The whole old dog/new tricks conundrum
Yeah. So when was the last time I blogged? Where am I? Where are my pants? I think I might have sunstroke.
So Friday. Got together with B. Went for dinner, met up with Po and S for a drink at the 5 Point on Main Street. I do believe a good time was had by all. Ended up going back to B's place and he fed me coffee and mango in the morning. Love mango.
Saturday. Saturday I went to visit Michael at his place in North Van. I always bitch and moan that he's got nothing to eat when I go over there, but this time he was prepared. Like, uber-prepared. He had chicken, a plate of vegetables, a plate of fruit, corn, chips and dip, Gatorade, Diet Pepsi and sherbet. Yeah. I brought beer. Sat out on his deck for an inordinate amount of time, had a couple of beers (okay, I did) and shot the shit. It was fantastic. Then I made him watch some ATHF (I told you: if you are my friend I will make you watch this stuff). Then we watched Hot Fuzz. Awesome. Somehow it became 9:00 at night and I had to go to try and avoid the mass exodus from everywhere that is known as the Saturday night fireworks finale. As I was leaving I said, "Can we get back together now?". I mean, for the love of god. I get it. He's the one. There is no one better. I understand this. I have erred in my ways. All other men are inferior. He looks really good. I liked the dip. He said, "No. You're a shit head," or something to that effect. Okay. I'll try again later.
Today. Slept in, missed my 19k run: have to do it Monday now. Went to Pride with Big D. He said to me, "I was going to call you and tell you to wear a hat, but then I realized that you're a big girl,". Yeah. I totally should've worn a hat. I think I have sunstroke. Sunstroke accounts for all the spelling and grammatical errors in this blog. And all prior blogs. Ahem... So Pride was cool. The dykes on bikes were great, loved the drag queens, can't say I'm averse to a bunch of pretty boys gyrating in their underwear. Big D and I eventually left, grabbed a coffee in South Granville and I went to feed Po's cat. She's on a road trip with her lovah somewhere. I hope it's going well. They should go to Kitimat, do the Alcan tour. I hear all the cool kids are doing it.
B and I had made tentative plans to get together tonight and he came by. We cooked dinner together. It was fun. I kicked his ass at chess (again). And this is where the other flags started to go up. I know I'm beating a dead horse here, but bear with me:
- I'm not a good chess player, but I beat him when he was in town earlier in the year. And not just a little: I soundly trounced him. And I trounced him again tonight. He put his queen right in the line of fire and it was absurdly stupid. You know when you kind of scour the chessboard wondering if you've missed something? Well I was scouring. And I hadn't missed anything. He's just that bad.
- He referred to Ernest Hemingway as a "douchebag" because he said that Hemingway, apparently upon learning that seagulls mate for life, took to shooting one seagull that constituted a pair. I googled it (minimally), couldn't find anything to support this claim. I then said (as an aspiring writer and having read some of Hemingway's books) "so you cannot separate an artist from his actions?" to which he said, "no". It just seems kind of trite.
- When I was at Po and S's barbecue with him a few weeks ago a dog barked at him. Again, I know this is totally bizarre, but I'm an animal lover (uh, SPCA?) and have had dogs and cats all throughout my life. Animals are perceptive. The way that people treat animals I believe is indicative of their personality. The dog didn't bark at anyone but him.
- He frequently tells me that I'm "awesome" and that he's "fond" of me, but his actions don't support that. Michael used to tell me all the time that words are just words, it's what you do - how you treat someone - that matters. I didn't really get that implicitly until now.
So the evening draws to a close. We've had dinner, a couple of drinks, played chess, watched ATHF. I mention that someone will be swinging by around 11 in the morning. He makes mention of booking it. I leave it alone, we have some more conversation. It turns to how he hit "rock bottom" and how he discovered today that he doesn't "like himself" because of the way he treated me earlier in the year. He then mentions that I am kind of "distant" tonight. I reply, "You tell me that a lot. I'm not sure what to say except that I had a relationship with you earlier in the year that gives me a good reason to be distant". At this point he stops holding my hand. This boils down to: it's okay for him to admit being a douche bag, but I can't say anything negative about it. What the fuck is that about? So we talk a bit more, he makes more comments about leaving and I encourage him to stay, but he leaves. Oh - I totally look hot today, sunburned or not.
I'm not dumb. JupiterGirl: shut it. Here is why he left: he came over, I didn't exactly fawn over him; I whooped him at chess (again); I called him on his horrific treatment of me earlier in the year; I alluded to my busy and satisfying social schedule; I didn't pander to him as he waded through the pool of "woe is me" self pity.
Did I sense this coming as I sipped my first glass of Sauvignon Blanc with him over a month ago? Er, yeah. Was I hoping that he could just be some guy that I dragged out with me to perform "boyfriendly" duties for a duration of time of over the summer because I'm getting a little weary of being single? Absolutely. But I kind of expected him to put out tonight. It's funny: my place is a mess; I can't really cook; I do laundry and recycling sporadically; there are an inordinate amount of empties in my recycling bag; I'm athletic; I'm always up for a good time. Yup, I'm the quintessential male bachelor. Oh: but I LIKE Ernest Hemingway; I'm listening to Joni Mitchell as I write this blog; I deign to be fawned over; and hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
I know. Why the fuck did I ever even contemplate this? Oh. Oh oh oh. I'm so tired. I am so done with this. Women. Easy. Men? Infinitely complicated and sensitive.
I think I am destined to be single for a very long time. You know what? That's GRAND. I would rather spend a night with Greg Iles and Hootie and the Blowfish then deal with this self-serving, aggrandizing, patronizing shit.
When I get my new furniture, you are all welcome to a party at my place. Please bring your single, non-retarded, socially adjusted male friends. Who are good looking. And are maybe doctors. That would be cool.
So Friday. Got together with B. Went for dinner, met up with Po and S for a drink at the 5 Point on Main Street. I do believe a good time was had by all. Ended up going back to B's place and he fed me coffee and mango in the morning. Love mango.
Saturday. Saturday I went to visit Michael at his place in North Van. I always bitch and moan that he's got nothing to eat when I go over there, but this time he was prepared. Like, uber-prepared. He had chicken, a plate of vegetables, a plate of fruit, corn, chips and dip, Gatorade, Diet Pepsi and sherbet. Yeah. I brought beer. Sat out on his deck for an inordinate amount of time, had a couple of beers (okay, I did) and shot the shit. It was fantastic. Then I made him watch some ATHF (I told you: if you are my friend I will make you watch this stuff). Then we watched Hot Fuzz. Awesome. Somehow it became 9:00 at night and I had to go to try and avoid the mass exodus from everywhere that is known as the Saturday night fireworks finale. As I was leaving I said, "Can we get back together now?". I mean, for the love of god. I get it. He's the one. There is no one better. I understand this. I have erred in my ways. All other men are inferior. He looks really good. I liked the dip. He said, "No. You're a shit head," or something to that effect. Okay. I'll try again later.
Today. Slept in, missed my 19k run: have to do it Monday now. Went to Pride with Big D. He said to me, "I was going to call you and tell you to wear a hat, but then I realized that you're a big girl,". Yeah. I totally should've worn a hat. I think I have sunstroke. Sunstroke accounts for all the spelling and grammatical errors in this blog. And all prior blogs. Ahem... So Pride was cool. The dykes on bikes were great, loved the drag queens, can't say I'm averse to a bunch of pretty boys gyrating in their underwear. Big D and I eventually left, grabbed a coffee in South Granville and I went to feed Po's cat. She's on a road trip with her lovah somewhere. I hope it's going well. They should go to Kitimat, do the Alcan tour. I hear all the cool kids are doing it.
B and I had made tentative plans to get together tonight and he came by. We cooked dinner together. It was fun. I kicked his ass at chess (again). And this is where the other flags started to go up. I know I'm beating a dead horse here, but bear with me:
- I'm not a good chess player, but I beat him when he was in town earlier in the year. And not just a little: I soundly trounced him. And I trounced him again tonight. He put his queen right in the line of fire and it was absurdly stupid. You know when you kind of scour the chessboard wondering if you've missed something? Well I was scouring. And I hadn't missed anything. He's just that bad.
- He referred to Ernest Hemingway as a "douchebag" because he said that Hemingway, apparently upon learning that seagulls mate for life, took to shooting one seagull that constituted a pair. I googled it (minimally), couldn't find anything to support this claim. I then said (as an aspiring writer and having read some of Hemingway's books) "so you cannot separate an artist from his actions?" to which he said, "no". It just seems kind of trite.
- When I was at Po and S's barbecue with him a few weeks ago a dog barked at him. Again, I know this is totally bizarre, but I'm an animal lover (uh, SPCA?) and have had dogs and cats all throughout my life. Animals are perceptive. The way that people treat animals I believe is indicative of their personality. The dog didn't bark at anyone but him.
- He frequently tells me that I'm "awesome" and that he's "fond" of me, but his actions don't support that. Michael used to tell me all the time that words are just words, it's what you do - how you treat someone - that matters. I didn't really get that implicitly until now.
So the evening draws to a close. We've had dinner, a couple of drinks, played chess, watched ATHF. I mention that someone will be swinging by around 11 in the morning. He makes mention of booking it. I leave it alone, we have some more conversation. It turns to how he hit "rock bottom" and how he discovered today that he doesn't "like himself" because of the way he treated me earlier in the year. He then mentions that I am kind of "distant" tonight. I reply, "You tell me that a lot. I'm not sure what to say except that I had a relationship with you earlier in the year that gives me a good reason to be distant". At this point he stops holding my hand. This boils down to: it's okay for him to admit being a douche bag, but I can't say anything negative about it. What the fuck is that about? So we talk a bit more, he makes more comments about leaving and I encourage him to stay, but he leaves. Oh - I totally look hot today, sunburned or not.
I'm not dumb. JupiterGirl: shut it. Here is why he left: he came over, I didn't exactly fawn over him; I whooped him at chess (again); I called him on his horrific treatment of me earlier in the year; I alluded to my busy and satisfying social schedule; I didn't pander to him as he waded through the pool of "woe is me" self pity.
Did I sense this coming as I sipped my first glass of Sauvignon Blanc with him over a month ago? Er, yeah. Was I hoping that he could just be some guy that I dragged out with me to perform "boyfriendly" duties for a duration of time of over the summer because I'm getting a little weary of being single? Absolutely. But I kind of expected him to put out tonight. It's funny: my place is a mess; I can't really cook; I do laundry and recycling sporadically; there are an inordinate amount of empties in my recycling bag; I'm athletic; I'm always up for a good time. Yup, I'm the quintessential male bachelor. Oh: but I LIKE Ernest Hemingway; I'm listening to Joni Mitchell as I write this blog; I deign to be fawned over; and hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
I know. Why the fuck did I ever even contemplate this? Oh. Oh oh oh. I'm so tired. I am so done with this. Women. Easy. Men? Infinitely complicated and sensitive.
I think I am destined to be single for a very long time. You know what? That's GRAND. I would rather spend a night with Greg Iles and Hootie and the Blowfish then deal with this self-serving, aggrandizing, patronizing shit.
When I get my new furniture, you are all welcome to a party at my place. Please bring your single, non-retarded, socially adjusted male friends. Who are good looking. And are maybe doctors. That would be cool.
posted by Duder at 11:37 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home