Posts Tagged ‘boyfriends’

Cheerful, tangled memories.

October 22, 2008

Just realised that tomorrow was the anniversary I had with Jason (see x365 post a couple entries down). That explains why he popped into my mind.

I often find myself thinking of people and not knowing why; February is a month of my grandmother. This is when I flew out to be with her after the death of my grandfather. It’s also the last time I saw her healthy. I flew back six months later to sit beside her as she died.

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(three) Jason

October 22, 2008

I loved you so deep I found myself, and lost myself. Burned into my memory, my love of fourteen years ago. I remember the feel of your hair. The curls.

Thirty facts about me/my life/etc on my thirtieth birthday!

September 5, 2008

My father has borderline personality disorder,
my mother went into labour with me
on labour day,
my grandmother marched in the first
union march in the
country I was born in.

I love buying journals and have trouble
finishing them. I have five holes in my
ears and no more hole
in my tongue.
I have one crown in my mouth,
no tattoos, and
a serious distaste of earthworms.

I’m 5’8, taller than my mother (only just)
and shorter than my
father. Once, playing under a sleeping bag,
I watched my sister swallow a
penny.
I met TMD in 1998, I moved to this
country permanently in 2001 (we can
ignore the extensive visiting in 2000).

My grandfather had a huge collection
of
Reader’s Digest books,
and he ate popcorn every night from
a giant wooden bowl.
He and my grandmother were
first generation in my home country.

I never thought about being
from that country until I moved
far away from it, and my accent and cultural
habits made me an oddity.

I dislike cutting my toenails (because it’s
icky, not because I want long claw hooks),
I’ve worn glasses since I was eight,
I lost my virginity when I was 16. My wife
has a killer voice
and plays the guitar like a dream.

I have never met my father’s side
of my family,
I have never met my grandparents’
across-the-ocean family,
I wonder sometimes how they fared in
the Holocaust, with all those
death camps sprinkled around.

I am not German or Austrian.

I’ve slept with more boys
than girls
but been with TMD probably longer
than all other relationships combined.
I’m a serial monogomist.

I used to tap dance.
I cannot do a cartwheel.

(I think I counted correctly. Thanks to everyone who wished me a happy birthday in one way or another. The first fact of my 31st year: I love comments on this diary. It makes me feel listened to, valued, and like someone has reached out to make a connection with me. Love to you all!)

High school romance, take one.

September 4, 2008

Jaysus Kee-rist.

The love-of-my-life-before-TMD, my first love, just friended me on Facebook. Of course I knew he existed in the Facebook world of things, because he was friends with some of my friends. I just swore to myself that no matter how badly I wanted to see his profile I would not friend him – and I wondered if he would friend me.

Of course, we can ignore me essentially asking my sister to copy and paste his profile into an email.

I listed us as having gone to high school together and skipped the ‘we dated’ option as I felt it might be a bit controversial. Especially as our last conversation was him saying he was worried he had turned me gay, and I lied and said I wasn’t. Not one of my proudest moments, but I think I still crazily thought we would get back together.

He’s a really great guy and it would be nice to send the occasional email, but don’t know if that will happen. I have decided that I am prettier than his wife, though, so that makes me happy. I won’t tell anyone (except you) that I immediately started looking through my own Facebook pictures to see if I looked monstrous or hot. I think I fall somewhere in between.

Crazy (again, a word I seem to keep repeating) that we stopped dating about twelve years ago. Old school, man, old school!

I’m glad he friended me first. This somehow makes up for the fact that he ripped my heart out, and I therefore ripped out the hearts of everyone else I dated – until TMD. I try to be gentle with hers.

From writing to pregnancy tests, in one smooth step.

July 29, 2008

Out of curiousity, I just googled ‘writing exercises.’ I found a site that has a five minute exercise per day for every day of the year. The first one I read is something like… George has high blood pressure. His wife has just come home from the grocery store; she has bought things that are not good for George. Write with dialogue.

I read it and could almost picture my brain yawning.

I don’t usually like other people’s exercises, with a few notable exceptions. Birdwatcher lent me a book called Wild Mind or something, and it was chock full of delicious ideas that I was delighted with. Most of them were more vague, though. Such as writing for fifteen minutes, continuing with the statement ‘I remember.’ This is what I like – my own choice of ideas, words, paths to explore. I don’t really give a fuck about George’s high blood pressure (he couldn’t even have an interesting name, could he) or the massive fight he and Georgina are about to get into.

I can picture some Spaghetti Os spattering against the walls, but this is shortly followed by my metaphorically brain as the gunshot rips through my head.

(Ooh, this reminded me of the bit in The Shining where the dead guy’s brains show up on the wall in the Presidential Suite. Sweet!)

I was writing in my paper journal this morning about how my problem isn’t with characters, it’s with story. This is perhaps the opposite of when I am verbally storytelling, and also perhaps the opposite of the way I’d like to be. That being said, those godawful Dan Brown books. He may be able to plot a fast-paced story, but his character description is worse than in romance novels written for housewives. Actually, he’s probably one of the worst (albeit famous) writers ever.

Whereas Stephen King is all about the characters (and also ends up with pretty solid plots, as well), and his stories seem driven more by the people in them than the events. I think that’s not a bad way to write, and maybe it makes sense for me seeing as I’m all up in other people’s psychological spheres all day long.

The key is managing to start writing without stopping because it’s going no-no-nowhere.

In other news, when I went to the hospital they asked about 65362575 times if I was pregnant and finally bullied me into taking a test. This sort of heterosexist thinking really got me angry, and it was surprising that TMD had such a wildly different take on things, saying I should just go ahead and take the test. Let’s think about when I last had sex with a man – probably 1998 or 1999. Unless he had some long-life sperm, I don’t think that’s going to do the trick.

I fully accept they had legal reasons to ask. I also accept that theoretically I could be cheating on TMD and fucking men. But surely they should have asked her to step out of the room and to speak to me alone if that was an issue?

I finally caved because the lovely surgeon (the only one who was not completely – and I hate this word – retarded about us being a lesbian couple) begged me to so she wouldn’t get in trouble with her boss.

Grr. Argh.

I think it also probably annoyed me because I would like nothing more to be pregnant, and having to tell 50 different people 100 different times that I was not pregnant was fairly harsh.

fifteen minutes preparation. (breast reduction, part one)

July 7, 2008

I may be unable to breastfeed, because when I was twenty years old I had a breast reduction. Most of my life I had allowed myself to be defined by my breasts – not on what other people said, though once I was in university my friends had plenty to say. No, I defined myself by having the biggest breasts. I don’t know what breasts meant to me then – being grown up, free, better than other people?

I was in third grade when I got my first bra; it was a B cup. The next bra I got was a D cup. And from there, they grew and grew. I grew and grew. I remember feeling fat, out of place, but when I look back on pictures of the younger me I am not fat. I see myself as an awkward, out of place, non-fat little girl. I didn’t feel little when I was twelve; I felt old, weary, wondering already if this was it. Unable to picture a place in life when I would be happy; unsure what happiness really was. None of that particularly bothered me. Because I had always been unhappy, I didn’t realise what ‘happy’ was.

I was content when I was alone, though. Free. When it was just me and the woods, or just me and my notebook, or just me and my toys. I played with toys for years past when I imagined other people did – just now, I stopped myself from writing ‘girls.’ I don’t think I felt like a girl. I didn’t want to kiss boys or wear make-up, and my first attempts at powder were an unmitigated disaster.

My one connection to the women’s world was my breasts.

I didn’t think of them as being unnaturally large until camp, when I was in university and in a world populated by forests and raunchy talk. I remember those breasts, my breasts; I once held a giant maglite under them. I have a picture of me with a milk carton neatly balancing on the top. Those breasts that hung to my waist, nipples way down at the bottom instead of up in the middle, where I thought nipples were supposed to be.

My breasts let me down in high school. No matter how the boys touched or kissed or sucked, my nipples remained flat. I would peek at other girls when I had the chance; at a camp reunion, the first time I saw another pair of breasts, I was shocked to see that the girl next to me had nipples that poked out. I always wondered if I felt like a Barbie – big breasts with no nipples, just a smooth softness. No boys complained. My best friend’s brother once gave me a great compliment on them, in the middle of the night, secret in our world on the couch.

He wrote me an insulting email last year, and I took it as a compliment. He spoke about those teen times when we fumbled and tried and then he would ignore me, he said they were his hottest fantasy and he thought of me still. I think that’s what I needed; I needed a boy to love me, to desire me, to want me. I was never the girl boys talked about, wondered about, competed for. Or at least I suspect I was not.

My big breasts did not win the boys over, and when I stepped into a world of women there seemed to be only two alternatives – giant, swaying breasts not confined in a bra, or tight, small, perfect breasts in or out of a bra. I was neither. My breasts were beautiful, and nippled, round and soft, full and womanly. I liked the way they looked, but worried about what my male roommate said were ‘baseball nipples.’ I began to carve a public identity out of my breasts; or rather, I allowed Chirp and other friends to do it for me.

I became the girl with the giant breasts. Maybe they were proof of who I was, who I would become, what my potential was. Maybe they were signs of everything that was going wrong. Maybe they were sexual, maybe they were fat, maybe.

Every year I saw a nice Jewish doctor for my cervical smear and breast exam. (Even now, I don’t like to give myself self-exams. The idea of pushing, pushing, trying to find a lump, repulses me.) My doctor was gentle, showing me how to relax my inner thighs, telling me her sister was gay, listening to me. The only bad thing she ever did was tell me I would have to pick – while either was okay, I had to like boys or girls. I could not like both. She made me angry, and I didn’t say anything.

I mentioned the pains – deep grooves from my underwires that never went away, that hurt all the time. Extreme back pain. An inability to sit at a table or desk without heaving my breasts onto the surface in order to give myself from support and ease the weight. Now I wonder if those things were true; even as I can see the red gashes, I wonder if I made them up. So strong are my guilt and doubt.

My doctor suggested that a breast reduction was something that might be able to help me. And because neither she nor the surgeon said I needed to lose weight first, because both agreed it was a good idea, because no one I knew said maybe it wasn’t, I did it. But mostly I had my breasts sized down in order to prove to myself that they were large in the first place. I remember holding the pillow on my lap during the drive to the hospital, wondering why I was doing this. Not believing I would do it.

Yet I did. Or rather, I allowed it to be done to me.

fifteen minutes up.

‘Beware the virgin slayer.’ Someone else’s line, but really appropriate for one of the lives I’ve led.

June 14, 2008

Big Brother is back. Yes, it’s Day 8 or 9 or…something…and I’m feelin’ fine. I’ve regressed back into thinking about this Big Brother idea I had.  For the purposes of this example, the show will revolve around me (!), but you can feel free to substitute yourself if you feel like it.

I think it would be mildly awesome (for no one but the stars of the show, and perhaps their jealous partners) to have one where you had …okay, picture a wheel. You’ve got the hub, and you’ve got spokes. If YOU/me/someone were the hub, all the spokes could be every relationship you’ve ever had. You get to make your own rules here. You could hire mysterious and sadistic producers to run the show and pick your co-stars – including bad break-up people, casual flings, one night stands, the guy you vomited on. Whatever your little producers want.

I have spent a lot of time thinking about this, off and on. Usually when I am in the shower, which is when my greatest fake ongoing dramas happen. I have been on a deserted island for so long now that the native peoples have taught me their language – but sometimes I need a vacation away from paradise, so the Big Brother past relationships thing comes into play.

In this morning’s shower, I was actually in the mobile home thoughtfully provided by the producers, where I was isolated with my first real boyfriend. I cared less about him and our mobile home chats than about picturing his wife at home, watching. I know. Sick.

My house would unfortunately not be able to feature TMD, as she is the current relationship. However, I would bring a picture of her in and it would inspire profound levels of angst. All the boys (well, the straight ones, anyway) would wanna piece of that because boys do tend to think she’s a goddess, and all the girls, well…to be fair, there wouldn’t be many girls. And one of them was once friends with us both and she believes that TMD stole me away from her, so I doubt that girl would look too favourably on the picture.

Speaking of that girl (shall we call her Battery Acid, for reasons only a few people know…), a picture, myself, and TMD….

insert wavy memory lines here

The summer I ended the relationship with B.A. is the summer TMD and I got together. The two periods did not even come close to overlapping, and despite TMD’s fears that she was a rebound, I’m fairly certain you have to actually care about the person you are dumping in order to need a rebound. Anyway, the details are a bit hazy for me.

I just know I was living alone in the camp office, me and the camp ranger the only people in 450 acres of infected lakes, golf cart paths, and all sorts of things that go bump in the night. On weekends, we had staff come in to run programmes. I think B.A. came in to be staff, or no – to ‘visit.’ She wanted to see if I’d found in her flashlight, she said, but I knew this was code for ‘let’s talk about why you don’t love me.’ She unexpectedly came down to my little office house, and there was a big ass picture of TMD and I there. We were dressed as clowns from an activity earlier in the summer, and I’d just found a groovy clear glass frame with purple and blue stars painted on. Very upmarket circus, you see.

Anyway, B.A. pushed her way into my place, saw the picture, and said, ‘What a nice frame.’ I shit you not, I actually have this moment caught on audiotape because I was in the midst of creating a talk-letter for TMD (who by this time was in her country). B.A. proceeded to take the tape and record a very cheerful message for TMD.

Months later she sent her own tape to TMD. It had a very cool logo on the front that said, ‘I like vagina.’ This was clearly a heartrending thing, as she and TMD had found this bumper sticker on a car months earlier and had posed for extravagant pictures. The tape was niiiiice. About a third of the songs were like YOU STOLE MY GIRLFRIEND, MOTHERFUCKER.  Some more were whining about true love and forever. Still others were like, I don’t need you or her, because I’m a strong independant woman!

B.A. sent me two special treats when I was over here visiting TMD for the first time, but I think that’s for another entry. As is the time she came to my house without asking, and my VERY homophobic mother grabbed my arm and hissed, ‘What is SHE doing here. You better not do this to TMD.’ And the time she tried to offer me a four inch piece of rope to tie shut a truck.

I know I sound like a callous bitch, but really. Four inches?

So. B.A. would be in my house, for sure. She would possibly sleep with all my ex-boyfriends, because she is a Fearful Lesbian. We would need condoms. I might throw in Hockey Girl, just for some stalking and laughs. Boys would include Long Haired Nuclear Physicist, Chubby Boy With Curly Hair, and and Long Haired Nuclear Physicist’s ex-best friend. Yessir, I rack ’em up.

We also cannot forget Accented Boy, who I actually really fucked up. I believe he is one of the reasons we joke about me being a virgin hunter.

Ah, curiousity whetted? Tell you later. I swear.

Yes, I said ‘not.’

May 30, 2008

I’ve thought of all sorts of quirky things to write here, and then forget them by the time I have access to a computer. Am currently at work, living in dread that a homeless gay kid/adult is going to come back. We don’t work with people over the age of 19, but he was 20 and looked so sad I couldn’t turn him away. Fuck, I hate housing. In this country, once you’re 18 or older you stand little to no chance of getting social housing.

I don’t know what the solution is. On one hand, I can see that it would be impossible to live in a world with more social housing than private; it’s just not practical. But then you have these real, live people living rough on the streets. Because I am not a government bigwig, I am not in a position to pass laws without reallyunderstanding the impact they have on local people and communities. I am in a position where I am meeting these people face-to-face every day, hearing terrible stories of suffering, abuse, hardship. Joy, too, but that is much rarer.

In other news, two nights ago I had a dream about Boy I Almost Married. Last night I had a dream about Boy Who Was My First True Love. Apparently I am being treated to top ten list of past lovers/boyfriends/girlfriends. Except I don’t think there will be any ex-girlfriend dreams. I’ve only properly dated one girl before I got with TMD, and she was not exactly serious relationship material. As TMD always points out, I once shouted, ‘I don’t even like you as a PERSON!’ when I was breaking up with her.

TMD was sat on the balcony of our apartment during the post-breakup weirdness/warfare, and she actually wrote in her journal something like, ‘I would NEVER date Existere.’ Thanks, hon.

Okay, not sure where this is going now. Sexuality is just a big topic politically and personally at the moment. Corporate T stayed over on the weekend and starting talking about ‘that one scale of sexuality.’ I assumed he meant the Kinsey Scale and offered up a piece of education. 0=straight as an arrow, 3=bisexual glory, 6=gayer than gay. Then all the other numbers are in between.

When I offered up the piece of information that I was probably a four, he was a wee bit shocked. Still, I’ve got to carry out the bisexual lesbian pride! In case you are not hip to my lingo (which is very old and stolen from stickers the bisexual pride people put up when I was in university), it means my core identity is lesbian, but with a bit of bisexual flavouring.

Ah, from homelessness to being queer. What a political activist I am turning into.

Not.

This beats the phone guy who tried to offer me phone hynosis to help me remember my pin number.

May 15, 2008

I’ve just flirted like mad with an Indian man named Clifford.

Every time I call a bank, pension company, the pizza place – it’s these security questions. They start you out slow to lure you into a false sense of security, and then the real questions start.

Can you please tell us every third digit of your home address?
What is your mother’s blood type?
Okay, Ms Existere. If you add all the digits of your policy together and divide by 36, is the answer -13?

It gets so I get sweaty before even calling these places. And I always need TMD near so I can whisper questions to her. I am sure I’ve made many a call centre suspicious that I was holding the real Existere hostage and demanding she answer my questions.

My new action plan is to be more charming than anyone could ever suspect. Poor old Clifford probably gets screamed at all day by unhappy customers, so I give him a little liquid sex. When he says he has security questions, I laugh and say, ‘I hope I can answer them.’ The next thing I know, Clifford is pouring wine and clinking his glass against the phone, the crackle of flames in the background. Clifford tells me he hopes I can answer them too, his voice dropping into a teasing and intimate tone.

We proceeded into a kinky little security striptease – and I must say, there was no need to break out the flirting. One of you could probably call this number and convince Clifford you were me – if you were willing to have fake phone sex, anyway.

 

I also found a pair of shorts from ninth grade that are now too big.

May 14, 2008

My best friend’s mom once had a lingerie party. I was in tenth grade. I bought a little peach number with the hopes of impressing my boyfriend.

TMD just unearthed that little scrap of silk (I don’t throw things away easily) and I tried it on. It fit better than it did when I first bought it. Nice.

Of course, it’s gross that she thinks it’s sexy because it was bought as a sexual aid for a relationship that has been over for twelve years, but still. I’ll take what I can get.