Still passing the open windows and falling down the stairs

Fits and starts

There is no better way to describe my dating attempts over the past five years. One definition I found on Hyperdictionary is “by intervals of action and repose; impulsively and irregularly; intermittently”. IMPULSIVELY AND IRREGULARLY.

Here’s how it happens. For some reason, in the most recent case it was rejection, I become motivated to meet as many men as possible. Immediately. I hit up my friends and I go online and send notes to unsuspecting men like a lounge-bound gigolo. I think of how great it is going to be once I am surrounded by these intellectual, clever, attractive specimens who have stopped seeing any other women, so that they can spend all of their free-time adoring me.

Then reality hits. I sift through the 6 possible decent matches and choose one or two that seem moderately interesting. I meet the first one. On paper he’s great. In person, he has a whole head of cabbage stuck in his teeth through the entire meal or he seems to have some sort of shiny streak (hair gel? brain juice?) running down his neck, from his hair into his shirt, where a large wet spot is forming or he has two webbed toes on each foot that he insists on pointing out immediately. I am a little put off by the date but I convince myself that the next one will be better. And, usually he is. Moderately. This time he just makes me pay for his fudge. And praline. And custard. And he talks incessantly. About fudge. And pralines. And custard.

So, I stop and I wait for him to find me. The problem this time is that I think he did find me but he wasn’t ready. Bad timing. And as much as I tell myself that I’m just not ready to date yet, I have to face the probability that I’m in a self-inflicted holding pattern. Either way, the next time I pay for fudge and pralines and custard…it’s all for me.

I love you, Prince Polo

I lost seven pounds in two weeks when my last relationship ended. I’ve never had a life event that put me off food before. NEVER. Now, my appetite has returned. And it’s brought a friend. I can’t stop eating. So, I’ll use this forum as a diet confessional of sorts.

As I type this, I’m eating a candy bar from Poland. I feel pretty good about it because it’s sort of light and airy; plus the nutritional values are in Polish and, luckily, I took German. Actually, I don’t feel good about it. I REALLY DON’T FEEL GOOD ABOUT IT. It’s not the candy bar. It’s what was devoured prior to the candy bar.

Today, alone, I have eaten two doughnuts (I probably haven’t had two doughnuts in any given month before today), one lemon poppy seed muffin (with frosting), two mini candy bars (new flavors — M-azing and Butterfinger Crisp), and Poland’s gift from heaven — the Prince Polo bar.

My name is “bandick” and I can’t stop eating. “Hi, bandick”.

The strangest part is that, although I have been porking hard-cord for about three weeks, I haven’t gained an ounce. I think anxiety must burn calories. I’m just hoping that admitting my problem will be the first step to recovery. I miss vitamins. I miss the satisfaction that comes from a good meal. And, damn…I miss fiber.

Moms are good

Today, my mom sent an email to my work address with this link.

Then she sent one to my home address with this link.

She may be trying to tell me something.

It’s reminiscent of the year she gave me this book for my birthday.
And then again for Christmas.

Evil, like the fruits of the devil…

When I was a child, I was convinced that my brother was pure evil. As Mike Myers would say, “so evil, you would say e-vile.” He had relatively little interest in paying any attention to me but when he did, it was usually a creative infliction of torture. He wasn’t always blatant in his hostility but he never missed an opportunity.

The memory that sticks with me most clearly happened when I was about 8. I had a neighbor over and we had an argument (about which lip smackers flavor was the best or who could skate backward the longest or the Iranian hostage crisis…who remembers?). I did what any 8 year old would have done in my position. I told her to go home and never return. On our way to the front door, we passed my brother sitting in the living room with a smirk on his face that spelled e-vile . It was the look that Shere Kahn wore through most of the Jungle Book. It was the look of victory.

“Rhonda, where are you going?…Oh, you two had a fight, did you?…Well, if you want, you can just hang out with me…What? She’s my friend, too. No, she REALLY DOESN’T HAVE TO GO HOME.” His friend? Like genital herpes are a pal you just can’t spend enough time with. Evil genius, making with the torment. Sure, we had moments considerably worse than this one. But this event triggered my understanding that there was no opening he wouldn’t take.

But since I’ve been writing this blog he’s been my #1 supporter and, I think, only reader. Which sparked another childhood memory, of a completely different variety. Our father had taken us with him to the grocery store and, because we were undoubtedly making him crazy babbling at him and trying to throw sugar-laden foods into the cart, was happy enough to let us explore the store alone. The only stipulation was that my brother, probably about 14 by this time, keep me with him. We were instantly sucked into the candy aisle, the way matter is sucked into a black hole. Eyes popping, we scanned and fingered every chocolatey, gummy, salty morsel in sight. And suddenly I realized that the shelves were becoming more bare while my brother’s pants were beginning to sound more crinkly than I had remembered. He turned his head and gave me a look that said “You’ve got an inside pocket in that jacket, right? You deserve that Toblerone, no matter what dad might think. It’s yours if you want it enough.” At least that’s what I was getting. He might have been thinking “I wish I hadn’t switched from boxers to briefs.”

We drove home, pockets bulging, listening to the radio in silence. The fear was overwhelming to me. I couldn’t believe we were getting away with it. When we pulled into the driveway, I started to relax and could almost taste the first triangle of nougatty goodness. We both seemed to bounce out of the car and that’s when it happened. My brother had too much bounce. He had bounced the Gummi Bears right out of his shirt. They hit the pavement like an atomic bomb. My father’s disappointment was palpable. After a minute of yelling, which was out of character for him, my dad made my brother get back into the car so that they could return the items to the store manager. I thought, “Hmm. What a bad break. I wonder what I’ll watch on t.v. as the chocolate melts in my mouth?” Why was I shocked when my dad took this opportunity to teach us both a lesson? When I got back into the car it hit me. MY stolen goods were still in my jacket. My mind raced, “My brother is going to turn me in. What a fink. I can’t believe he practically put the candy in my pockets and now he’s taking me down with him.” But he didn’t. Not during my father’s rant to and from the store, not when the cocky store manager gave his most hard-assed lecture, and not when he had to apologize to everyone concerned.

That was my first notable “protective older brother” experience. It wasn’t my last. He has made me crazy more times than I could ever recall but the memories that are most prominent are the ones that caught me off guard. Thanks, poops.

That which we call a rose

All of the baby names in my stable are being gobbled up. Devoured by greedy mothers with no legitimate claims. The first to go was my favorite boy’s name, Jackson. This was the name I had selected for my first unborn son when I was the age that girls begin to plan their blue sky futures. It struck me several years ago that suddenly nearly every boy that is called Jack is actually a Jackson. When and how did this happen? A sudden interest in Jackson Pollock? A curious phenomenon associated with our fascination of the Jackson family? I am from the Jackson family. Well, I am from A Jackson family. Ours may not be as talented, although my Uncle Tom can whistle every song he knows, note for note. He has an extraordinary amount of saliva. Nevertheless, my claim to the name Jackson cannot be disputed. It makes no difference at this point as the market is saturated.

There were several other names on my list but none so important as Jackson and my favorite girl’s name, Ella. The selection of Ella as one of the top girl’s names of the decade, as it is fast becoming, is also unknown to me. The same greedy mothers, as I am certain it is the same group who stole Jackson coming round on their second batch while I’ve not even begun working on the first, have now stolen my grandmother’s name. There was recently a feature film with an Ella but it was directed at a younger audience than I am willing to blame, not to mention the assumptions that can be made about the film’s quality since it was available for rental two weeks after it’s theatrical release. Certainly there is another force at work here.

I am comfortable with blaming the universe. The universe knows that by the time I have my children everyone will be more focused on the miracle that it happened at all that they probably won’t even notice that they are named Elwin and Mildred. Stupid universe.

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