escape the pages that would haunt my sleep. (One really hasn't lived until they go through semesters with bronchitis and a sinus infection, hopped up on too many medications and too little sleep, having night terrors involving the Commercial Code or the Internal Revenue Code. Fuck the DaVinci Code. That thing has got nothing on the archaic workings of the generation skipping transfer tax system enacted under Title 26 of the United States Code.) Yeah, you English majors got to read Yeats, Emerson, and Shakespeare. I had foreign policy and history authors no one had ever heard of and now I had Congress and the Treasury Department. Something tells me one of us was having more fun.

Television is now no longer a luxury. It's one of the only places I can so easily escape from all the pages of words that surround me day after day. "How do we transfer our home without losing our save our homes cap?" Yeah, go ahead quote me some Whitman, but when someone wants to make sure their newly born daughter will actually be protected if anything ever happens to them, I know who they're going to call, and I better be able to tell them something better than "Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends."

Bits and Pieces

I just got put on antibiotics again last night. I think this is the third infection I have had since my surgery. Oh yeah, I know how to have a good time. The medication - the five pills I was prescribed - was $60; my insurance saved me about $13. Way to go insurance. I swear there's got to be a better insurance package out there, and I think I should be on it.

I got to see Harry Connick, Jr. last week. It was really cool. I did miss seeing (but not hearing) the first half of the show, though. They oversold several rows and lots of people had tickets to the same seats. So I left my friend to enjoy the show and went to join the angry mob. Anyone that says angry mobs don't accomplish anything clearly has never been to a concert in which their seats were oversold. We were able to get a complete refund for our tickets and still see the show, but we also missed half the show negotiating the settlement and getting it all processed and then had to stand for the whole thing, which was unfortunate for my friend because she had not worn her comfy shoes. Even more unfortunate, in my opinion, was the refund money went to my friend's ex, as he had bought the tickets. On the bright side, while I was with the angry mob, I happened to see my surgeon (not an angry mob member). He started fixing my sling and asking how I was doing, offering to phone in a prescription for more pain medication the next day (those are only $10 - yay ). As he was doing this, the woman on my right chimed in with more helpful advice. She turned out to be a physical therapist and the younger woman next to her was also a doctor. It was cool because I was able to get lots of free medical advice. Plus, the second half of the show was fantastic. There was far more improvisation and it was just great. Unfortunately, the crowd was weak - apparently, they only really get passionate about seats, not about music - and he only came out for one encore. However, it was still really good.

I took a page of my own advice and started reading some archived material of a blogger I know. It had actually occurred to me to do this several months ago, but I never had time. You might be surprised, though, at how much one can accomplish when they're miserable and sick for a weekend. The process was immensely informative and not a little bit frustrating. I suppose that could be the danger in exploring the past - you poke around enough, you're liable to encounter some unsettling things.

In two weeks, I'll be in Chicago. Freezing. "Today it was warm; it was in the 40's." "You quite clearly have lost your entire sense as to what in fact constitutes warm, as that would leave me shivering in a ski jacket, gloves, and hat." "I was in a tank top." "You are simply sick and misguided. Someone needs to teach you that there are places with sunlight and warmth that actually involve being more that ten degrees above freezing." It shouldn't surprise me, this is the same woman that went to Chipotle and then went to meet her friend for dinner. "Wait could you repeat that?" She did. I laughed. "What's so funny?" "Let me get this straight, you went to Chipotle, got a burrito, and then left there to go meet your friend for dinner?" "Well I had the bowl, not the burrito." "This is great. It's so going in my blog." "I don't see what's so funny," she said after suffering a fit of laughter.

This weekend is likely to involve more bed rest, more blog reading, and maybe, just maybe, I'll make some actual progress in this book I have been attempting to finish for weeks. It's good to have goals.

Medical Report

It's now been almost two weeks since my surgery. In that time, I've had two infections and a rash (which still hasn't gone away).

It all started innocently enough, I went to the hospital and eventually convinced a reluctant senior nurse that I really do have a tremendous aversion to needles. I think what really convinced her was the heart monitor beeping at a velocity normally reserved for runners at the end of a marathon, as she went to locate a place for the IV, even after she placed me on straight oxygen. She ended up giving me lots of tranquilizers to sedate me. Next came the numbing of the arm. This is the fun part where they play with an electric stimulator on the nerves in your neck until they get you to admit pain and get your arm to flop around in just the right manner. Then there's the injection. Fortunately, my nerves of steel were not really convinced the first time around that they should be numb, so we got to do this fun procedure twice. At last, came the surgery, of which I remember absolutely nothing, other than the intense discomfort I felt in my arm after anesthesiologist finished giving me lots of oxygen and told me he was going to inject the tranquilizer and that the burning sensation I would likely feel was normal.

After the procedure, I remember being intensely thirsty and wanting my friend to be there.

"You want us to call her now?"

"Yes."

After satiating my thirst, they called my friend, fed me applesauce and tried in vain to entice me with a granola bar.

That night, I started running a fever, which persisted through most of the weekend. There I was, in the beautiful Sunshine State, sitting under three comforters, with my teeth chattering as though I were in Chicago in the dead of winter. Something was clearly wrong with this picture, and not just the fact that I wasn't able to lie down because of the surgery - a condition that would persist for over a week. My ears and throat hurt and I just wanted the fever to go away and not come back. Only the former request was respected.

My friend was immeasurably helpful. Even though I was a terrible patient and she had to fight with me to pretty much do anything for me, I greatly appreciated her taking the time to cook for me and more than anything, I appreciated her company. It was sad for me when she left because I didn't know what it would be like to not have anyone there to help me or joke with, but the time had come and there was simply no avoiding it. Besides, I had my percocet and antibiotics to keep me company.

Next came the doctor visits. First I saw my surgeon, who informed me that the surgery did not go in any way as expected. The tendons that they thought were torn, didn't show any indication of an actual tear. Instead, it had been a shoulder abnormality that he had needed to correct. I now am the proud owner of some interesting shots of the inside of my shoulder. The next day, I went to see my general physician regarding the fever I still had. He found the wounds to be infected and gave me more medications. Several days later, I developed a rash. Still don't know what that's from. However, the Benedryl seems to be helping.

My stitches come out next week but the sling will remain for at least another two weeks. I'm still having trouble not using my shoulder and am often very sternly reminded by my body that I am not allowed to complete that motion at this time. It's a very harsh and unforgiving reminder that can linger for at least an hour. And the rehabilitation will take approximately four months, but hopefully, I will be better than ever once it is all over.

It's Not What You Think

Women don't seem to get it.

"I don't know how to make him listen."

"Stop sleeping with him."

"What!?"

"Stop sleeping with him and I guarantee you will have his complete and undivided attention."

"I couldn't do that."

"But with the way he's acting there is no possible way you want to be sleeping with him right now."

"But ..."

Women often forget that they have control. They forget that they have the one thing that every man wants and will do practically anything to get. They're like the Middle East and men are the United States, paying whatever it takes to fill 'er up. (If you can't appreciate a good pun, you need another cup of coffee.) And they completely neglect to remember that there should be boundaries; that everyone in a relationship needs to have boundaries and they need to not only set them, but enforce them. Boundaries are not being selfish; boundaries are the creation and enforcement of standards as to how you are willing, and want, to be treated.

"You need to create a list of things that you want in your partner and then a list of things that are unacceptable - deal breakers, if you will. The second list is perhaps even more important than the first because if you don't adhere to it, the list becomes merely a wish list and is no longer a set of standards that you feel you are worth or that you deserve. Once you start losing yourself for a man, you're on a long road of disappointment and unfulfilment."

There are women that I know that could never adhere to this advice because they would view it as "using sex as a weapon". I've read books that have case studies about women like this. They are usually terrible at being able to create and enforce boundaries and are usually willing to bend and shape for those certain lovers in their lives. They are described as people who have difficulty both creating and enforcing boundaries and because they don't have stable boundaries of their own, they have great difficulty respecting those of others - even those they care about deeply. Apparently, the books say, this is not a good thing.

What's a girl to do?

The important thing really is that you do exactly what you want to be doing, and not what you think someone else wants you to do. Sounds like an extremely easy piece of advice, right? Just do exactly what you feel like doing. It gets more complicated when what you want to do is please others or take care of or rescue others. Suddenly, the things that you really want to be doing involve satisfying the unmet needs of others more than your own. And when you put your needs first, you suddenly feel selfish or cruel. It feels completely unnatural, and angst takes hold. You begin feeling terrible about it. It eats you up, and you suddenly feel like you're just being selfish and you're doing the wrong thing. You want to apologize, to reconcile, to do whatever it takes to make that feeling go away, even if it means sacrificing another aspect of yourself - because that is, after all, the hallmark of your identity.

I know, I know, this post seemed to start with such promise - what with all the talk about sex, and now here we are talking about boundaries. What the fuck?

The point of it all really is that it's not wielding a weapon, it's not being selfish, and it's not being cruel; it is setting boundaries and adhering to them, displaying respect for yourself. It is through exhibiting respect and care for yourself that you are able to display your capacity to respect and care for others. (You cannot truly love another until you love yourself.)

Medical Leave

So tomorrow is the day that they cut me open. I'm told that my shoulder is going to be in incredible pain after and I'm not sure how manageable typing will be for a while. However, rest assured, my eyes will still be working and I will still be reading. I know this reassures all of you, as you all really only write for my amusement.

Write Something

"Write something, dammit."

"I know, I know, but what do I write?"

I have drafts of posts sitting in my brain and in my Google account. I tease at them and toy with them hoping that they will take shape and become something pretty, but they just sort of seem to languish there and fall to pieces, slipping through my hands as I watch helplessly. I don't know if it's a result of my impending surgery or just the state of my brain. Not all the parts of my body have been playing nicely with one another, as of late. I keep thinking there will be a civil war, but I'm hopeful an accord will be struck before anyone does anything too hasty.

Recently, I've been considering the blogger landscape, or at least the one that I have been a part of and watched over the past year. So many bloggers that I read when I started are no longer around. I don't think writing is the easiest thing to do for a lot of people, and I think, oftentimes, life has a habit of getting in the way of creativity. People run out of ideas or think that what they have to say is no longer unique or exciting. They, like me, get tired of sitting in front of a phosphorous screen hoping that they can say something new, that the words will form and bend to their will.

I have been thinking about changing the format of my blog. Maybe I could just talk about random things. Or perhaps I could write miniature scenes to illustrate ideas in my head. I think about the possibilities and I get stuck on repeat. Then I go read other people's material and marvel at their ability to write every single damn day. I have to remind myself that some of these people are writers - they actually write for a living, and writing on a blog is just an extension of what they do anyway. I write for a living, but my writing goes more like this: "Each beneficiary shall have the right to withdraw from the Trust the maximum amount over which the lapse of a power to withdraw is not considered a release of such power under Sections 2041 and 2514 of the Internal Revenue Code of 1986, as amended (hereinafter the “Base Withdrawal Amount”)." Wasn't that fun? No? Oh, never mind then. Go read Jill. Oh no wait, she's on vacation. Go read Stephanie. She writes a lot more about motherhood and breast feeding now, and oftentimes, I think only women still read her, but she's got some game. Go read Scott. He's smart and is likely to say something interesting.

Blogs are also not really like books. I have written a lot of stuff here, but the average person only reads page one. That's it. That's me. That's what they get, and if they "follow me", they get from that day forward, maybe. There's all this other material that I've written that people will never look at. If you read a book by an author you really like, you'd probably check out his previous works. When I read Me Talk Pretty One Day, I went out and got Naked. (That's pretty funny when you read it.) I read little articles and stories he'd written that appeared in the media. Why don't I do this with blogs?

Recently, I came upon a blog that I thought was really cool. (She doesn't have comments turned on because she's a punk and you should tell her how ridiculous she's being for not allowing comments right here.) I actually went through and read every single one of her posts. It was different because I'd never done that before. I didn't have to wait for her to post something new because there was always something new to me to be read, and the writing was really touching and poignant - very thoughtful. But then I ran out of material. It was like finishing a Harry Potter book. Now I had to wait. "I hate waiting." - Inigo Montoya. But it got me to thinking. Maybe I should read other people's archives. I mean here these people have taken the time to pour themselves - or an aspect of themselves - into the virtual pages that spring to life before your eyes. Maybe I should actually take the time to give it a look. At least then I wouldn't have to wait for them to write something new for me to be able to read something new. Or maybe I should just work on actually reading the Jasper Fforde book I started.

Put It On

When I was in school, we had health education. The most uncomfortable portion of the whole class, of course, was sex education. All sorts of inaccurate, yet clinical sounding, information was floated about once we had exceeded the teacher's knowledge, and of course there was the banana. After all, that's what you're going to need to put a condom on, right, a yellowish curved fruit that will one day over-ripen and turn into an odd colored mush in your hands. (Hmm, maybe they were on to something.)

One of the fundamental principals that we had drummed into us during these classes was directed at the ladies, as they were constantly instructed that men wouldn't want to wear a condom. They would come up with all sorts of excuses about sensitivity and lack of pleasure and the woman was to disregard these obviously false statements and insist on him wearing it, and not worry about whether or not he was still going to love or stay with them. If the man really cared, he'd wear the condom. Men were, of course, instructed to wear protection and that it was important, but mostly only because it made the woman's job easier. Ultimately, the woman was put in place as the gate keeper. We'd watch those stupid health class videos where the guy would come up with all the excuses our teachers said they would and the woman would triumphantly insist on the man wearing the condom. We, as men, were trained to assume that women wouldn't sleep with us unless we wore condoms, or if they did, we'd have to come up with some sneaky way around it.

Since then, I learned that women often do not perform their role as gate keeper in this, or often any other, area. I have had far more women insist that I don't wear a condom than ever ask me to put one on. "Do you really have to wear that?" "It doesn't feel the same when you have one of those on." Wait a second, why were these ladies using all the lines men were supposed to use. In school, they had taught us that we were the ones that would fight not to put one on, not the other way around. I felt wholly unprepared. The videos all taught us that men wouldn't want to wear a condom and that really we were only supposed to wear them so that the woman wouldn't feel uncomfortable. Now, it seemed that the only thing that would make them uncomfortable was if I actually heeded the words that had been imparted to me in health class.

So while there seems to be much debate about whether there is too much health (and sex) education in our schools. I happen to feel there isn't anywhere near enough. I know I certainly wouldn't have minded being more prepared for the inevitable time that all that training was about to be put to excellent use. Although, I still question the wisdom of the banana.

Alone at Last

I sometimes will hear the familiar refrain, "If you don't [insert verb here], you'll be alone for a very long time." I even received an anonymous comment on one of my recent posts suggesting this. (Don't look for it because as with most anonymous comments, I responded to it and then deleted it.) Every time someone offers this lesson in romance, they usually say it like being alone is the equivalent of catching Ebola.

At one point in my life, statements like this would have haunted me and given me night sweats and terrors. The fear of being alone was enough to strike fear into my heart. It didn't matter whether the judgmental person throwing this statement out there was right or not. Somehow my brain skipped the step of any type of analysis of the character of the speaker. All that mattered was that someone had found something in me wanting and if I ever wanted to be happy, I needed to change.

"Wait, what was that?"

"Right, if I want to be happy, I need to change."

"But that's not what they said. What they - this anonymous speaker who suddenly feels that they have sufficient insight into you, life, and love - said was if you don't change, you'll be alone. When did alone become synonymous with unhappiness? When did you let those two concepts connect in your brain and rule your life? When did you allow your entire concept of happiness become controlled by another and tied to whether or not someone else finds value in you?"

"Um ... since ever? Isn't that what happiness is? Having that person that loves you and understands you? What's the point in living if you have to do it alone? I don't want to be alone. In the movies the people that are alone are always sad. They're always missing something."

"Great, now you have movies controlling your self image. How independent of you. Have you noticed that you're never alone? Have you noticed the friends that you have and the things that you do? Why is your self-esteem and self-worth coming from external sources instead of from within, where it's supposed to originate? I mean, it's in the name, after all - self-worth, self-esteem."

"Just lucky, I guess."

It took me years of therapy to make all of these connections, to line up all the pieces and connect all the dots, and to come to the conclusion that being alone is not the worst thing in the world. It is not a fate worse than death and that happiness truly comes from within. I learned that while I would love to be in a relationship with the right person, I'm still just as good without one. I now find it rather humorous when I hear someone say, "Your standards are too high," or "You wonder why you're alone." The truth is I don't care whether anyone thinks my standards are too high and I don't wonder why I'm alone. Usually the person saying these things is the type to wonder at such things but I simply cannot be bothered. Because all of that inner peace and happiness that I kept expecting to find in someone else ended up being within myself all the time.

Free at Last

Every now and again, I'll catch a flicker of just the right hair color or just the right body type and I'll be instantly reminded of an ex. Sometimes it will be a fond recollection and other times it will be a bitter fleeting thought that I would just as soon forget. There are also the rare occasions where I will suddenly be filled with remorse and regret. The thought creeps in that perhaps I made the biggest mistake ever. Perhaps she was the one for me. No faith in my own decision making - it was an issue I had to address in therapy. "What do you mean that's a bad thing?"

I remember she used to ask me, and her other friends, for hours on end what we thought of Fred's behavior. It was a terrible exercise in futility, as we would all validate her feelings and tell her how right she was to be feeling the way she did, but then she would confront him and her entire self-esteem and boundaries would immediately crumble. We simply believed in her more than she believed in herself, a terribly unfortunate way to live. "He's not like you. He doesn't understand me the way you do. It's not his fault. I just need to be better. You don't understand him the way I do. You don't see how much potential he has." It's always frightening when you see others' dysfunctions in yourself. However, it's also relieving because it's that recognition and admission that can lead to recovery or behavior modification (as they like to call it).

However, there were other issues that I also had to address and, at times, it's difficult for me to look back and discern whether I got in the way of myself somewhere along the line. This self-doubt and concern can haunt me for days, as I reevaluate and reassess. But every now and again, something spectacular happens where the ex does something so annoying that I am immediately reminded of all the reasons she made me miserable and I am instantly glad to be away, with no regrets to ever haunt me again.

"She really did that?"

"Yeah. Pretty crazy, huh?"

"I can't believe you stayed with her for as long as you did."

"I was too busy being afraid that leaving would be a bigger mistake than staying to see just how unfulfilled I was. I kept thinking someone else would make the decision for me. I kept hoping that someone would say the magic words that finally gave me the courage and freedom to leave. What it took me time to learn was that I always had that freedom and only I could see it through."

You Should Read This

I started reading one of my books about codependency the other night. I think one of the problems with those books is they often discuss the severe cases or the cases that have, eventually, escalated out of control. Much like alcoholism, it's usually a progressive illness, worsening with time if left untreated. I felt like if I lent the book to one of my friends, they could easily shake it off and laugh, as it wouldn't really apply to them. After all, I don't have many friends dating alcoholics or drug addicts. I've had a couple, but they either grew out of it or eventually left the relationship, or we've lost touch. However, I know several codependents. In fact, in my life, I was often attracted to codependent women. I think it's probably because of the way I was raised. I felt that if maybe I shared one of their stories, it might have more of an impact.

In law school, I knew a girl named Liz. Liz was married to this guy named Fred. Liz was fairly unhappy about that fact. She really didn't like Fred. She didn't feel like he really understood her or the things that were important to her. She didn't feel that he was supportive of her in many ways and when she tried to talk to him about it, he usually made her feel like she was overreacting or being ridiculous. Liz couldn't leave Fred because she couldn't figure out anything that he really did wrong. He was a good provider. He made good money. He didn't beat her. Her family would never understand. And she constantly worried that it might be a mistake to leave. "What if he's the one I'm meant to be with?" She kept hoping Fred would either change or leave her.

Eventually, Liz had an affair and Fred found out about it. Liz figured Fred had to leave now. I mean, c'mon, she had been cheating on him. But Fred didn't want to leave. Fred cried and said he wanted to save their marriage. This caught Liz off guard. She explained that she didn't want to work on anything. She wanted a divorce. He wouldn't give her one. She said that she wouldn't stop sleeping with other men. He didn't care. He cried and begged and Liz decided she had to stay for a while. After all, she did love him and he was a nice guy. He really had always been the same guy. He just had never changed, or become the person she envisioned him being, despite all her efforts. Liz went home to see her family and they all confessed that they thought Liz had been unhappy for a while and that if she wanted to leave Fred, they fully understood. Fred said he wanted to have children. Liz changed her hair.

Liz started seeing a psychologist, a really good psychologist. Liz's psychologist diagnosed Liz as a codependent and he was pretty sure Fred was too. Liz couldn't leave Fred still. They'd fight and argue but she couldn't do it. She just didn't have it in her and she didn't know what her life would be like without a relationship. She had always had a man in her life.

Liz got offered a job far away. Her psychologist said that when she took the job, she should ask for a trial separation from Fred. "It doesn't have to be permanent. Just some time away so that you can truly assess your feelings about this relationship."

"Why do you look frightened?"

"I'm worried that if I do what you're asking, I'll never go back with him."

"From everything I know about you and everything you've told me, you won't, but you will actually need to complete the separation to make a rational and healthy decision. No contact for at least three months. None. If he respects you and loves you, he will give you this time."

Liz did it. It was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. She walked away from Fred and moved, beginning her trial separation. It lasted all of three days.

Liz couldn't take it. She missed Fred. He wasn't that bad after all. And he did love her. I mean, he had stayed and he said he loved her. "He just doesn't understand how to make me feel loved. That's not his fault." Liz was still trying to make excuses for Fred and enable his behavior. It's what codependents do, and she had stopped therapy after she moved. Liz isolated herself from all of her friends, didn't return their calls, wouldn't go out with them and soon left town with Fred.

I recently spoke with a friend of Liz's, who occasionally speaks with her still. "I spoke to Lizzy the other day."

"How is she?"

"She's still miserable with Fred. Nothing in her life has changed one bit. They're the exact same couple they were years ago, maybe a little worse. I just don't get it. How could she be that miserable and still stay?"

I've Heard That Before

If I told you what was really going on in my life, you'd never believe me. I did a very long journal entry about it. It's really impressive and probably would make some great blog material. I even worked a reference to Heidi Klum into it. (That alone makes it worth it's weight in gold.) It's almost a tragedy to keep it simply in journal form. However, now after all that buildup, it would never meet your expectations. So I'm likely better off just going with something a bit less personal.

"He said I should go to law school."

If I had a $1,000.00 for every time I heard a person say that, I'd be rich. (I say $1,000.00 because really, what can you get for a bunch of nickels nowadays. Besides, if we're going to discuss in hypotheticals, I might as well make it worth my while - I thought $1,000,000.00 might be greedy.) Every person I talk to seems to have been told, at one point or another, by some mentor type figure - you should go to law school. I sometimes think that perhaps this line is just thrown out there as a compliment - "You're so smart, you should go to law school." The person doesn't actually have to believe what they are saying, they're just throwing the compliment out there. Other times, I think the person offering the statement simply has no damn clue what law school is like. They've never experienced it. They figure it's just one of those things people do. Just go to law school. Like it's as easy as breathing or climbing Mr. Everest; a walk in the park.

I have always done everything in my power to discourage every person I meet from going to law school. From my experience, only people that really want to learn law and how to be an attorney should go to law school. They shouldn't do it for money because lots of attorneys don't make a lot of it. They shouldn't do it for respect because almost everyone I meet immediately looks at me sideways when they find out I'm one of those scum sucking, bottom feeding, attorney bastards. They shouldn't, necessarily, pigeon hole themselves into any one area of law they would like to practice because often, they won't get to practice in the area they so choose. And law school is no picnic. Unless you really like law, you likely are not going to enjoy law school at all. It's going to be stressful and miserable, threatening your relationships and your sanity, as you undergo the metamorphosis from an ordinary person to a person that thinks like an attorney. Sound like fun yet? (I did have a friend that went to Harvard who found it a fairly easy experience, much easier than her physics classes in undergrad. As a general rule, the higher ranked schools are easier, and after first year, you can sometimes find ways around the difficult professors - especially if you do not actually care about learning.)

You want money? Go work on Wall Street or do something entrepreneurial. There's far more money in either of those fields, and you probably won't have people looking at you with utter disgust and hatred when you announce what you do at dinner parties. Do you have any idea how many attorneys leave the practice of law so that they can work on the investment banking side of things? Or how many unhappy attorneys are out there?

Generally, people have listened to this advice from me. I've actually talked people out of going to law school in one sitting. I think it's because I'm just so matter of fact about it. I remove all of those romantic notions about law school and tell people real stories about real people that I've known, and of my own experiences. (And most of mine were good, for law school.) However, I really think people have to stop with the whole, "So and so told me I should go to law school." Because, really, everyone seems to have been told at one point or another that they should go to law school, and it's clearly not a career for everyone.

Face Value

Often movies or stories try to teach us not to judge a book by its cover. When this mantra is applied to people it is often illustrated with the less attractive women being really just an amazing catch and a beautiful person on the inside, and people have just never taken the time to get to know her so they just don't see how wonderful she really is. I once had a discussion with my friends about this cliche that the movie Shallow Hal memorably illustrated.

What we all agreed on is that this is a great concept and is possibly applicable in a certain number of cases, as we all have known that guy or girl that is really just an amazing person but never has much luck with landing that very physically attractive person of the opposite sex. However, we have also all met a lot of really mean, jaded, angry, miserable unattractive people. Whether their personality is a byproduct of not being anyone's object of affection frequently enough or if it's because they just don't feel terribly good about themselves or their parents didn't hold them or something as a child, I don't know. But they are ugly as sin, inside and out.

In fact, we all agreed, it's actually more common that the physically unattractive women are just as unattractive on the inside as they are on the outside. So instead of that woman in the movie looking like Gwyneth Paltrow (or Heidi Klum - yes, I know she was never in a movie like that but this is my blog and we will talk about Heidi Klum as much as I want), she is more likely to look Rosanne Barr. Not that Rosanne Barr is ugly, but she's certainly no Gwyneth Heidi Klum.

As I've noted above, this is not to say that there aren't some tremendously cool people out there that just don't have the looks of George Clooney or Natalie Portman, but there are also a lot of mediocre people out there with this condition. And, I'm assuming, a good amount of very attractive people that are positively atrocious on the inside. Which brings us back to the original cliche of, Don't judge a book by its cover. However, one would be served well to keep in mind that just because the cover isn't very attractive does not mean that the story will be any better.

Order Out of Insanity

All the topics that were spinning in my head have suddenly decided to check out, and all I've got now are snippets from my weekend. Enjoy.

"He says he's changed."

"Doesn't he always say he's changed?"

"Yeah, but what if this time he really has?"

Ah, there it was, the eternal female hope that I know and love. It's all vanity, though. It's not just hope that the person changed. It's the ego trip that this person changed for me. Oh, vanity.

"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." - Albert Einstein

There was an upshot to her going back with him. Even though it might mean a lot more complaining and drama that I would have to watch her go through, it would provide excellent material for my blog. You know, when I really have nothing else to talk about. And then I can listen to all the women tell me that "not all women are like that". Funny thing, she used to say the same thing. It remains my belief that most women like it when that man - you know the one that never does - treats them well. Vanity of vanities.

For my part, I've been doing my best to organize my life, or at least the physical objects within it. Getting new file boxes and storage containers. Reorganizing my kitchen and trying to create a more appealing order to things. It's certainly not the easiest thing I've attempted, as it requires a lot more effort to figure out how to organize things in any sort of logical way, as opposed to simply putting them somewhere. However, I find it rewarding, as I seem to have more room and I actually know where more things are when I need them. Fancy that.

When I'm not organizing my life, I'm at the movies. It became a tradition somewhere during law school that every Saturday, this girl in my class and I would go to the movies, but never together. We took Saturday completely off and refused to open a single book, unless absolutely necessary. You weren't even allowed to worry or think about classes. This is why movies were always appealing. It was great to actually have one day every week where I didn't have to do anything.

Soon I'll be signing up for my surgery and have screws drilled into me. It ought to be a blast. Although, I'm really nervous and worried, as I haven't had surgery since I was very little. I'm afraid about what I will feel when I'm in my "twilight state" and how much pain I will be in when I wake up. I don't really like all of this unknown stuff, but I also don't like not being able to lift things without a certain degree of personal agony.

The Power of Post-It

There's a certain something about a Post-It note. They can be used to convey that extra message when nothing else will do. We all remember the time Berger broke Carrie's heart with a Post-It note. Well I don't actually remember it, but I know it must have happened because every woman I know immediately is reminded of that scene when I tell them about the attorney that quit my friend's old firm (or as he called it, the death camp) by leaving a Post-It note on the office manager's computer monitor, which read, "Nice knowing you."

However, what I saw yesterday adds a completely new dimension to the entire concept of Post-It notes in my opinion, and their ability to convey a message without a single word.

My Space

I was convinced, somewhere along the line, to establish a My Space page. (I actually wound up with two of them, although I cannot figure out how and am doing my best to remove one of them, but it does not seem to be linked to any email account that I actually use. So I'm not sure where it came from, nor how to delete it.) I didn't really enjoy the idea of establishing a presence on My Space, as I really think the pages are stupid and annoying. They can get so bogged down with content and everyone has some sort of song that automatically starts when the page loads - tell me that isn't bloody annoying.

I really feel that My Space pages can often be referred to as My Virtual Clutter Zone. The organization and layout of the content is, to me, absolutely annoying and pointless. If I really wanted all of that crap, I could add it to my blog. After all, to me, I feel the blog is probably the most important aspect of those pages (unless I'm looking for gorgeous red heads), and most people I have seen on there do not update theirs very frequently, if at all. Not to mention, the blog is not really featured very prominently and the posts look bizarre there. It reminds me of blogging for junior high. (Not that my blog is terribly impressive or updated frequently enough. It does, however, seem to have a bit more of a sophisticated appearance.)

I am, however, terribly happy that I created the page. Not just so that I could gawk at the lovely ladies or do something trendy, but also because it allowed me to find two of my friends that I have known since I was about six, but who I lost touch with over the last three or four years. I also located another friend from high school. I'm so excited. I haven't actually been able to communicate with any of them yet, as they seem to check their pages about as frequently as I check my snail mail box. However, I figure that will all come in time and soon I will be catching up and learning about their new and exciting lives.

Every now and again, the Internet spits out a gem.

Orbital Patterns

"Let me get this straight. He told you that he has still been seeing his ex-girlfriend and they have a trip planned to Jamaica together for New Years, and you want to know what you should do?"

"He swears they aren't sleeping together."

"Have you asked any of your other friends about this?"

"Well one of them said that maybe I should give him a chance, and noted that he had been honest enough to tell me about all of it."

"He really only came clean after you finally got him to talk about your relationship, a concept that you were completely resistant to, as you didn't want to seem 'needy'. Out of curiosity, is this woman telling you to 'give him a chance' the same friend that is now married to the man that pushed her out of the moving vehicle while they were dating?"

"Yeah."

Women amaze me with their uncanny ability to stay with men that are completely terrible to them for extended periods of time. I have often found that the worse I am to a girl and the less I care, the more likely they are to stay around. Alternately, if I am actually nice to them and show how much I care for them, they usually tend to walk all over me and breakup with me. I'm told women often grow out of this condition at around fifty. Figuring that I couldn't really afford to wait that long, I decided to find a mix that I was comfortable with - nice to a point.

It strikes me as odd that women blame men for being terrible or for being pigs or for this or that. As though they were suddenly betrayed by men who never gave the slightest indication that they might not be everything the women dreamed of. However, I have always found the signs as being fairly evident from the beginning. Clearly, the man that thrusts you out of a moving vehicle may have some anger management problems that might creep into your relationship in the future. The man that clings to you and follows you about the room like a lost puppy, may have some insecurity issues of his own that are bound to compound and manifest themselves in such colorful ways in the future. All of these signs will be quite clear and evident and yet the women will often stay. They all have their reasons, I'm sure. Often, there seems to be some amazing power of hope coursing through their bodies. What, exactly, they are hoping for remains a complete mystery. Perhaps they hope that he will change, or that it was an isolated incident, or that something equally magical is at play. Perhaps they are fearful of change or of being alone or of admitting that someone got the better of them.

One of my best friends has taken to using a different approach with women. He uses honesty like sword. "I am not looking for a relationship. I really like spending time with you, and I love having sex with you but there is absolutely no way I can be with just you. I'm simply not ready for anything like that right now." He's been giving this speech for the last four years to countless women and yet they stay. Eventually, each woman he dates often gets angry and frustrated with him, as he simply continues to date and sleep with other women. "I almost had sex with seven different women last week, but I got too tired and went to bed for two days. Apparently, five is now my limit." And yet, even though the women get mad, even though they might get frustrated and angry and walk away, they always seem to come back for more, like he is the sun and they all sort of orbit about him.

To the women that blame the men for being this way, I'll tell you exactly what my best friend has confided to me numerous times, and which I have also found to be true. "I would love to be honest with a woman and just totally be there for them and do all of those nice things that women profess they want. Like one of those sweet, sappy romantic movies. I think it would be nice, and certainly a hell of a lot easier than the crap I have to deal with now. However, if I do that, the women leave and go after some other guy that will treat them exactly the way I'm treating them now. We don't make the rules; as guys, we'll do just about anything for sex. This seems to be the way I have to act to get it."

Too Good to Be True

Given that the ineffable Jill was sick and all of my other reads were otherwise occupied this past holiday weekend, and given that I was still recovering from my own sickness, I was forced to play on the Internet unattended, which is always one of the most dangerous prospects imaginable. In an attempt to distract myself, I did manage to bake pumpkin bread with chocolate chips and walnuts and a banana nut bread, but alas, nothing can keep me from the Internet for too long and I soon had found two old friends and stumbled upon her (the most beautiful woman I have ever had the pleasure of virtually staring at).

It's always a bad sign where your mouth gets confused and the words don't quite know how to escape the tongue that feels like it has somehow swelled to three times its normal size. I tried to swallow the cotton balls that had formed in my mouth and say something unassuming and witty but was stuck, as I still didn't know enough about her. I knew that she was a Latin divorcee named Jessica, that she liked snow boarding and jumping out of planes, and had traveled quite a bit. I also knew that she had a good sized family, enjoyed South Beach, and was attending school. I also knew that she had the most perfect smile, hair that was unimaginably attractive, and curves in all the right places.

I was infatuated with a woman I would likely never meet, and I had to find just the right words to say to change all of that. The only other option was to willingly accept the fact that she would be my muse, kept in her state of absolute perfection by means of her distance from me. I know all too well how even the most perfect of women lose something upon a closer inspection. The woman that you see from across the room can lose her luster in a matter of seconds after opening her mouth and betraying her not so attractive personality. Sometimes the best looking ones are the ones best left alone if only so that your fantasy isn't ruined with the reality that is sure to hit you right in the crotch.

And yet, there I was sitting there with the lyrics to Billy Joel's Modern Woman running through my head and thinking Christmas really wouldn't be too bad if I woke up with her underneath my tree. And consistently asking myself, "What would Bond do?" Unfortunately, all my answers required a martini, shaken not stirred, and her following me back to my room later, despite all odds of her doing something more realistic, and that seemed like an awful lot to expect from a martini. In the end, I decided there was simply nothing I could come up with other than a simply compliment that would likely lose its effect through email and to which she would likely never respond. Although, she has had the effect of inspiring one post already. Perhaps muse alone is enough, although, after Sarah and Sass, it makes me wonder if Houston is simply crawling with beautiful women, and whether I should relocate.

Unexpected Costs

"I'm sorry, sir, but while you are entitled to twenty physical therapy visits per year, we only cover the cost of the therapy after you've met your deductible."

"But that's $2,000.00."

"Yes, that's correct, sir."

"But the woman I spoke to before I started the therapy several weeks ago said that it would all be covered without any cost to me."

"I'm sorry, sir; I don't see that in the system, but you can appeal it if you'd like."

The really interesting part is that there is no way you could meet the deductible with twenty visits, and it's unlikely twenty visits would ever be enough to recover from surgery. Not to mention the fact that you'd have no coverage if you should need any therapy for another injury later in the year. What a brilliant system. Pay for insurance that never really affords you a benefit. Brilliant. I'd imagine my office saves quite a bit with having this coverage in place. Unfortunately, I don't make anywhere near as much as the partner that selected this plan and am unable to so easily absorb the additional out-of-pocket expense.

My day could really only get better from there one would think. However, as the day wore on, I started hearing about terrible things that were happening to others and it was hard for me to feel bad for myself. A woman who used to work at my office has a husband who will die from cancer within the next week or two and a friend of mine lost his house in a fire. Not to be outdone, I immediately got sick. I know it still doesn't quite measure up, but having lost two homes to fire in the past and almost losing my mother to cancer, I feel like I should get some credit for it.

Our office took up a collection for the woman. We're not sure how helpful it will be or if she'll even be able to pay all the medical bills that are sure to be accruing right now, but we figured it should be helpful to at least help her buy some food or something for now. It's hard to know what to do when tragedy strikes. I remember reading recently, about all the people that donated money to an organization that was supposed to help the families of the firefighters that lost their lives in California last year, only to find out recently that the money raised may not qualify for the charitable deduction. It makes me wonder what would happen if a person hit hard times and needed to file bankruptcy but because of all the money being donated to them, they couldn't qualify for relief. What an odd predicament that would be.

It now remains to be seen how I will be able to afford the surgery I am supposed to have next month, and still pay my rent. I think it's rather odd that I'm an attorney and I have to worry myself with questions like this, and I'm still undecided about how I feel about the fact that I cannot deduct the interest I pay on my student loans every year, as I make just enough in gross income to meet the phase-out limitation, but still not enough to afford my medical bills, as half of my annual salary goes directly to student loans and rent.

It always reminds me of a message my friend's father had on his refrigerator when I was growing up, "Due to financial constraints the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off until further notice."

Nightly Outing

"The only place I want to be right now is in my bed, sleeping." You could feel the desire in her voice. Even more surprising than the party girl yearning for nothing more than sleep was that none of us could think of anything better than her recent suggestion and it was barely midnight. "God, we're getting old."

I have friends that still stay out to three or four in the morning every week, living the rock star lifestyle and forsaking sleep for the more important things in life, and I marvel at their resilience. This weekend, I had to drive home through the middle of nowhere at two in the morning and could barely keep my eyes from falling shut. I was convinced I was going to get into a car accident and die, but I thought that might not be so bad, as it would mean I wouldn't actually have to finish the drive and, more importantly, my eyes would likely not burn anymore. Fortunately, I was able to collapse in my bed before my eyes slammed shut, refusing to open for anything - even late night phone calls.

I remember in college, it would have been obscene to fall asleep before at least two in the morning, but even then there were always those that outdid me. My friends next door, drinking and playing Monopoly until the next morning. When I was just waking-up, they were just going to bed. However, I also remember more midday naps, and the ability to miss an occasional class without any real negative consequences.

I had felt fairly accomplished before I received the late night phone call the following night. "We just decided where we are going tonight. Are you coming?" I had gone shopping, seen a good movie, cooked a nice dinner, filled out a few Christmas cards, and had been researching charities online, as you can likely see in my bookmark sidebar. I even found a way to get youself removed from junkmail lists, not only sparing yourself the hassle of sorting through it but easing the strain such mailings put on the environment. I love it when doing the right thing is also the easy choice, unlike the decision her invitation now afforded me. If I said no to her request, it would mean I wouldn't get to see her. If I said yes, it would be more difficult for me to wakeup in time for church and spend the day with my little brother. There was really only once choice.

Clean, shaved, changed, invitational text messages sent to all the usual players, off I went to the swanky modern style restaurant/bar which would both begin and end our short outing. Our attempts to find more people and excitement would prove to be fruitless. You would think more folks would be drinking, given that it's the holidays. Alas, it is distinctly possible that while they are boozing it up, they are doing it in the privacy of their own homes and not providing entertainment to the likes of us, who really lacked the requisite energy to make a spectacle of ourselves or desire anything more than sleep.

Do You Understand

Recently, I was reviewing Presidential Tax Returns and I realized some people make an incomprehensible amount of money. For example, Dick Cheney, recently made $7,000,000.00 in one year. I don't even know if I'll make that much in my lifetime and he made that in just one year. I cannot even begin to comprehend what it must be like to make that much money. What was even more astounding was that even in the lean years he made one or two million. I tried to picture what my life would be like if I made that much money on an annual basis and I still can't get a clear picture. It's like trying to watch porn on cable without paying for it.

I suppose things can often be that way. It's hard to really understand what someone else experiences. I can't possibly understand what it's like to be Mike D., Wynton Marsalis, our president, Salma Hayek, Heidi Klum ... where was I? However, I also can't imagine what it would be like to be homeless for an extended period of time, not able to eat when I was hungry, or not able to wash my hands when they were dirty. I can't imagine not having running water. However, it's not just socioeconomic and class differences that puzzle me. I can't imagine killing anyone over my religious beliefs. It absolutely exceeds my grasp. The lifestyles of these people are probably, almost certainly, different from mine.

One does not, however, need to go to such extremes to find people to which they cannot relate. I recently heard a story about New York adopting the No Child Left Behind framework that we have adopted in Florida. Intellectuals have shown that the system doesn't work; that it's an utter failure cooked up by the politicians to show that progress is being made. Teachers have ridiculed it and talked about so much of teaching now is teaching students how to take a standardized test. We all know such things are faulty. You often will have a higher chance of success predicting the failure and success of students with the flip of a coin than with a standardized test. However, we use them. We use them because it makes tangible out of what is completely intangible - a learning and socialization process.

People sometimes think that they can relate. They are led to believe that they are involved. Most people think the death tax will affect them, but it won't. I have white friends that grew up with only other white people and they think they understand what's it's like to not be white, but they probably don't. I think it makes us feel better, though, to feel like we can relate and that we understand our world. That we understand what it's like to be the doctor, the attorney, the waitress, the grocery store bagger, the teacher ... but how illusory is this belief. How well do two people ever really know each other?

Last night, I received a phone call from one that I know well, and as the conversation unfolded aspects were revealed to show the complexities that make up the web of her life. I don't know if I fully understand her life, but I love the opportunity to see it a little more clearly with each passing day.

Pictures of Italy

I know, I know, it took me forever to finally put up any information about my infamous photos of Italy. Unfortunately, this was unavoidable for several reasons, not the least of which was my inability to plan for the logistics of sharing some photos from Italy with some people and not with others through Picasa. However, the wait, for all of you actually interested, is over.

Any of you that would like to see my pictures of Italy, need only follow the link. Enjoy.

Give Me, Give Me What I Cry For

I used to think she didn't care or that she was incapable of considering the thoughts, needs, wants, or desires of others when it came to shopping. I still remember one of the first gifts she got me. You could tell she loved it. It was quite possibly one of the best gifts anyone could have ever gotten her. I, unfortunately, did not share her taste with respect to that particular item and ended up giving it to her.

It was often upsetting to her that she never knew what to get me. I always seemed to have all of these wonderful little thoughtful gift ideas for her, but then she would bring her mind to bear on what to get me, it would come up blank. I often interpreted this as meaning that she really just didn't care or didn't know me. It seemed all of the ideas that she came up with often fell short of what I would want and were more in-line with her preferences. It would make her so frustrated, and I would be so frustrated because she was so upset.

All I really wanted, usually, was a gift card and a day of fun with her, but this didn't make sense to her. Where were the objects displaying our love? Where was the commericalism? How could we really love each other unless we bought lots of things for each other? Time wasn't really anything important?

Yet, it seemed she often seemed so much more considerate to others with whom she wasn't as close. Why did they generate more consideration and thoughtfulness from her than me? Wasn't I supposed to be just as, if not more, important than them. It just didn't make any sense. She just must not care for me.

Then today, I read about a study just released from The University of Chicago. It turns out that people are often worse at buying presents for their loved ones than complete strangers because they often feel that the other person's tastes must be similar to their own. "Not only do we feel overconfident that we’ll pick something they like, but our tendency to assume that we are extremely similar to the ones we love also motivates us to ignore cues that don’t support preconceived notions." Perhaps this year, more people would be better off pretending like they were still getting to know their loved ones when they go to pick that perfect gift, rather than believing that they already know them all too well. Or maybe everyone should just pick out their own gifts.

Upkeep

I just wanted to draw everyone's attention to a couple of modifications I have made to my blog layout. Nothing huge.

I added a section that lists some of the most recent links from one of my del.ici.ous accounts. It will automatically update as more links are added. You can browse over and see the rest of my links at your leisure, if you'd like.

I have also updated my blog links section, and finally added links to other bloggers I had been meaning to add for months. This wasn't as easy as it looked, as my links section was brought over from an old blog and could not be modified. So I had to recreate the entire list through the Blogger template editor tool. Fun times.

Unfortunately, my blog looks a bit cluttered now, as I do not have the liberty and design capabilities I would ideally like, as I am limited by my feeble knowledge of CSS and HTML and Blogger. Perhaps one day this will change, but for now, this will have to do.

My Religious Experience

During the week of Thanksgiving, my friend invited me to attend his church. It seemed like an innocent enough idea. Go to my friend's church and see what he liked about it so much and see what type of message another church might have. So I accepted the invitation and decided to go yesterday. As luck would have it, my friend was even supposed to star in a small play they were holding during the children's ministry that day. So I would really be able to get a feel for various aspects of the church.

The service started with a call for tithing. This is not the practice of the church I usually attend, as the pastor there is a strong proponent of the notion that everyone has their own private relationship with God, and how much you donate is part of that relationship. Not everyone else will necessarily know the hardships you are experiencing or your ability to give and the giving should come from a sincere desire to give, not from guilt or a desire to boast about it later. As such, he feels such things are best kept private. This church, clearly, did not adhere to this same philosophy and exerted a sufficient amount of guilt upon the congregation to make me really wonder what was motivating their giving nature.

I found the children's ministry to accentuate giving even more, if that is possible, than the adult congregation did. As children would sit around showing how much they were giving and boasting about it subsequently. To further compound the competitive nature of it all, the class teacher - my friend's girlfriend - made a game out of it. The more you gave, the more pieces you got. Those pieces then went towards your team's score. You also received more "Bible Dollars" based on how much you gave. I have no idea what those dollars were to be used for, but the possibilities of what they represented truly conjured some interesting images in my mind.

However, nothing, and I mean nothing could have prepared me for what I witnessed during the praise and worship portion of the service. (I missed the actual sermon portion, as it lasted all of fifteen minutes and I was at the children's play during that period.) Towards the end of one of the songs, which they elongated beyond all reasonable parameters, repeating the same two line refrain ten to twenty times, the singers suddenly started saying weird things and making very odd sounds. At first I thought perhaps someone had made a mistake, but I quickly noticed that the weird sounds and random chanting continued. People were moving in odd ways and it sounded a bit like a room full of possessed people, or possibly a room full of people with certain developmental defects. It was just about then I remembered hearing something about a church my friend used to go to that was Pentecostal. Apparently, he still attended.

The part that really got me, though, was when my friend's girlfriend's brother-in-law leaped from the stage in his suit and proceeded to circle the room at a full out run, chanting, yelping and spewing incomprehensible verbiage from his mouth. What really got me is no one leaped to summon the men in the white coats to carry this person away and put him somewhere that would prevent him from being a threat to himself or others. (Then again, he's a police officer and a pastor.) I no longer knew what to think, other than I wanted someone to get me the hell out of there. The entire scene had the feeling of a confused mob scene, and I worried that I was attending a cult ceremony where they were soon going to offer me, or someone else, for sacrifice.

(I know this post sounds fairly judgmental, but it is an adequate representation of how I felt, whether that's right or wrong.)

Where's My Ring?

"How can you say that you're committed when you haven't even bought me a ring?"

It made no logical sense. He had moved hundreds of miles for her, after tiring of driving the hundreds of miles to see her every week, forsaken any friends he had made for the move, spent an entire day making her family authentic Jewish food so that she could see her mother, and offered to enroll in couples therapy in an effort to allow them to communicate better. But all of that was easily ignored, as it did not equal a ring. Irrespective of the fact that they had not yet been dating a year. Apparently a ring would have made things different, even though it wouldn't.

Their lives were hopelessly intertwined, objects at one another's lodgings, shared friends, shared moments, shared memories. Laughs, fights, tears, joy and sorrow were all shared together and experiences that could easily be referenced to the other. For better or worse. "You never stand up for me with your friends or family," he would complain. "You never say how pretty I am anymore," she would lament. They both looked at each other as habits that now needed to be broken.

The twisting and twirling of her hair as she drove was no longer cute. His love for discussion, cooking, and sex were no longer appreciated. Each were being overshadowed by the other insurmountable issues causing distress in their lives, and neither was able to completely communicate what they were feeling to the person that was closest to them. The ties that bonded them were slowly unraveling and each stood helpless to stop it.

He would retreat and she would mourn. He felt terribly conflicted and she appeared resolute, while inwards she was equally conflicted. New jobs, new towns, new lifestyle, new dynamics, and illnesses. It all came at once. It all came with the force of a meteor crashing to the ground and darkening all of the area that once glowed so brightly. Where was the light and where was the answer. It couldn't all be contained in a ring. There had to be more. Love was a not a ring.

It all ended rather abruptly for them both. There was talk that they would remain friends but such a desire was rather unrealistic. Her idea of friendship involved occasional text messages and dating other people. He couldn't quite get the hang of all of that, and didn't see the point to it anyway. It would never be what he wanted, and what was the point in fighting the tide. She drifted away and found port in other harbors.

"Do you ever think of her?"

"Yes, but I think of many people, daily. It's just something I do. Each, however, elicit different reactions as they cross my mind."

"Do you miss her?"

"I miss what we were and I often ponder how it all went to pieces, and how shocked all my friends had been when I expressed how unhappy I had been for so long. I never shared all of that with them because I never wanted it to influence their opinion of her."

"Were you able to take anything from it?"

"Yes. There will always be doubts and that's ok. There will always be others that look at you with affection and desire and while it is tempting to view it as desirable, it is an inadequate comparison. For you are only comparing what you have with something different and something you don't know. There will always be temptations and life is a series of gut checks. It also changed the way I offer people advice in a particular way."

...

"When my friend recently asked me if she should break up with her boyfriend, I asked her if she was happy with the type of person that he was and whether she felt it was something the two of them could work on, noting it was not for me to decide whether or not she should be with him. It was up to her if she liked him enough to stay with him, as she was the person that would have to wake up with him every morning. Sometimes, I can be more direct with my advice, depending on the situation. I have found that friends often don't like the people that hurt us, but that this opinion can quickly change when the hurting stops."

And ... Cut

"It was more like a cliche."

"I hate cliches."

"They really do suck until one of them actually comes true and then they can be profound. No longer is it happening in some silky sweet scene of flashing lights upon an expansive screen. Now you are suddenly the player and as amazing and intense as it feels, no one is really experiencing it with you, and if they are, they probably aren't partaking of popcorn and Coke as the scene unfolds."

"Oh, please, let me experience it with you. My heart is all a flutter."

"Your Ben Stein impressions are completely lost on me."

"That is most unfortunate. Maybe we should just go see a movie. That new James Bond flick is out. Eva Green is hot and I bet there will even be some daring cliffhangers."

"So there I was, in the middle of absolute chaos. I felt like the whole world was coming in on me at once. Phone calls, deadlines, demands on my time and everyone wanted everything immediately. And suddenly she appeared, melting everything and everyone else away and I knew it would be ok."

"You make me sick."

"It was like one of those scenes where the whole room is teaming with people as they swirl past the hero until suddenly his eyes land upon the woman across the room, and immediately nothing else is in focus or even matters."

"No wonder why I always feel sick after chic flicks. Couldn't you be simple and feel that way about a car?"

"It might get better mileage."

"Definitely more than you will out of that story. You don't share that one in mixed company, do you?"

Be Yourself

Despite what you might think, there was actually a point to my previous post. Other than it being one of my favorite mental pictures, it illustrates a point that I was trying to express to someone the other night. We were discussing dating and getting to know other people in general. Her position was that we should all be who we really are from the outset, which I think is a great ideal but one that I feel is rarely ever achieved. You simply are not going to know that other person through two dates or ten dates. It's going to be a process and this results from so many factors.

Some people are exceptionally private, like the friend I was driving to the airport. She wasn't going to tell me what was wrong until it suddenly struck her that it was now ok and safe to tell me. Sometimes it's because the situation doesn't arise. I wouldn't have known she was afraid of flying unless I had driven her to the airport that day, or some other event triggered such a conversation. Other times, we just don't know the other person well enough yet. I'm not necessarily going to get into a huge religious or political discussion with someone on the first or second date because I don't even know if I like them yet and what's the point of wasting all of that effort and time. Besides, why discuss inherently controversial things. Often beginnings of relationships are calm because it's still easy not to rock the boat. We can let more things slide because we aren't even sure we'll talk to the other person again.

Again, this is all grey because it all depends on the two people in the situation. There's nothing that says the person sitting across from you on that first date won't be that soul that you just feel completely comfortable confiding every facet of your life to right then and there, but I would say the odds of that are fairly low - I can only be so many places, people. Secondly, even if you did all of that on the first night, where are you really? You're just two people that hung out one night that still might never talk again. The conditions that you met under may never replicate again. What if the next time you meet, you're stressed or tired or some other variation of your normal self. You can't be all of the subtle variations of yourself all at once.

Being yourself is not as easy as it often sounds because while we are who we are, we are not always who we are. "Though we share so many secrets, there are some we never tell."

Flying

She sat in the car and began adjusting the stereo. The music, quite obviously, did not suit her mood. However, the next selection only suited her briefly. In the interim, she began moving objects in my car, thoroughly distracting me from driving. I started to wonder if I had ever ridden in the same car with her before, as such constant fidgeting would normally have been punishable by death or at least avoidance of the same vehicle. Suddenly I realized that I had known her for a year; we went lots of places together; of course, I had ridden with her before, but she had never been like this. What the heck was wrong with her?

One cannot ask these questions of her because not only will you not get a response, you'll make it less likely that you'll ever actually find the answer you ultimately seek. No, with her it is much more like fishing, where you wait in the bitter, bitter cold, and hope that something bites. (In Florida the fishing is comparably warmer, but not at all what I am used to.)

Traffic was quite a nuisance and we were late as it was. Her flight was leaving in a couple of hours and I needed to get her there in time for check-in. In my world, check-in is merely a guideline and not a rule, as I've sailed through security in as little as ten minutes as the airport crew rush me through all the procedures. However, the hour minimum to her was mandatory and not to be deviated from. I had arrived to her house on-time but she, of course, was late. The story of her life, late for everything but always moving like a small tornado. Truly a marvel to watch.

She picked up my iPod. The nice thing about an iPod is that even if you have never touched one before in your life, you quickly figure out how to access everything on it without much direction. The cooing sounds of Norah Jones seemed to be calming her down, or maybe I had just gotten used to her colorful animation. No, she was slowing. Something was about to come out of her; she was getting to that stage where lucid communication was possible.

"I'm afraid of flying."

"What?"

...

"Well I guess that explains things."

The Results Are In

After I had finished my first round of physical therapy yesterday morning, I saw my doctor who reviewed my report and my MRI scans and informed me that I had not one, but two torn tendons. Yes, that's right, boys and girls. I don't do anything halfway. Actually, it is my belief that one of the tears occurred during college, which would explain the pain I have experienced ever since then with certain shoulder movements. However, I have no way of knowing for sure.

One of the tears is a complete tear and the other is a partial tear. However, because the pain has been lessening with time and because the tendons are in my shoulder, my doctor would like to try physical therapy through Christmas time to see if my shoulder improves. If it does then I don't need surgery. If it doesn't or if it worsens then he has to cut me. I'm not really looking forward to getting cut open, which is probably what will have to happen - at least for the complete tear, and I doubt my shoulder will ever really be the same again. However, I am happy that I don't work at Wal*Mart and at least have insurance that covers a portion of the cost of all of this.

As I'm injured and am involved in too many activities again, I haven't been able to work out as much and have devoted the marginal amount of time I do have to both cooking and discovering new and wonderful Websites to share with you. (I cooked, and surprised my friend who was just in the car accident with, a pumpkin pie from scratch (even the crust) because one of the last things she asked me to do before the accident was make her a pumpkin pie.)

One of the Websites I found is for a smallish nonprofit organization that provides a free phone number and voice mail for people that really need it. For example, a homeless person that's looking for a job - so that they can receive messages from potential employers and actually schedule interviews, or a woman with no money who is leaving a domestic violence situation and who needs a way to stay in contact with the people that actually care about her. It's a really cool organization, in my opinion, and Cisco seems to like them too, as they gave them a $2.5 million grant in 2003.

The other site was just too cool not to write about: Ever wanted to have an extramarital affair but couldn't figure out how to pull it off? Can't find that 'seminar' to attend so that you can sneak away and get the sweet lovin' you need? Well, these folks are here to help. (Note: the company's Website is down so you may need to visit Google's cached version).

Personal Injuries

In the not so distant past, I inflicted myself with two injuries, but only one of which is relevant for this post today. I went to the gym, and didn't even get the weight for my first set over my head before I felt excruciating pain in my shoulder. I had hoped that it would subside, that it was merely a strain, but the pain wouldn't go away. Even when I was in Italy, it was hurting. So I scheduled an appointment with a good orthopedic surgeon over here.

The meeting went a little like this. "You have damaged the bicep muscle that runs up into your shoulder. However, I cannot determine the severity. You don't appear to have extensive pain so it is possibly only frayed or has a small tear, in which case physical therapy will heal it. Alternately, you might have really ripped it, in which case you'll need surgery and physical therapy. Given that you don't appear to have extensive pain, I think we should try physical therapy first."

"It's popping too."

"Ok, MRI it is."

"But you just said 'physical therapy'."

"You just said 'popping'."

He had me there. I had just said 'popping'. Why had I said popping? Why, oh why? I did not like the thought of an MRI. I liked it even less when he told me I needed a special MRI where they would have to inject me first, as I hate needles, and I absolutely hated the concept of it when I learned that the injection fluid will make me burn inside. At this point, I really wondered why the hell I hadn't kept the whole popping business to myself, and why couldn't they give me a solution that wouldn't burn.

The MRI was scheduled for last week, but the night before I went, I received a phone call. The MRI room had sprung a leak that day during a ferocious rain storm we were experiencing and the machine was damaged. So my scan was delayed ... until today. In a couple of hours, I'll be going in, popping a Valium and preparing for something that I'm really not looking forward to. I was doing pretty well at feeling sorry for myself until I received a phone call yesterday from my friend, who informed me that our mutual friend had just been a really bad car accident. Now it's hard for me to feel squeamish and not feel guilty.