The Young Dead Soldiers

The first of the services for my dad was today...and though of course it was miserable, I'm still truckin' like I do. The reason there are two is that today was the Marines' official honoration and interrment, which they only do during the week. The service where the rest of the family can speak and share pictures and other things is tomorrow.

We drove an hour north to the state's burial grounds for servicemen and -women. It was pouring rain the entire way, so the service part of things was held indoors in their chapel. All of our close relatives were there, including my mom's side of the family. Except, of course, for my two nieces. I can't let myself hold it against them, because the older one had to work and the younger one was watching my sister's dog...but sometimes they make me wonder.

Two Marines marched in to begin the service, delivering a folded flag and the urn with Dad's ashes in it, then marched out again. A neighbor of my mom's who was in the service for fifty years did all the talking, since none of us were up to doing any, and read a poem.

The Young Dead Soldiers

Archibald MacLeish

The young dead soldiers do not speak.
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:
who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night
and when the clock counts.
They say: We were young. We have died.
Remember us.
They say: We have done what we could
but until it is finished it is not done.
They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished
no one can know what our lives gave.
They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours,
they will mean what you make them.
They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for
peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,
it is you who must say this.
We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.

Then the Marines marched in again and unfolded the flag. They played Taps from somewhere in the back of the chapel, and just as it began, the rain disappeared and the sun came out. Then they folded up the flag, saluted it, and presented it to mom.

I have never before seriously considered going into the services. It's something that crosses everyone's mind at some point, I think, because we all know at least a few people who serve or have served. As well as my father being a Marine, I have two friends who are currently in the army, and Wren's new boyfriend is on active duty in the Navy.

I'm not cut out for the services; I know that. I'm not going to go enlist. But for just a few minutes, while our neighbor was speaking about his time in service, I really understood what it is that drives those who do enlist. Dad said many times in his life that it was the best thing he ever did and that he believed everyone should have mandatory service. He countered that only once by saying it was the worst mistake he ever made. He never pushed me to go into service, but I knew he would be proud of me if I did. It would be the highest honor I could possibly give Dad if I were to become a Marine.

But it's not for me.

After waiting a few minutes for the groundskeeper to put Dad's urn in its place, we all walked out to see it. By that time the rain was already starting to dry up, and the sun was hot. We stood around for a while and talked and cried, and then eventually wandered off to make the drive back down to town.

Most of us met up again at the restaurant where my oldest sister bartends on the weekends, and we sat for three hours and drank and ate and were really awesomely roudy. The napkin war would have gotten us kicked out of almost any other place.

Interestingly, as we were about to leave the burial grounds, the aforementioned aunt Renee came up to ask me how I was doing, and it was with genuine feeling. It's rare to see any emotion out of her at all aside from harsh sarcasm and bitterness, but she was sympathetic in a way that you just can't fake.

"I thought I was young when my father died," she said. "But not as young as you."

"How old were you?" I asked.

"Thirty-three."

As terrible a process as grieving is, and as much as I would never wish it on anybody, it does have some positive effects sometimes on those who are left here.

Blowup Doll

This is old stuff, but I'm back in a place where it fits me perfectly.

I'm everybody's blowup doll

I have no life

My mouth is open to accept your words

Or your venom

I have a skirt painted on

But it won't protect me

So pump me up

When you're ready to play

Have fun, deflate me

And put me away

I'll wait in my box

For one more day

Forever

I can't say what's wrong

Dolls can't talk

Can't get up and leave

Because dolls can't walk

I'm so naive

But I've been around the block

My eyes are open

But I see nothing ahead

I have all the fun

But I feel so dead

You ask me what's wrong

Then say it's all in my head

I've only one use

So put me to bed

You puncture my heart

And put tape on the tears

Everybody loves me

And nobody cares

I wish I could think

But my head's full of air

You say that you're sorry

But life isn't fair

(C) 2007 Skylar Blue

TMI Tuesday

1. Would you stay in a loveless relationship for the amazing sex?

Maybe for a little while, but not forever.

2. If you could only have one, which would you choose: love that lasts forever or great, body numbing sex?

Love.

3. Looking back at your past loves, which one should you have married/taken back and who should you have tossed earlier than you did?

There are none I should have stayed with longer than I did. I probably should have gotten rid of my first girlfriend way before I did...but then again, that's how we learn these lessons. A mistake is not a mistake but instead a lesson if you learn from it.

4. if you had one last fuck in you where, how and who would you “give it” to?

Whoever I was with at the time, and it would be as spectacular as possible.

5. Which is more important sex, money, love and happiness? (and no, you can’t pick’em all)

Happiness. Having those other things are part of happiness, but not all of it; and not everyone even needs all of those to be happy. Happiness is whatever you find it to be for you. And if you are truly happy, who cares if you haven't got any of those things?

TMI Tuesday #192

On Aunt Renee

All of this chatter going on in my head recently about decisions and self and all sorts of complicated human issues has brought one more realization to me. Actually, it's brought quite a few, but there's a particular one that I'm about to discuss.

I have an aunt who nobody in the family really likes because she's a bitch. I won't often call people that, and when I do, I mean it. This woman is cold and sarcastic, likes nothing more than to cut other people down, and can't take what she dishes. While I'm normally up for a good verbal war, she's one I just avoid as best I can, because she tends to hit below the belt.

My mom's and my summation of aunt Renee is that she feels the world owes her something. She grew up poor and with an alcoholic father who, to the best of my knowledge, was somewhat abusive. All of that and possibly other things left her with the impression that the world needs to pay her back for what it took from her as a child. Never mind that she now has a loving husband, a beautiful house, a steady job, and more money than the rest of us. It's become ingrained in her personality that everybody owes her.

It's come to my attention recently that I'm Renee's exact opposite: I feel like I owe the world something. I don't know why, but I've always been like that. I help other people before I help myself, I go out of my way to do random favors and won't accept repayment, and I feel guilty and awkward when someone else does something nice for me. I would happily lend any money I had to a friend in need, but I hate it when my friends buy me things or lend me money, even if I really need it. Wren bought me dinner last week and I didn't even know what do with myself.

While my outlook is certainly more pleasant on other people than Renee's, it needs some work. While I generally consider myself to be an honest person, I trap myself into white lies sometimes, saying things that I know people want to hear just because I can't stand the thought of hurting or displeasing them. When I am forced into giving constructive criticism, I give it so nicely and with so much "oh but everything else is GREAT!" that I don't think people even take me seriously.

And then I get trapped into supporting what I said in the first place if it comes up again. I'm so nice I end up screwing myself, and then I'm too nice to get out of it. I can never say, "Okay, so I lied the first time."

Just one more thing about me that I need to figure out. And then fix.

The Fake Stripper

Aiden is looking for my thoughts on his latest blog entry, which details another of our meetings that occurred yesterday. It involved coffee and a small park and makeouts and wrestling, and was pretty much exactly like all of our other meetings.

I'm not exactly sure what he's looking for in the way of thoughts from me, but I suspect he's hoping for the same thing everyone else wants from me, the one thing I can't give: a definite, in terms of anything. The way I see it, I don't want to make any big decisions or changes right now, in any direction. Not until I've managed to get some kind of hold on this horrible directionless, depressive outlook. I don't want to make a big change now and then come out of this funk later, look back and go, "Shit. What the fuck was I thinking?"

He keeps saying he's sorry that I feel guilty. I think that's both silly and pointless, as it's my problem either way. He wants to know what my plans are, what I'm doing for the summer, what I'm doing for the fall, when or if I'm going to dump Kevin, where I'm going to be living. Kevin wants to know the same thing. So does my mom. I'd like to know those things too.

"Are you still attracted to me?" asks Kevin, and I have no answer. I have no libido at all, one of a collection of odd changes I've noticed in my body over the last few months. I've definitely undergone some kind of chemical modification, and I need to find the cause.

Chemical changes can cause depression...but depression can also cause chemical changes. It could be a vicious cycle feeding itself, or it could be just way one or the other. Kevin's blaming my pills, and I suppose he could be right, but I'm reluctant to give up those particular ones, because they're a three-month pack. Then again, if that really is the cause and I have to get rid of them, I'll do it. Being here sucks.

On another topic, I made a decision and felt good about myself for doing it, since too often I tend to let other people decide things for me. Then I let someone else unmake for me, and now I'm treading water again.

I hate not having a job. I also hate the thought of taking another stupid churn 'n' burn corporate factory job where my boss will act like he loves me and then suddenly fire me without warning and for no concrete reason. (Yeah, I'm a little bitter at The Man right now.) So I made the decision to go back to the clubs. I used to be a stripper, and I had a ton of fun doing it. I got out of it when I went to work in a club that had gone so far downhill from what it used to be that these days it's unrecognizable. I made next to no money because every other girl there would sell herself, any part that anybody wanted, for a Champagne Room, and I have more self-integrity than that. I was a stripper, never a whore.

So I worked six weeks in a gas station, three months on a helpdesk, and two months in a diner. I've now been unemployed for over two months, and Kevin and I are both flat broke and I'm going fucking crazy. I told him yesterday that I'm going back to dancing, and the response began with, "Oh, please no!", continued until he was in tears, and ended up with us barely speaking to each other for two hours while we tried to make dinner. Eventually we made up, in a way, but while carefully avoiding the subject at hand.

We're speaking again, but giving each other the horribly-not-okay "okay."

"Fine, do what you want, I'll just try not to think about it."

"Fine, forget it, I won't fucking do it."

Not exactly the result I was hoping for, and now I have no idea what to do. I was expecting protest, but I was expecting the more standard variety that I get from everyone else, which runs along the lines of, "Be careful, there's bad guys, there's drugs, don't do anything stupid, I'll worry about you..."

What I got was not that, which I can deal with, but instead, "We haven't fixed our own intimate relationship, and now you're going to be selling that sense to someone else, even if it doesn't mean anything to you. I have feelings too, and now they're hurt. I can't even get the fake version!"

"It would be an insult to you if I faked it." I gave him my biggest, and most obviously fake, smile. "If you'd like the fake version, I can arrange that!"

Of course, that too was insulting and "snide." I just can't win.

The Wanderer

I believe that everybody has a purpose in life, something they are meant to be or to achieve. Some people fulfull theirs and some don't; some people are aware of theirs and some aren't. Some people have more than one.

I've been considering the idea, since about the time I started this blog, that perhaps one of mine is awakening other people. Not like a human alarm clock (now there would be a dangerous job), like a...well, I'm not really sure if there's a succinct phrase for it. But I've wondered whether my job in life isn't to wander through others' lives, pointing out to them that there is always more to life than what they are complacent with.

Many people have said to me that I have a passion for life that most people don't, that I'm enthusiastic and vivacious and can make even the smallest daily things fun. I have trouble seeing that in myself, of course; most of us are unaware or rather skeptical of those things that others refer to as our best traits. That's not what matters, though. The important part is that people see me that way, and they tend to pick it up off me.

So maybe I'm meant to wander into people's lives, shake them up, shove them off balance, and encourage them to see that there are other things out there. Then I move on to shaking up someone else. The thing is, if that's what I'm supposed to be doing, I think I'm doing it wrong somehow...because the people I shake up get strangely attached to me as a result. Is breaking hearts part of putting people on their toes, or is it a crime I'm committing unintentionally?

The Deep Dark Woods

My cute little internet handle for myself has come true: I'm literally black and blue this morning, along with a healthy dose of scratches and blisters. I look like I lost a fight, and I feel like I got run over by a fully loaded freight train. Needless to say, last night was not a good one.

It began innocently enough. Kevin and I went to the wedding of one of his close friends about half an hour away. I was a little grumpy because I'd been losing money at poker, but nothing was terribly wrong. When we reached the inn where it was being held, they were without power due to the rainstorm and didn't have a backup generator, so the wedding was held in the dark. An hour into the reception, the lights came back on and everyone cheered, and things continued as they were originally intended.

I deliberately hadn't eaten during the afternoon because I knew the reception included dinner, so by the time the ceremony was over I was starving. The food, of course, didn't show up for another hour and a half. But there was an open bar. Kevin and I looked at each other and said, "Free booze? Let's get drunk!"

That's all well and fine for him, who can hold his booze like nobody else I know. It takes most of a bottle of vodka to get him drunk, so even with the open bar he remained sober. I didn't. I barely remember the food arriving. The night melted into a blur of toasts, dancing, talking, and food. The next thing I know I was in the car trying to drive away, with Kevin standing in front of me yelling at me to turn the car off.

I started crying, and then I heard somebody say that they'd called the police. I parked the car while the groom's brother tried to talk to me, but I just promised him I wasn't going to drive and stuck the keys in my purse. Next thing I remember I found myself crashing through the woods up behind the inn. It was raining and it was dark and I didn't know the area, and on top of that I was drunk out of my mind and wearing heels. I must have fallen down every ten steps; I couldn't stay upright, but I kept going.

I couldn't seen anyone following me. For some reason that I still can't imagine, I called Wren, and I still wish I hadn't. She didn't need the worry of me slurring over the phone, "I'm in the woods! I'm running away! I don't want them to get me! Yes, I can see the lights. No, I'm not going back."

I made it to the top of the mountain, turned left, and started down again, knowing that would bring me to the road. I remember more falling than walking, but I couldn't feel any pain, and I pulled myself upright again and again and continued down the hill. Eventually I reached a logging road, and I followed that to the paved road. Now able to stay upright, I walked with a purpose towards what I thought was north. Unfortunately, it turned out later that I was actually going south toward the city, and not north toward home.

Plenty of cars went by, and I stuck out my thumb, but none of them stopped for me. I don't know how long I walked before I was surrounded by flashing blue lights. Even drunk, I'm not stupid enough to run from the police. I cooperated while the officer put me in the back of his car and drove me back to the inn, where Kevin and his friends were waiting for me.

Kevin drove me back home and made me go to bed, refusing to let me shower first. Still unsure of what was going on, I burst into tears again and sobbed while he got ready for bed himself. I could tell he was angry at me, and that just made me more upset, since I didn't even know what had happened.

We were awake until five talking about what happened and other stuff. I told him that I had cut myself again; he knows I've done it before, although I've never showed anyone before last night. His comment was, "While the art is beautiful, you shouldn't have to do that to feel better." I finally agreed to talk to a counselor, something I've been resisting for a while. I need to keep it from appearing on my insurance, because if my mom finds out, she'll throw a fit.

Mom's a little crazy in a few respects, and is convinced that all doctors but hers are quacks. She also can't stand the thought of her little girl having any problems. When I was diagnosed with asthma as a teenager, it was no surprise to me; I'd known for years. But it was practically the end of her world, realizing that I wasn't perfect. I've tried to tell her several times over the last year that I have OCD, and every time the response runs something like, "Don't say things like that! Don't think that way!" I'm pretty sure if I got professionally diagnosed, she would just go on a rant about how these things are over-diagnosed in this country and all these stupid diseases the doctors are making up are all bullshit.

In the mean time, I'm still shaking from exhaustion, and I think there's a steaming pile of something where my brain should be. Time for some tea and a quiet day. Except I still need to go have a fight with my bank about the thirty-five-dollar charge they whacked me for overdrawing by ten cents.

The Good Fight

I don't understand how today can have started so much better than yesterday, and I don't feel like I need to right now. Yesterday morning was one of the worst I've had in months, and today, in comparison, has so far been one of the best.

I woke up yesterday determined to take a bike ride to cheer myself up and feel like I had gotten something done, but after Kevin sat down and talked at me for forty-five minutes about how I'm procrastinating and I need to get my life together etcetera etcetera, I was too down on myself to consider being useful anymore. He has a way of making what should be a pep talk into something guilt-inducing, not that I'm blaming him for my own mental insecurities.

When I'm having a particularly harsh down moment like that, I have a tendency to take out my frustrations with self-body-mods. Some, probably most, people would tell me that's a terrible habit that needs to be curbed. It amazes me how many people can look down on someone else's method of dealing with pain and basically tell them they're a bad person for it. Alocoholism is an accepted method of drowning your sorrows; self-modification is not.

Never mind that my mods don't last, I don't seriously hurt myself, and I'm very careful to be safe and clean about it.

Not sure where that little rant popped up from. Anyway, I dressed to cover the marks yesterday, since I've never been one to show off my self-inflicted scars, and I didn't want Kevin to feel guilty, since he would find a way to. We went out to dinner with Wren and her new boyfriend last night and had a bunch of fun. I really like him, better than her last one. I hope things work out for her this time.

So I got up this morning and cleaned the kitchen, something I haven't done with any joy in quite a while. Cleaning is symbolic of different things for different people; for me, it means I'm feeling cheerful and productive. My OCD manifests in a slightly unusual form. For many people with OCD, they clean when they're depressed or experiencing anxiety, because it's a way to help them gain control of their surroundings. I'm the opposite; when I get depressed, the major manifestations of my OCD disappear. I don't clean, I don't organize, and I don't give a shit what order I eat my food in.

This is why I'm so ecstatic I was back to a normal cleaning attack this morning. I put away the clean dishes, washed the dirty ones, took out the trash, cleaned the cats bowls, fed the cats, put away the recycles, and I'm eyeing the fridge as being in need of a drastic reorganization. The weather is nice, I have the window and the doors open, and I feel GOOD in a way that I haven't felt in a long time. I didn't realize it had been so long until just now. It's scary that you can start falling into depression for a significant length of time and not even know.

I'm off to keep fighting the good fight.

This Sinking Ship

I am beginning to fall apart again, after I worked so hard to pick up the pieces and I thought I was doing so well. In trying to make everything right, I'm just ripping myself to pieces again. I want to be happy, and I want everyone around me to be happy, and those things can't all physically coincide - but I'm trying anyway, because it's what I do.

For as long as I can remember, I've been the pillar, the rock, the support for anyone and everyone who needed me. The first time I remember being that I was six, and I held my mother while she cried because her own mother was in the hospital. I was worried about my grandmother too, of course, but I didn't cry, even though I had never seen my mom cry before and it scared me. I knew she needed me to be strong, and I was.

In high school, my friend Maria cried on me when everyone else picked on her for being a foreigner. When I found out my mom had breast cancer, I didn't cry because she needed me. When Maria's mom died of the same thing, I went to the funeral and supported her. When my dad told us that he had Lou Gherrig's disease (ALS) and had approximately two years to live, I didn't cry. When we found out six months later that he was lying, I brushed it off.

When his alcoholism finally caught up to him and he did actually die, I stayed with him and my mom and my oldest sister in the hospital after the rest of the family had all gone home, and they never saw me cry. At my cousin's funeral two weeks later, I supported the rest of the family. At my grandmother's memorial service two months ago, I was the only one in the room aside from the pastor who didn't cry.

It's not to say I don't have feelings, or that I never cry; neither of those are true. But I've always felt it's my duty to be there for everyone else when they need it. When I want to be strong, I am. I never crack, not until the opportunity I'm looking for presents itself. The entire world could fall down around me - and there are days I've felt that it already has - and I would be unbreakable until it was all over.

When I started dating my first girlfriend and realized how many emotional problems she had from her past, I was her love, her support, and her personal therapist. When we broke up and I moved on to Kevin, I was the same for him. He said I showed him what real love was like after he broke up with his fiancee of four years; when his father was dying in the hospital, I was there at his family's side.

When I met Aiden at work, I was ecstatic to have made a new friend, as I am the posessor of a strange personality contradiction: I'm a good friend, and I love having friends, but I have a very hard time making them. Two days into our friendship he started telling me about his problems with his wife, and it was familiar territory for me; give a shoulder, offer advice. It was a comfortable place.

I wasn't entirely surprised when we ended up having an affair. We were both cute, friendly, had the same interests, and were experiencing stresses in our current long-term relationships. It almost made sense.

But I never meant it to go where it has. I thought it would be a physical thing, like friends with bennies, so we could both blow off steam and have some fun. But then we both managed to get emotionally involved. Suddenly I went from being the fling on the side to being told, "I'd rather be with you than my wife. You're so much more fun, so much more understanding..."

I am everybody's savior but my own.

Aiden, I'm sorry I've been ignoring you. I'm not trying to cause you any hurt or worry, but it's all I can do to hold myself together these days. I just can't get out of my own head and my own worries and problems. I feel like I'm drowning, and I'm grabbing at the only thing I can see that might save me, which is pushing you away.

As you have said to me before, I never wanted to hurt you in any of this. I was confused and didn't know where my life was going, but I never meant to take it out on you. I guess I did, and now I feel bad for doing it, and I don't know where to go from here. I'm pulling everyone in my life down with me and I can't figure out how to stop.

~

I don't know how to leave you

And I don't know how to stay

I've got things that I must tell you

That I don't know how to say

The man behind these empty words

Is crying out in shame

Holding on to this sinkin' ship

When nothing else remains

All I want is everything

Am I asking too much

All I want is everything

Like the feel of your touch

All I have are yesterdays

Tomorrow never comes

(Def Leppard, All I Want Is Everything)

So...the Stars are Aligned, or What?

I had agreed last night (well, mostly) to meet up with Aiden today between his jobs, but when this morning rolled around Kevin wouldn't leave the house. Technically he's supposed to be at work at nine, but he's usually there around nine-thirty and nobody cares. But this morning he didn't get there until eleven, because he was angry with his company because they haven't been sending him his expense checks on time. Well, I'd be upset too.

He did eventually go, and I gave him five minutes to get ahead of me and then found Aiden in a field-slash-hiking-area he'd showed me a couple of weeks ago. He said he wanted to talk somewhere more private, so he brought pizza and we sat in my car and ate, since it was raining.

He said his wife was going to leave him; he's said that before, so I asked what was different this time. It wasn't entirely clear, but it seemed that it wasn't clear to him either, and not that he was deliberately trying to keep anything from me. Apparently Lily has convinced her therapist that Aiden's emotionally abusive, so the therapist has been telling her to leave. She was going to wait until after their July Fourth party, but it slipped out last night at the marriage counseling. He doesn't know when she's planning to leave or any other details.

When I mentioned it to Wren, she said, "Yeah right. Don't you think it's just another one of her games?"

She could be right. Lily has a talent for making people believe whatever story she cares to concoct at the moment. Then again, she could be either listening to her therapist or manipulating her therapist into giving her advice she wants to hear.

And really, does it matter to me whether it's one or any of the above? It's Aiden and Lily's problem to work out, not mine. I have enough of my own right now, as was brought sharply to my attention last night when I went to bed with Kevin a little after one in the morning. I finally got up and went to sleep on the couch at two-thirty after melting down into a silent, sobbing panic attack while he snored.

He says I have depression. He's right, but we disagree about the cause, not that I've said anything. He thinks my depression is the reason I get bored in relationships after a year or so. I think I'm depressed because I am bored. He says I'm misinterpreting depression as "boredom" and I'm not really bored. I say the pull between the boredom and the attachment is what's causing the depression.

He, of course, wants me to go to the doctor and get medicated. I have no interest in antidepressants and think that sounds like a shitty idea. The battles continues.

Anyway, I got back from my short meeting with Aiden this afternoon, plopped down on the couch and started surfing the web. About an hour in, my phone rang, and I looked at the caller ID, wondering who would be calling me. Aiden was at work, Kevin was at work, Wren was at work, and my mother talked to me yesterday...it was Alejandra. I thought it would be longer before I heard from her, and I didn't think she'd call me.

Unsure what to say and knowing that bad cell reception and a sensitive conversation are a very bad combination, I let her leave a voicemail.

"Hi Skylar, it's Alejandra, I know you're probably still mad at me, I'm not really sure what happened, but I thought maybe we could talk it out, and depending on your summer plans [something unintelligible] and I hope you're out of school and classes and enjoying your summer and having fun. So if you could give me a call back that'd be awesome."

She's "not really sure" what happened? I thought I made it quite clear. Apparently not enough for her. I'm wondering if she's up here on vacation or something, or if today was a day to call for absolutely no reason.

Five minutes later...

It's one of those days. Wren just IM'd me to say, "You'll never guess who messaged ME!" I did, actually, on the fifth guess, and it was a guy from her past. Billy was her first love, and then a fuck toy eight years later, and now suddenly he says, "How are you?"

So. Anybody else gotten any weird calls lately?

TMI Tuesday

Have you ever...

1. had sex with someone ten years older or younger than you?

Yes - 13 years in fact.

2. drawn from a nude model or been a nude model?

No, but if someone paid me I'd be happy to!

3. had sex at a company Christmas party?

Hehe. No.

4. had a blind date?

No, I'd never do that. I'd be way too uncomfortable.

5. slept with a teacher?

No...

Bonus (as in optional): had sex with someone within an hour of meeting them?

Nope, not that either! Damn, this week made me sound boring.

TMI Tuesday #190

Chicks That Drive Sticks

Kevin and I spent this weekend tearing apart our motorcycles...well, his motorcycle. Mine ran with remarkably little coersion, needing only a couple of jump-starts from my car. His needed some parts replaced, including the carb intake boots and the cylinder intakes, plus the replacement of a truly frightening melted wire and the taping of the rear turn signals. I probably shouldn't feel as smug as I do about having a significantly nicer bike than my boyfriend.

The bike work was genuine fun, something I don't get nearly enough of these days. We were both involved, interested, and helping each other, and he was too distracted to be constantly making sexual comments and then getting pissed off when I didn't respond, as he spends most of his time doing now. I even had a moment of amusement when I grabbed a water bottle from the sink to clean my bike, filled it up, and started cleaning the bike...only to realize that the water that was already in the bottle was orange-flavored, and I was making the bike smell like fake oranges.

Even though it runs, I still have to take apart my bike to track down what I believe is a loose electrical connection somewhere. When I put it away last fall, the turn signals had stopped working completely after a short bout of working only when the bike was warm. When I took it out yesterday, they worked fine, but the battery didn't seem to be charging. After I had failed to jump it from the jump-pack and jumped it twice from my car, it still refused to start on its own...and then I left it, took a shower, came back, and it started fine. Perhaps another melted wire like the one in Kevin's bike? We'll find out tonight, I hope.

So I have a bike that works and a motorcycle license, but no registration, inspection, or insurance, because I can't afford those things. Kevin has a bike that works and the money for registration etcetera, but no motorcycle license and no idea how to ride. He proved that yesterday in a moment that could have gone horribly wrong but fortunately produced only minor damage on his part and concealed hilarity on mine.

When the bike was finally running and put back together, he asked me to ride it up and down the driveway to make sure it worked like it should. I did so with no problems, except for one strange issue: when I turned the handlebars in either direction, the engine revved to several times idle speed. I told him about it and he decided to have his friend come over one of these days and take a look. Then he said, "Should I try to ride it down the driveway?"

I knew that wouldn't end well, but also that it wouldn't be appreciated to tell him no, so I shrugged and told him to do what he wanted.

"Hey, what's the worst that can happen...I fall and get killed."

"Nah, the worst that can happen here is you break your leg," I said pragmatically, knowing there was a good chance that would actually happen. I got the bike situated so he had a straight shot from one end of the driveway to the other and handed it over.

It took him ten or so tries to let the clutch out without stalling it, and when he finally did get going, the result was exactly what I expected. He rolled to the end of the driveway, didn't brake enough or in time, tried to turn, the engine revved and the bike spun out from underneath him. I watched without moving as it stuttered, revved, turned, and started to go over, and he hopped sideways as it finally skidded out and landed on its side, fortunately not on his leg.

I jogged down to make sure he was all right, then helped him lift the bike back upright. Fortunately nothing had broken or spilled, and it started right back up for me. I revved the engine, let out the clutch, and rode it smoothly back to where it had begun.

Yes, the clutch is stiff and it needs a new clutch cable, but Kevin's swearing about the clutch being "too quick" for him was obviously bullshit. His hands are much stronger than mine and I had no trouble with it, though I wouldn't take the bike more than a mile because it would tire my hand too much. He just can't admit that he's not as good at driving a standard as he claims. I've watched him torture both my old car and Wren's, and winced every time. Power to the chicks that drive sticks, I say.

The Balance

I came up to my mom's house yesterday to provide tech support, get my car serviced, and get some peace. I was originally supposed to drive back down this afternoon, but upon finding out that the car had a damaged rim, had to stay through until tomorrow so it could be fixed.

Kevin and I get along better when we're not near each other as often. I know that's me; if he had his way, we would be together twenty-four/seven and it would be perfect. I, however, need my me-time, on a regular basis and in significant amounts. While I believe that everyone needs that to a certain extent, some people more than others, there are days I wonder whether he even needs two seconds a day to himself. It's like he exists entirely for me, has substituted my reality for his own (as Eben so neatly put it), and it's annoying as hell.

We're chatting right now about why I came back to him after our first breakup, and I'm trying to pull out answers to questions that I don't know the answers to, and trying to put them in words that aren't insanely insulting. I know I need to move out, but now I'm wavering between moving out and breaking up or just moving out and getting space, and continuing the relationship. I've actually told him that dilemma, which wasn't quite in my plans, but being honest doesn't feel like a bad thing. I've done enough plotting and lying and stupid crap, a little honesty is good for me.

TMI Tuesday

1. What was the last movie you saw on a date?

Wolverine...unfortunately, the guys sitting behind us wouldn't shut the fuck up for more than two minutes at a time throughout the entire movie. Determined to beat up at least one of them in the parking lot afterwards, I was most disappointed when the movie was over and I realized they were all about 12.

2. What was the last meal you had on a date?

Steak tips and pasta, right after the aforementioned movie.

3. When was the last time you made out in the car on a date? More?

Can't even remember.

4. Using dating websites do you think you are more likely to find a "hook up" or a relationship?

I never use those things; they sketch me out.

5. Do you have any special "first" date rituals? Flowers, certain restaurant, etc.?

Since I don't start dating someone until I'm already friends with them, and I'm never exactly sure what to count as a "first date," I can't really answer that.

TMI Tuesday #189