Lessons Learned

Okay, I admit it. I was duped. Played for the fool I am. I fell for his pretty flowers and sweet words. I got set up and took the bait. Bad Deema! You know better than that! You ARE better than that!

Regardless, it happened and now I am doing everything in my power to erase the memory of the last month and my oblivious naivete. In all my years of making bad choices, I can honestly say I've never been so ashamed of my foolishness (at least my other shameful mistake was one I knew I was making from the beginning. Stupid, yes, but not really "foolish").

Haven't I learned anything in all these years?

Actually, I have. And if nothing else, this recent travesty of a relationship has reinforced the lessons I shouldn't have to remind myself of. And now I will share my wisdom in the hopes that I will save at least one young, hopeful star-gazer from making the same mistakes as myself:

If it seems too good to be true, it probably is. I know fairy tales aren't real. And yet, I seem to fall for it every single time. Yes, the right relationship should be easy, but if I find myself sailing along on a glass-smooth course toward Happily Ever After, it might be time for me to put on the breaks and take another look at the map I'm working from. There is no such thing as a "perfect relationship". Or a "perfect man" for that matter. The truly heroic knights should have a few dents and tarnish in their armor, but keep going as if they didn't.

Always trust my gut. In those moments when I call up my girlfriends in a fit of unreasonable frustration over this or that and get told I'm being paranoid, it's time I take a step back and evaluate the source of my fears. Are they coming from my head or my gut? There's a fine line between "paranoid" and "good instincts" and the difference is precisely that source. While it's never a good idea to indulge my paranoid rantings, convincing myself that my gut is actually just that could prove just as harmful in the long-run.

Long distance is a VERY BAD idea. To quote my ever entertaining TV show "Long distance is something said by teenagers the summer before college to get laid." In other words, another myth. Even with the constant connectivity of the ubiquitous texting capabilities, there's no replacement for the ability to share a meal, take a drive, or snuggle up and watch TV with the one you love. It was silly for me to pretend that a person like myself, who is fully aware of her tactical love language, could substitute the touch of another person with electronic words.

In an attempt to find something good that came out of all of this, I was able to inform Terry that after three long years, he has finally been bumped from the number 1 slot on the "Shit List".

At least one person has a reason to happy dance. . .

The Graduate

Tonight was our last class. This was what we had been working toward for the past 8 weeks. It was time for us to show how smart and obedient my pup can be.

If only I can get her to pay attention....

I was a little worried at the beginning of class that we wouldn't make it. All three of the dogs in the class (Jade, Reg, and Scout) were having a hard time paying attention and following directions. It's like they knew it was a special night for them, but it was also the worst night for them to fail in concentration.

The "test" would be done individually, which was smart because removing the dogs from each other helped a little with their concentration. It consisted of us walking around the store and performing the tasks we had been working on during class (sit, lay down, sit for greeting, "leave it", sit/stay, come when called) and then us going back in and demonstrating the new trick we started learning last week.

Jade and I went last. I was a little worried that she would be bored by that point and decide to stop paying attention (she's going through her "teenager phase"). But she did not let me down. She did everything wonderfully, even the sit for greeting (she still has a hard time trusting new people but at least she was willing to sit and be approached). The stay portion was a little hard for her because she was expected to sit still for 30 seconds. That's longer than we had done before and I could tell she was antsy because she scooted her bottom around in a circle, but she never lifted her tail off the floor, so the instructor gave her a pass. Then it was back into the training area to show off our trick. The others worked with an army crawl thing with their dogs, but Jade and I decided to be a little different (and more lady-like) and so we did "sit pretty". That's where I have her sit her butt down then get her to lift her front paws up and sit on only her back legs. It's that cute "begging" trick that some dogs do, but it's so much sweeter as a "sit pretty".

All in all, she did a great job and managed to pass her beginning training. I'm so very proud of my girl!

Isn't this one of the cutest pictures ever?

Endings

Some fairy tales end with "And they lived happily ever after...."

Mine don't.

Instead I get "This isn't working for me...." and "It's not you, it's me...."


Hooray for consistancy.....

Why Can't a Literary Rose Just Be a Rose?

I'm having trouble with the reading for class this week. It's a problem that I had sensed coming, but have managed to cleverly circumvent up until now. It's the reason that I suddenly remember with perfect clarity why I hated literature classes in the past.

Symbolism.

I had noticed that I don't read the stories quite the same way as the rest of the class seemed to early on in the quarter. Last week, it really hit me why. As we sat and discussed the reading we did for the week, I was surprised to find that I had no idea where these people (my instructor included) were getting this stuff. Did we really read the same stories? They were talking about socio-economic struggles, religious oppression, and materialism in stories where I simply read about the disappointment and understanding that comes from first love and taking responsibility for one's own decisions and actions.

It occurred to me that I don't read as the literary types of the world reads. I don't see symbols and underlying themes of the world in general; I see deep-set emotions and thought patterns and the psychological response to the society in which the character is involved. I read as a Social Psychologist.

Take, for example, one of the stories that we are reading for our next class. It's a story called "A Rose For Emily". Apparently many critics and readers find this story to be symbolic and profound, demonstrating the decline of the old-fashioned Southern culture and the changing ideas of womanhood. Also creepy and weird. Not me, though. I find it tragic and sad and my heart aches for the character to whom most everyone else gives the reaction of "ew... weird..." I see the aging and failing grace of the character to represent the natural passing of time rather than the degradation of Southern values. I cried for the loneliness and disappointment she must have felt to end up in the situation she was in instead of analyzing what the author was trying to convey with the colors of the room (by the way, there are no roses, only a rosy colored room , in the story, so even the symbolism of the title is lost on me).

It seems that my brain has no room or tolerance for the abstract, which comes as a surprise to those who know me as a "poetic soul". I might have a poet's soul, but I have the brain of a psychiatrist. My poetry is limited to wording and imagery; I don't write symbolic poems, I write colorful and/or emotional ones.

It's not that I'm not putting in an effort. I try really hard to see those things in the stories. I listen in class and try to force my brain to think like the rest of them. But mostly it just annoys me to have these discussions. Not because of the work that has to go into it to pull a story apart (dissecting human relationships and behaviors requires a lot of work too), but more because I feel like the story loses the beauty of the human aspect when it's pulled apart like that. If we are so busy finding the author's nod to civil disobedience in the underlying theme, we forget to see the tragic beauty of the woman in the story who is so disappointed and sad that she wastes away like the corpse of her long lost lover.

I'm not sure why this is so hard for me. The only thing I can figure is that understanding sybolism means having an understanding of the time and culture that the story was written in. Which all comes down to an understanding of history. My mind shuts down anything historical, political, or religiously debatable. So therefore, I must be pre-programmed to not get it....

On the brightside, I now know that I made the right decision way back when by changing my major from English to Sociology. I will never again doubt my college path.

Syksy

Okay, I know I said that I don't really like to play favorites with the seasons, but truth be told, this time of year always makes my heart just a touch happier.

It's like that "Spring Fever" everyone else gets in April and May hits me in October.
Foggy mornings, chilly sunlight streaming in through my window, the readdition of sweaters and tights to my wardrobe, Saturday morning football games on TV while I snuggle in a fuzzy blanket. . . .

And with colors like these surrounding me, who can blame me for feeling just a little more romantic than usual?

4 Months. . .

Something was bugging me about today. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but everytime I had to enter the date, some kind of reminder would go off in my head. What was I forgetting?

Around 4:00 it hit me. Today was grandpa's birthday!

Or it would have been, if he was still around.

It's been 4 months now since grandpa left us. 4 months of Thursdays without being threatened oysters next week. 4 months of his empty chair waiting to be sat in. 4 months of a grandma who seems to be missing a physical part of herself, as if someone had come along and mercilessly chopped off her arm for no apparent reason. 4 whole months. . .

Yet, his absence is still so obviously conspicuous.

Failure to Communicate

A few years ago, I dated this guy who wasn't what you would call the most romantic guy. He was nice and very smart and all that other stuff, but when it came to understanding the person he was dating, he was lacking somewhat in the sensitivity area. For example: I would hint, and mention, and allude to the fact that sometimes girls like to be given something sweet, like, say, flowers. So one day, he brought me a "gift": Motor oil.

Needless to say, there was a bit of hurt feelings and arguing before we were able to understand what the problem really was (my car at the time would leak oil and he felt it was much more practical to show his affection for me by "caring" for my car). It was good, however, in that it taught me a lot about relationships and thought processes and communication. It all boils down to that stuff now more commonly referred to as our "Love Language" (by the way, in case anyone is wondering, mine is actually physical touch).

Despite all the good "relationship lessons" it taught me, I remember wishing that I could find a guy who was a bit more sensitive.

You know how they say "be careful what you wish for". . . . ?

No one told me that the problem with a sensitive guy is that he's. . . well, sensitive!

Okay, so here's the deal: I've been dumped at least twice for my "failure to communicate" which is something that I struggle with constantly. It's something I've struggled with my entire dating career, in fact. Steph came across some old notes she had kept from when we were in jr. high school and we read through them during one of my visits and I realized that even my first boyfriend way back then complained about my "not sharing what's going on in my head". Stupid non-mind-readers. . .

So, over the last couple of years, I've worked hard to try and teach myself to "open up". Not an easy task considering it means undoing twenty-some years worth of upbringing and life-styling. It takes a huge amount of effort on my part and, I'll be honest, it can be pretty frustrating, especially when I get dumped YET AGAIN because my efforts still aren't good enough.

Anyway, so here I am in a long distance relationship, where communication is even more important than it ever has been before. Something comes up and I make my effort to "share" what's going on in my head (in my best "non-confrontational" efforts I can come up with). I'm very careful in my choice of words, doing everything possible to not make accusations or place any type of blame anywhere other than on my own weaknesses. And yet, somehow my words still manage to offend and hurt the one I was trying to be open with.

Argh! I fail when I don't share and I fail when I do. What's a girl supposed to do???

Another one of the many problems with this long distance thing is that we don't see each other enough to know our temperaments and how we deal with conflict. Apparently I have discovered the one guy in the world who is skilled in dealing (or perhaps, more accurately, not dealing) with conflicts the same way I do: Shut down, stop communicating for a bit, and then return to normal life after having taken some time to ponder on it on our own, but never speaking it out loud.

I'm so used to being with guys who force me to talk about things right away that I forgot what it's like to be on the receiving end of the "I don't want to talk about it right now" statement. And apparently, I don't take it very well.

Well, I mean, why should I? Silence was a favorite form of punishment in my household growing up. So even if it's not intended to be punishment now, it sure stings just the same. And remember how I mentioned my "love language" was physical touch? Well, with a long distance relationship, I've had to alter my language from the physical touch that is so rare to come by to the verbal "touch" that comes in the form of text messaging. Which means silence for the sake of silence carries a lot of weight on the West Coast half of the relationship.

It's even more frustrating when I'm not entirely sure what I did or said to start the trouble in the first place. I suddenly have a new sympathy for all those poor guys I've put through this in the past. . . .

So now we've come across our first major relationship compromise situation: how do we deal with conflict when I need words and resolution and he needs silence and time? How do we go about taking care of ourselves and each other at the same time? How can we avoid causing one party to hurt just because the other party won't give? How do I give him the time and space he needs without sacrificing my need for communication? It's a pretty complicated problem.

Mike's a little concerned that we've hit such a bump so early into our relationship. Not me though. In reality, because of the fact that our communication styles are so different (and yet, our natural instincts are so similar) I'm not at all surprised that we're dealing with this less than a month into things. That doesn't necessarily mean it's a bad sign. In fact, if dealt with correctly, it might actually end up being a good thing (but really, who deals with things correctly the first time around anyway? Or second or third for that matter? Doesn't it usually take about 50 fights before a couple starts to get the compromise thing down?)

So, now I know: communicate to Mike as I used to desire the other guys to communicate to me. Gently, sweetly, softly, with a whole lot of patience and understanding. And be ready to wait. (God, I hate waiting!) I know I can learn that stuff. I watch mom and Don (Don is another of those wonderfully sensitive guys who unfortunately is also somewhat sensitive. Maybe my mom did warn me about this stuff. Maybe I should pay more attention when she does her "mom talk" stuff. . . .) Mom has learned how to be gentle with her communication (she wasn't the "shut down and give the silent treatment" parent but her communication skills were just as ineffective) so I know I can relearn this stuff too.

And why not? I'm teaching myself Finnish, which is turning out to be much more complicated than I had anticipated. Communication can't be that much harder. . . . right?

Back to School (Again)

I've decided to take another class this quarter. It's another English class. Not writing this time, just reading. It's taught by the same instructor who taught my Creative Writing class, which is a big part of why I decided to take this class. I think he's a great instructor, very interesting and unique, and he somehow manages to inspire some great papers out of me.

It makes me wonder what would have happened if he had been my English instructor when I was going through my college years. If he had been the teacher during those classes, I wonder if I would have actually finished my English major instead of jumping ship to begin my career in the numbers field instead. I wonder if I wouldn't have feared writing for as long as I have, keeping my talent hidden from the world (and myself) for years and years.

But he wasn't my teacher, and I did switch my major and left my love of literature behind me and my talent for writing hidden in the dark. And now, several years later, I am deciding to try my hand at it again.

This class is Intro to Fiction. Like I said, it's a reading class, this time.

The class is comprised of mostly fresh-out-of-high-school minds. It's. . . . interesting. I feel terribly old compared to them. I don't think like they do at all. In fact, last week's class ended with me a little concerned that I wouldn't be able to put up with them. I was so frustrated with their comments on what we were reading. Especially when it came to one story in particular. With my past experiences and the things I've learned from them, I found a different sympathy for the characters than many of my classmates did. Even a little different from my teacher himself. I was frustrated and offended when they showed less compassion for the situation than I did. I actually took it WAY too personally.

My instructor laughed at me after class when I brought up this concern I was having (yeah, he's the same instructor who laughed at my fear of being thrown out of class for lack of talent. Why do I put up with his mocking. . . ?) He said it was perfectly okay for me to have a different perspective on the stories and that it actually was good to share those ideas. I just shouldn't let it get to me so much. Actually, his advice to me was "toughen up" (of course in a very kind and teasing tone). He said I am too critical of myself (just cuz I want to succeed in the classes. . . !)

I mentioned his comment to Mike and his response: "yeah, I agree with him". Gee, thanks, Mike. Glad to see I can get sympathy for my make-believe woes when I need them.

Actually, I think I was just overly tired that night. For the most part I'm really enjoying the class. The stories are interesting and amazingly, I have opinions on them, which wasn't always the case in my old classes. I'm even excited about sitting down to write my first paper for the class (I have mentioned that my distaste for writing literary papers was my downfall as an English major, right?) I despise using the MLA format that he requires us to use (standard proper English paper crap), but since I'm not required to do the research nonsense that I hated so much, I suppose I can make myself use it for a few more weeks.

My only other concern about the class involves the end of the quarter. See, our second paper is due right around Thanksgiving. As I've mentioned previously, I am expecting to be somewhat distracted around that time (long awaited visitor finally coming into town. . . .), so I have to figure out how to get the second paper out of me early, which is tough since most of the time my inspiration for writing happens in that last minute panic that comes from waiting until the night before to put something together. (Don't tell my teacher; no need for him to know the truth behind my brilliance!) I have to somehow convince myself that the paper must be written two weeks early because I suspect not much (academically speaking) will be happening during the week of Thanksgiving. Yeah, good luck with that one!

The Story of a Weekend

I know that you have all been waiting for this story. I'm sorry that it's taken so long, but I've been enjoying holding it to myself for awhile. But I've been asked so many questions lately, that I suppose it's time for me to open up and share with my friends who enjoy hearing about my happy adventures.

Not even a week after Mike returned to West Virginia, I got a message from him asking how much time I would need to get some time off from work. Within hours we had our next visit planned, this time with me taking the cross-country trek. The best we'd been able to work out was a long weekend together with me flying on Thursday and Sunday, but it would be better than our original plan of not seeing each other again until Thanksgiving.

So, despite the fact that the end of September is not the best time for the payroll staff to be taking time off, I took a couple of days off to take a cross-country weekend-long date.

I won't bore you with the details of the flight because, well, it was not the most interesting part of the weekend.

Actually, I'm not sure many details need to be given about the weekend. We ate out a lot because he didn't have anything to cook at his apartment. I'm not sure if he even uses his kitchen any more than I do, so it didn't bother me any. We also watched a couple movies while I was out there. He proved my theory that movie choices would be reciprocal. In other words, we went to see a movie he wanted to see (Pandorum) and one I wanted to see (Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs). His movie actually gave me disturbed dreams, which I hated to admit. It makes me sound so. . . wimpy. It wasn't a scary movie (I mean, I watch way scarier ones with my aunt!), but my poor brain wasn't able to wrap itself around the mess that movie was. It was good to watch something simple and light-hearted the next day while my mind was so tired (btw, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs was one of my very favorite books when I was a child, so I was thrilled to see them make it into a movie).

Friday night, we got all dressed up and did the fancy dinner date thing. He had told me that he was planning on taking me somewhere dressy, so I had packed a pretty black and red sparkly outfit that I have only worn once, my sexy red heels, and perfectly complimentary jewelry for the occasion. He even wore a tie (I love a man in a tie!). His town is so small that we were able to walk to the restaurant without it becoming uncomfortable in my suicidal-high heels. We had steak and creme brulee and a long and very interesting discussion of life and death and what happens to get us from one to the other. I know, it doesn't seem like the most romantic conversation we could have had while in such a romantic and lovely setting, but it's what we talked about. It was very enlightening and bonding, though, and I guess that's what dates are supposed to be for.

Oh, and I got him addicted to my favorite TV show: How I Met Your Mother. I had mentioned it enough in our conversations that he was curious to find out what it was all about. So Friday we stopped at a video store and he bought the first two seasons and we sat down and watched them. By the time I left on Sunday afternoon, we were two episodes from finishing the whole bunch of them. Unfortunately, that means he will have to find and watch seasons 3 and 4 on his own. But maybe he'll think of me while he watches them. (When I told my friend Barb about us watching the show, her comment was: "So you went all the way across the country to do what you probably would have done this weekend anyway?" But whatever. I see it as more bonding).

It was sad to have to leave him. I really enjoyed spending time with him out there. He's a wonderful host, very sweet and gentlemanly (more of a gentleman than I'm used to, in fact. I kept getting in trouble for forgetting to let him open my car door for me). And it makes waiting until Thanksgiving for the next time I can kiss him that much harder.

But he's very worth it.