a brief redirection

I got a call from my brother…almost. He’s an old friend, the brother of an old love lost. He was flying into Dulles and wanted to know if I needed anything.

‘Hey sis, my wife and I are flying in to look for a house. I’m taking a permanent COS outside Baltimore and I thought I’d check in on you. I know it’s been a long time. Sorry.’

‘This message was received on April nineteenth, two-thousand and eight…’

I called back. It was only courteous, gratuitous. He asked how I was. He knew Mick too, so he knew me. I don’t take anything well. I had to tell him I didn’t love his brother anymore, and it wasn’t malicious intent, it was simply chance (and circumstance?). My Italian was in the right place at the right time, and we happened to see each other. My almost brother loved it. He wants wedding invitations ASAP he says. The line gets quiet, and he clears his throat.

‘Uh, sorry Charlie.’

I say he has to save those apologies for when he really really needs them. Out of nowhere I am defending my relationships, all of them in fact, without provocation. I say I was never looking to replace his brother, or find a better man than him. His memory is enough to slake my occasional wander down memory lane. I tell him I wanted someone completely different, that would never remind me of him, hurt me and leave me. I wanted someone living, and that was enough for me.

He says he guesses that makes perfect sense. In loving my Italian so much, there’s a little bit of Cory still alive. He got the ball rolling after all, right?

I say I guess he has a point.

He says he’s happy for me, and he wants that invitation whenever I get them back from the printers haha. He didn’t want to bother me, or stir up anything just wanted to check in. He told me to move again like I wanted, and relax. I’m too uptight.

We laugh. We say a few thank-yous. We hang up.

I wish he wouldn’t call.

Then again, no news isn’t always good news. I would know. I forgot to mention I told him if I moved away, I’d have to send everyone letters. But what about when the letters stop coming?

a question of guilt

Ray LaMontagne ‘Lesson Learned’

Thinking back, all those men (well, it’s not that many, honestly…) that got what they wanted, advice, attention, sex, love, why did I do it? I let myself believe it would all be okay, that I was one of the lucky ones who’d found that person already. My sensible, cynical self knew, and was hardly shocked when it all fell down in a shambles at my feet. I felt cheap, and stupid. I felt like I was already old enough to know better, even though I hardly knew why. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…so maybe I can only give myself that one initial mistake.

The real question is not why I did it–I was (am) young, and lonely. The real question is who’s to blame? Is it them, for using me, plucking at my heartstrings, or is it me, for letting them take everything they wanted. If you don’t give in to someone, there’s no harm, no foul, right? They have a little shame perhaps, but then again, it doesn’t hurt to try, right? They can argue their way out of it no matter what, but me…oh me…I don’t have a little saying that gets me out of it. All that pain, the time I lost, the hopes and questions and reassurances, all wasted, all on me. They got what they wanted, in a nutshell, because I caved. I let myself believe that losing your self control is okay, and making promises and saying sweet things will excuse lapses in control, negate all the hard work and determination of not getting fucked over. I always thought these boys (I can’t bring myself to calling them men) needed to be understood; if they had an excuse, it was a reason, and infallible. There’s always more. A commitment isn’t a commitment if there’s always a way you can break down and back out. If you don’t want to stop whatever it is you’re doing, you don’t have to. As long as you don’t, you won’t. So boys, I’m sorry. How foolish of me thinking you were men, thinking you’d grow up, stand up, and stop falling back on excuses, shame in my disappointment. I’m sorry I let you have my time, my attention, affection. You are perfect just the way you are, and in all your flaws, you will find someone who loves you. You’ll just never love them back, and that’s exactly what you deserve.

“Was it you who told me once, now looking back it seems so real that all our mistakes are merely grist for the mill. So why is it now after I had my fill, that you steal from me the sorrow that I earned. Shall we call this a lesson learned?”

barbie is a bitch

She’s got her own dream house, pink Corvette, array of heels, odd but enviable figure…she’s a doctor one minute, and superior equestrian the next. She found a suave, chiseled, bvd-wearing broad shouldered Ken. Most of us have had to work our imperfectly molded asses off to find the perfect guy. We have no reason to wear heels everyday, and our feet were definitely not made that way. I live on the third floor, about to sweat my ass off in the upcoming summer, and I’ve saved for God-knows how long for a car…a used Honda, or a shitty Ford, not a damn Corvette. Barbie, you’re the bitch we all love to hate in real life. Growing up is hard. I guess I never fully appreciated the luxury of childhood while I had it; or perhaps, I did? You got everything you ever wanted Barbie, and so much more. Maybe it’s my own wishful thinking, my own subconscious kicking in, telling me to enjoy living vicariously while it’s still just fun and games. I hope Ken dumps you and doesn’t pay out alimony.