Photo by Dr.B - 2008, One Dork, One Kid and a Pink Coat

Last night was the perfect storm of downtown Portland activity. There was the First Thursday art walk in the Swanky Pearl District and the 6th Avenue Street Fair in the reformed Old Town where hipsters a’plenty wandering the street and the annual May Day Protest for Socialists.

The scene can be set like this. On one side of the block we have skaters, punks, drug dealers, radio stations and a make shift skate park with ramps made out of giant timber, book ended on each corner by balloon animals and performance artists. On the other side of the street we have hipsters hanging outside a row of cheap art/living studio spaces clamoring for what might be free Pabst Blue Ribbon and Charles Shaw wine all the while oogling over “art”. Hipsters love art, they just can’t afford it.

Around the block, you have an overdressed, old mom trying to look cool while her daughter laughs in her face and her boyfriend snaps the photos for the soon to be released, “Documentary of an old woman in a pink coat on a spring day.”

 

A few years back a relationship ended and I thought I would never recover. I’ve written about before in my fear of commitment series. A series that proves there is no such thing as a white knight and for the most part fairy tales are for movies only.

I’ve had little contact with my International Man of Mystery mostly because he might be one of the few who I cannot be friends with. This particular relationship ended suddenly and, painfully. There was no long months of discomfort and fighting. There was no “unhappy” talks; it just ended very quickly over email, over an ocean and a 8 hour time difference. To say I was crushed is an understatement. There were many tears, there was anger, there were bottles and bottles of bourbon and I was left to deal with it. “I told you so” came out of a lot of mouths; which is fun like salt with blood and open wounds. However, I do not ever regret the time we spent together; it was truly some of the best times of my life.

A year later, the week that my mother died was an emotional roller coster. On one hand, I was happy she was finally no longer in pain; on the other hand I selfishly wanted her here so I could come to some sort of conclusion on our lives together. I stepped into work one afternoon to clean up a few things before I took time off to bury my mother. I walked into the office and began half-heartedly scanning my email. Suddenly my eyes caught an email from my International Man of Mystery.  My heart dropped found a way to drop further than it already was. I was stunned, I stared for a very long time. I didn’t open the email.

I called my best friend. “There’s an email”, I whispered half scrunched under my desk.

“What do I do? I’m scared”

She asked, “Why are you whispering?”

I answer, “I don’t know. I feel like he can see me through the monitor.” 

Her direct order, “do not answer him”.

I hung up the phone and immediately opened the email. It was composed in a strange way and almost seemed like a form. “Hi, just updating my contacts. How are you?” I explained that my mother just died and that I’m not going to be in the office for a week. He can reach me at my hotmail address if he wants to catch up. A day later I was parked at my computer, drinking bourbon attempting to compose my mother’s eulogy. Most people lie during eulogies. I had every intention of telling the truth. I couldn’t figure out how to say, “my mother was a junkie, her life was fucked up” and make it funny. My International Man of Mystery popped online.

We made the small talk, he expressed his sympathies and I accepted. I was drained emotionally, I had nothing for him that day. He asked if I hated him and I lied and said no. I had no room for hatred that day. He explained what happened and how that other girl in London treated him badly and said bummer. I told him that secretly I was happy she treated him terrible because I would have never treated him that way. He asked me to send my mother’s eulogy to him so he could somehow be there for me. We signed off and we never spoke again. That conversation haunted me, all the pain rushed back but my capacity to deal with it was at a minimum. I still didn’t date for years after that relationship ended. Sex was an act of revenge, love was out of the question.

I tried to google him every now and then and found nothing. We girls do this, we google our past in hopes to find answers, validation, resolution. We want to know that the current girl is an ugly troll, we want to know that our ex’s are failures. We somehow need this to move on. I learned my lesson about googling after I found out my real-father actually committed suiced when I was three. Wow, not only have I spent my whole life looking for my fabled father but I found out my ultimate fantasy, my white knight, the one that had to be rich and normal and would rescue me from “these horrible people that have held me hostage all my life”  was as fucked up as everything else in your life.

I don’t google people much; I really, honestly, truly - don’t want to know.

Last Sunday I was editing “the book” and I came across another “HI, check out my updated profile” email from International Man of Mystery. I clicked on it nonchalantly; more out of curiosity. There were pictures where there were no pictures before, there was a life that I never knew about before. There he was living the life I thought I would be living some day with him. There was a house under construction, vacation pictures with a woman and eventually a baby. A baby, a baby, a baby.

My only thought; “At least I didn’t have to give birth again.” I somehow dodged a bullet.

That moment I realized that because I did not spontaneously combust, because my heart didn’t physically jump out of my chest so the dog could chew on it, because I didn’t cry. I’m over it -  finally fucking over it.

 

 

Easter started with a tummy full of brave and a few text messages from my sister.

Saturday

“Sunday dinner?” (Aptly named Sunday dinner because we aren’t religious)

“Ms. Puddin isn’t home, how about me and Dr. B?”

No answer.

Sunday Morning

“When dnr?”

“3:00”

“so erly, be thr 3:30?”

“K”

Dr. B and I arrive. I’ve given him the family talk, I’ve warned him of the insanity and, I forced him to stop and buy a six pack of beer. Because, no one drinks at my sisters house and drinks are the only way for the sane to survive. Its 3:45 pm, I’m 15 minutes late. Dr. B and I walk in and the usual fluttering over dinner isn’t apparent. In fact dinner is on the table covered with pieces of aluminum foil. Next to the sparkling containers are two plates and two forks. My Brother-in-Law and son are carefully strewn on the couch clutching their stomachs. My sisters are in the kitchen doing dishes and my nephew is waddling from room to room babbling incoherently in his 15 month old voice. Probably talking about the luscious turkey he just ate.

“Hey, Where’s Dinner?”

“I told you dinner was at 3!” Very loudly from the kitchen without turning to look at me.”

“Umm, I said I would be here by 3:30.”

“Yeah, its 3:45”

I immediately grab the beers and begin prying off the tops with my teeth. Two for me, one for Dr. B. I gave him a look that says (if you even consider touching that food, I’ll kick you in the nuts just to make a point.) We sit, we hang on for dear life to our beers and we visit. The baby babbles until snot runs out of his nose and my sisters stay in the kitchen for what seems like an hour. I make the mini-introductions and we sit in relative silence while my Brother-In-Law talks about his new life since his son was born. Ahh the blessed child has created a born-again; but we stop short of praising the Lord.

More beer.

The sisters come out and sit on the couch, Dr. B and I are on our third drink and my sisters begin “The lets pick on Chantel” phase of the visit. I’m ribbed about my abhorrence to feet and my need to wash my hands after wiping snotty nephew nose. I love my nephew but I still hate snot. End of story. I’m ribbed because I’m forcing “MY” guest to sit without his dinner. Because we showed up late we’re gonna be punished and sit in the corner clutching plates together hoping that we finish before bed time and don’t have to go to bed on an empty stomach.

I start to wash my hands.

More beer.

I’m getting tipsy and I know Dr. B with no tolerance to alcohol is probably hammered by his second.

For no reason I hear exaggerated southern accents and recognize lines from Forrest Gump.

“Lewwwtenant DAnnnn, Asse-Creeeeam”

“Lewwwtenant DAnnnn”

“Jennnaay”

“Me and Jennay, weaz lak puuuhhhz and carrOTS.”

Its coming from everyone in the room. If my nephew could conjugate verbs he would probably join in on the quotes. If there was ever a time I wanted to die, it was now. In the midst of the chorus of quotes, I packed up the beer and Drunk Dr. B on an empty stomach and said my good-byes yet no one in the room skipped a syllable in their quote.

We we’re drunk and we we’re hungry the only restaurant open is Joes Crab Shack.

“Joes Crab Shack is close, you wanna try it?”

They have a bar and they have Crab. Dr. B ate crab while I cried into my margarita. Dr. B forgave me for my family. Dr. B is the first person in a long time to witness Chantel “emotional eating”. I actually almost finished something. I’m an obsessive eater of half. An obsessive hand washer. Obsessive cabinet closer. I guess you can’t really ever go home again.

 

 

 

I’ve been walking around with dirty underwear in my purse. The same place where I keep my gum, my medication and, occasionally a piece of fruit for a snack.

Why is Chantel carrying dirty underwear in her purse? First because my purse is vast and it easy to lose small things in a vast area. Secondly because as adults who date and who often spend the night at another’s house; we often don’t plan ahead and bring clean underwear, or clothes, or toothpaste and such. That would be presumptuous. I don’t want to be presumptuous. In fact, I’m so damn insecure I think about breaking up with Dr. B on a regular basis. Damn skippy, If I’m not gonna walk right into his apartment some day and say one of the following things:

• I’m really tired of trying to figure out if you actually like me or not; so lets just call the time of death on this one and call it good. Bye, bye.
• I’m seriously tired of hearing about how “some other place” (Insert San Francisco) is so much better than here. Move already. Bye, bye.
  
• I’m too insecure about men leaving me to deal with the fact that you’re in a permanent state of temporary residence. My nerves have had it, Bye, bye.
• Wow, why do you even hang out with me?
  

It usually goes like this. I walk into his apartment after ringing buzzer and standing in the rain waiting for him to buzz me up. I knock on the door anyway because I’m polite like that. He asks who it is and I usually use a super-hero pseudonym and let myself in. He greets me one of the following; a mullet wig, fake mustache, pirate patch and/or, hat of some ridiculousness that he found in his closet.

I laugh.

Then somewhere after dinner or a movie or a bar we come back to his apartment (never mine). There’s this thing that he does that makes me think or, whisper or, scream. I don’t know which it is; “OH Great Mighty God’s of Melting Dark Chocolate Over Strawberry Cupcakes.”

I’ll keep him for a while longer. (that’s where the dirty underwear part come in) Suffice to say; I know not everything is perfect. And I know that I’m crazy. Most women have crazy shit like this going through their head. The trick is to not let it out. Pick you’re battles carefully because I wouldn’t want to lose touch with the “Mighty God of Melted Dark Chocolate Over Strawberry Cupcakes” because I had a crazy day.

 

So you want a love story do you?

I know that there are few hard and fast rules on dating and love. The few being sort of the same as the Ten Commandments if you’re religious and sort of like the Golden Rule if you’re not.

My Rules:

Don’t be violent or crazy or careless with someone’s heart. You can prevent all kinds of fallout by practicing these rules. Try to be honest without being cruel. For now however, we live in a world where everyone seems to need a user’s manual to get through the day. It would seem appropriate there continues to be a growing cottage (or Skyscraper) industry for finding love.

For example, another article on how Women screw up their chances of finding long-lasting relationships with men. So many articles, so many different women and, so many choices. Many of these articles and books claim to have the answers for us.

There are the books that blame the psyche of the common man and, the books that will have you believe its all the fault of the woman; which is where this article leaned at times.

For instance:

“Allison’s take-charge attitude is what Patti calls the pickle jar effect. “We are so successful today, women. We’re fabulous. We work hard. We make good money. We parent. Sometimes what happens when we spend a lot of time alone, we forget to let them open the damn pickle jar,” Patti says.”

Sounds to me as if someone is saying you can’t have you cake and eat it too.

Again later in the article women are being told to “meditate”. So what do we do after we find ourselves? This is an ongoing process; isn’t it?

“Find your inner person,” Patti says. “Meditate. Because I’ll bet you if every one of you ladies in this room went to the most quiet place in your core, you’d know why you were single. I believe you all have your own answer. Find it.”

Finally, we’re given a metaphor for “go buy a dog if you’re lonely”.

“Take a new hobby up. Painting. Cooking. Dancing. Say, ‘This is what I’m going to do this year.’ Okay?

As I read the article I felt very little and then I thought about it a bit more. I began to feel irritated and angry that blame was being placed on one side. Maybe this is an effort to get women to take responsibility for their relationships and behaviors or on the other hand the article is just another solid example that men really are dumb and we have to work just a bit harder to get what we want; an argument I’ve never agreed with.

That rant over lets move on to the actual issue.

Love is hard to find.

We have profiles on the internet, secret email relationships, text messaging lovers, Netflix queues with a hundred or more movies, full-time careers (not just jobs anymore), children, ipods, online grocery shopping, gyms for female’s only. Then you go home by yourself, open your wine, pop in a crime drama on DVD and become afraid of riding the train to avoid a murderer so you resolve to take your car. Later that night you watch the local news and you’re warned against the dangers of the internet, online dating, banking fraud, bacteria in the gym shower, crack pipes in the sandbox and the pizza delivery guy.

Suddenly you find yourself utterly alone. You haven’t had a date in six months, you haven’t left your house since you started telecommuting to save on gas money but, you’re lonely and you’re looking for love.

So you make a list.

A list of things you want and things you don’t. But, because of your fear you don’t answer the 20 emails on your dating profile because they either have one fault that is now a “deal-breaker” or, they’re obviously out of “our league” or, you’ve decided they’re probably lying anyway and that picture is definitely 10 years old.

You’re still alone?

We all are looking for our love story. In fact I could use a serious love story in my life as well. Who knows maybe its right there in front of me right this very instant but I’ve spent my evening on twitter, or writing this blog post. All the while Dr. B is working at his CAREER. We are too fucking busy or afraid to just allow love stories to happen to us.

We have goals, dreams and to do lists with plans that are fighting for space and yet, we still expect potential mates to fit in the middle. We’re not allowing things to happen naturally and we’re not allowing space for natural discovery of another human being.

Step one: Breathe in. then. Breathe out

Step two: Leave your house

Step three: Look around

Now tell me what you see out there.
Baby steps

Now you must excuse me I’m off to watch a DVD from my 129 dvd deep Netflix queue.