MOVING HOUSE

http://cakesandneckties.wordpress.com/



New year, new blog home, new things to come...henceforth, that is the place...

Yes, even that...

It was Labour Day, and we looked splendid. A morning market trip, the fridge and pantry well-stocked, the temptation of afternoon cocktails barely held at bay. We lounged on my balcony and decided we needed an activity or else we were going to give in to bourbon and it was barely noon. First, we composed lists about each other's awesomeness, all the reasons why (a) we are too good for men who let us down, (b) better off alone than with someone less than perfect, and (c) foolish to worry we might remain that way forever. The lists grew wonky and ridiculous, and after ruling out naps, reading, and napping with books, we tossed my apartment in search of a more strenuous pastime.

We giggled that we'd both selected t-shirts which our bras shone through, and that this just might be our last chance at croquet. Unrelated facts, but facts nonetheless. As we planted wickets in a sloppy course, Shamus and Paige shouted from their balconies that they'd love to play. The sun shone hot and bright, cicadas trilled, we laughed and shook rounds of mint juleps, and shit-talked one another when swings went wild.

"Ok, so, in order to win, you have to go through the centre wicket, off the bit of clover sprouting at the base of the tree, over there to the right, past the pond and the rock with the guy's face carved into it, back to the middle then through the two wickets and hit the stake. Got it?"

Meanwhile, the airshow rocketed overhead, and my heart felt like a plane crash. I wanted to be carefree and lovely, a girl with a perfect smile and sweet golden tan, a lady looking forward to autumn while clutching summer's late heat like a withering bouquet. Instead, I was distracted by heartache, sad for something that really, if I am honest, never amounted to much. A thing built bigger by the missing than it stood in real life.

A week later, my chest still feels tight and my breath comes short. I wake up sweaty, making fists and thinking about someone who never once climbed into my bed. I think of this and I think of that, throw off the sheets and wash myself in "angry" before jumping into each day. My throat's clogged by a log-jam of things I should have said. Instead, I sat primly glancing down my lashes and telling him the ways his leaving made me sad.

We hardly knew each other despite a few months of dating; his arms were crossed against me the whole time, and I did my best to play it smooth and cool. He admits he led me on with complicated words and gestures, efforts to convince himself he was into me when all it took was Date Number One to figure out he liked everything about me except being with me.

Writing this feels a little foolish, too large for what he was in the broad spanse of my life. And, it makes me see how much I miss the idea more than the man. Or so I'd like to claim. But really, I am lying--I do miss the man, whether that makes sense or not. All summer, I felt like barfing from the tension of guessing what might, or might not, be going on between us. For weeks, friends coached me to relax and let go, fall for him and see where the plunge would take my heart. Now, another friend suggests I am "chasing his mystery to postpone letting go." And, I think she's quite right. I believe there's a chunk of the story he's neatly clipped out, but I suppose it doesn't matter. Suck up the fresh heartbreak and fucking move on.

But, I miss the hopefulness about where things might go. I miss the anticipation of a kiss each morning when our paths crossed at the café. I miss the last-minute invitations, the chance that one, the other, or both of us would call just to say "hello". I miss dressing slightly fancier than if I thought no one was looking. I miss his jokes about my star sign and my tiny, tidy home. I miss the fact that his shirts were in a range of colours but clearly the same make and model. And, I miss the slightly bizarre way he smelled, a fragrance I couldn't place, nor even begin guess. Yes, even that.

Risk and Danger

Once, I spent an evening getting devastatingly tipsy with a colleague, whom I didn't know very well. We moved from after-work drinks to after-drinks sushi, to after-sushi cocktails, to after-cocktails wine at his place. I know, I know, this all sounds sketchy, but I had a boyfriend and he knew this, and I am not that sort of lady, if you know what I mean. And so, it all seemed innocent and incident-free. And, I should add, the evening remained that way.

Conversation followed a trajectory familiar to anyone who's ever been tanked with someone from work--office complaints, impressions (and later, drunken impersonations) of co-workers, where to grab something to eat before we end up wrecked, where to head next since it's Friday and Saturday is a sleep-in day, then the slick and slippery slope from freely tossing around the F-word to personal history to most-embarrassing-moments to dating disasters to more of the F-word, and finally, to heartfelt revelations about where we wish/ want/ hope our lives take us next.

I am perhaps more vibrant the drunker I become, but I am not particularly withdrawn or closed when dead-sober, and I rarely share details when intoxicated that I would have withheld under more moderate conditions. In other words, I'm not a bar-stool confessor spilling out bits that should remain under guard. Likewise, I'll reveal personal details to people I trust, without needing drinks for lubrication.

At my colleague's kitchen table that night, we slouched and sipped wine and our eyes grew hooded with sleepiness and liquor. We'd stalled at the topic of Boyfriends and Girlfriends: Past, Present and Future, and in particular, the matter of risk versus return on investment, so to speak. He illustrated a point with a wild arm-swing, catching his glass with his palm and smacking red wine up the wall. Folding his hands in his lap and composing himself a little, he declared, "Girl, you are awesome. Why are you taking this shit from a person you call your 'partner' but who is clearly no such thing? It's making me so angry, I would like to say I can't listen to anymore of this, but I also want the whole story. If you're sticking with this guy, there has to be more to it than you're telling me. Because seriously...it sounds like you are getting nothing back for what you're putting in!"

Risk, danger, investment, return. All rather clinical words to apply to matters of the heart. And yet, strangely apt words, too. As wine dried into a permanent stain on the wallpaper, I tried to explain my choice to remain in a relationship that was no longer healthy, balanced or fun, but I failed to convince him of its worth, and by dawn, no longer had faith in it myself. "I think maybe it's a place holder," I admitted. "I have a person to snuggle and dine with, while I wait for someone who properly loves me to come along." A dreadful admission, and I wasn't sure if it made me feel worse saying it aloud (like I was a traitor, shit-talking my boyfriend to a stranger), or to know I would go home, sleep it off, and head to my boyfriend's house for dinner the next night like I'd never made the confession at all.

My colleague and I spent increasing amounts of time together, talking about absolutely everything except the thing he wanted to say most. One day, he asked me why I felt so comfortable confiding in him, when mere weeks ago, we had been strangers. "When I talk to you," I explained, "I'm a bird in your open palm. First, I perch on your finger tips, hopping a little closer and a little closer till I reach the middle of your hand. I can tell that, even once I reach the place where you could easily snap your fist closed around me faster than I could take flight, you won't do that. And so, I can tell you these risky stories without being afraid you might crush me." Meanwhile, my friend's heart twisted with unrequited and so-far undisclosed affection for me.

Within a year, that place-holding relationship would end, my colleague would angrily inform me via email that he had such a crush on me he couldn't bear listening to me talk about other men, and our friendship (which had grown sincere after that first drunken night) would be put on hiatus until the crush abated and we could get on with things.

In the wake of my break-up, I would think back to my place-holder remark and how easy it felt to be flippant, and how much it ached to lose that guy. I considered whether I'd meant what I said--that he was a place to stop and rest while something better caught up with my life. The tortoise and the hare, so to speak. Or, had I brandished a stick of "whatever, I don't care, he's just someone passing through and one day we'll both move on," when in fact he was the love of my life, never to be replaced, the best man I would ever land?

This spring, I did some tentative and half-assed dating, terrified to hook up with anyone I actually cared for in case he became a rebound boyfriend, treated like shit as I exorcised the last of my anger at my ex. I went out with a handful of sweet guys with whom I had no chemistry, and a short-list of wackos who couldn't make through the first date without exposing their skeezy side. And then, I took a break. Did nothing. Turned my thoughts and energy to other things. Traveled a bit, laid around in the sunshine, wrote like mad and spent time with my family. Cultivated a suntan that I should know better than to earn in this day and age, and wore short-shorts to the café at least three times. I never go out in short-shorts!

And then, I met someone. I pretended it was "too soon to get excited" but admitted I hoped it would turn into something. Talked myself down, played it cool, and held my cards close to my chest. Was relieved when he assured me he moved slowly, but always with intent. Took wee little steps toward acting like people who were dating rather than two people who sometimes go on dates. Coached myself not to get too excited since there was no telling where this would go, but knew it was getting tougher to deny that my heart was poised to fall for this person. And, in due course, I let myself believe he was poised to fall for me, too.

I was wrong. Risk, danger, investment and return. Bird in the palm. Heart in my hand, held out for consideration. An ache for something that stings like a bite.

Be Her, or Be With Her?

When this video was released, it received nearly constant play on the local Top Ten video hits show. I wonder why...heh.

I was eleven, and it confused me more than anything I'd seen in my life. All those ladies. With ladies' parts and such. Right out there for looking at, but kinda tucked into weird swimsuits. And the massage part--jesus! I remember watching the video in the rec room TV at my cool aunt's house, and her walking in on me and gasping, "Oh my god! What are you watching?! Don't tell your mother you saw this at my house!"

Along with Molly Ringwald, the girl in my class with long legs and really great blue satin tights, and a poster advertising lip gloss at the drug store, this video was central to the wrestling match in my head--did I want to be these cute, sassy girls? Or, did I want to be with them? Have their long, lanky legs, or touch their long, lanky legs?

Sizing Things Up

The other night, as I walked down the street, a drunk man reached over and casually grabbed my vagina. It was late, I was drunk, I was wearing a short, cute dress. It was a shady neighbourhood, and the guy was even less sober than I was. I was walking with the man I have recently begun dating, and one of his longstanding friends. I don't know either of them especially well. These factors collided and I felt unprepared to accurately size up the situation, predict what might happen if I called the guy on his transgression, guess how things might escalate if I were to grab his filthy hand, and demand, "What makes you think you can grope women in the street, fuckface?"

Instead, I froze, looked shocked, and informed my two companions that that man over there had just grabbed my crotch. There were a few moments spent milling about, during which my gentleman friend asked me some appalled questions, things like, "Really? For real? You're not joking? That guy? The one over there? In the red jacket? Really? For real?" Then, he set off to set the man straight. Got halfway to catching up, paused, turned back and asked again, "Really? For real?" while I suggested he just let it go, leave it be, brush it off like no big deal.

"Unacceptable," he told me, then resumed pursuit. The man was drunk and not travelling fast. My friend caught up in an instant, smacked the back of his head, told him that touching women at all without an invitation was fully unacceptable, and that he'd best make haste, get the fuck out of here, and never, ever pull something like that again. Apparently, the man apologised. I would like to believe he was so wasted he had simply stumbled and grabbed for the closest thing offering support, which regrettably turned out to be my vagina. But, I know that's untrue.

The thing is, the post-grope altercation made me feel more uncomfortable than the grope did. The potential for things to have slipped out of control...that someone I care for, in the process of defending me and any other ladies this drunk jerk might decide to assault (or, whom he'd already felt up as he made his way along Bloor Street) might have ended in a brawl. A little while ago, I posted a story about my sister telling some guy to get stuffed as he came on to her aggressively at a streetcar stop. She called me after it happened, excited that she'd stuck up for herself, but also angry and disappointed with herself for letting shit like that go unchallenged in the past.

Ranked against more serious assaults, someone touching me while I was safely in the company of friends then continuing on his way like nothing had happened, this is no big deal. But, my friend is right--he explained that he'd gone after the man because what he did to me personally wasn't ok, but also because if someone smacks him in the head the first time, then perhaps he'll be dissuaded from doing it a few more times, or stepping up the aggression behind his touch.

And so, I struggled to reconcile my own decision to just let him away with it, to not provoke a confrontation, to be intimidated by the possibility that the guy was a loose cannon, to forget it because really, no harm done. I blamed the champagne and the gin I'd poured into myself all evening, for making me hesitant to defend myself. Now, days later, I think the weirdest part is that I don't remember much about the grope, but I have a play-by-play movie in my head of David shoving the guy and shouting at him to watch his step, the man stumbling away down the sidewalk, and David just shaking his head.

Lord of the Gays

In 1983, I learned "gay" had not two but three very different meanings. The first two were pretty obvious. Of course, it meant "happy" in an old-fashioned way. This was handy to know when tossing the word by its second definition, the better, crueler meaning--and by that, I mean "stupid", of course. Get caught calling a kid a gay, or worse yet, a gay fag (meaning twice as stupid), and all you had to do to squeak out of trouble was claim, "I was just saying that kid seemed real happy is all!"

But, when I pointed out the window at Nicholas from down the block, as he strolled past pretending to be a retarded duh, and informed my mother, "God, he is so gay!" she set me straight, so to speak. Asked whether I knew the what that word meant, I rolled my eyes and heaved a tremendous sigh, suggesting my mother was clearly only a hair away from retarded herself, and assured her that of course I knew. Everyone knows that, even kindergarteners. Gay means stupid, duh.

"No, not really," my mother replied. "It means he has a boyfriend, that he likes to kiss boys."

Well, I didn't know about that, but I did know Nick was a moron, and closed the conversation with, "Fine then, I guess he's just a fag."

This summer, I spent two weeks living on an island that houses, among other things, a handful of residents in awesome little cottages, an alternative school, two yacht clubs, a nude beach, a queer cruising ground, an artists' retreat, and a children's amusement park. Exploring one quiet night, I shot photos of the willows, the boardwalk, the beach and the sunset, and ended up at the amusement park shortly before dark. It remains unchanged since my family visited in 1983--the same year I learned to properly define "gay", I also learned that even small rollercoasters can be terrifying and that haunted houses make me scream like a sissy. The little park has not yet been colonised by chain shops, food vendors and conglomerate names, and retains a funny sort of charm, tough to date since it bears the patches of renovations, ugrades and improvements made over the past twenty-five years. And yet, the rides remain rickety, the snack bar sells unbranded treats, and the miniature village is modeled on the Wild West, circa 1978 or so...

...including this little gem, which I cannot believe escaped my scrutiny when I was ten. "Attorneys at Law--Elgin Gaylord"? Come on! Even if you're not down with the kids, surely you're familiar with some of the oldest taunts in the book?

I must confess, even at age thirty-six, it made me snicker. My mom can teach me this and she can teach me that, but some things will always, always be funny.

Shelby Stacks Some Stones

One day, on the island, this was as productive as I could be. And, that was just fine with me.