A Case of Misread Signals

I have had some interesting (or maybe not so interesting; that'll be for you to decide) developments over the past week.

I thought I was going to have a new blogonym for the sidebar, but I turned out to be wrong. Here's what happened.

In high school, I dated this very, very cute guy who was also a complete jerk (not at first, of course; they never are at first). I'll try to keep this part of the story short. This guy (who we're going to call The Middle Brother) and I had a lot of chemistry. We hit it off immediately. He told me he'd never clicked with anyone the way he'd clicked with me. He was two years older than me - a senior in high school, while I was a sophomore. His older brother (a sophomore in college) was one of my friends, more of a mentor, really. The Oldest Brother warned me to be careful, and I should have listened. But I prefer to make my own mistakes, especially in love.

So The Middle Brother and I wrote letters back and forth (real ones, not e-mail) because he lived a couple states north of me. We wrote once or twice a week. We were both pretty faithful to it. Then summer came, and he had a couple of mission trips to go on, so of course I did not expect to hear from him while he was on those, and I didn't.

But then he came back, and I still heard nothing. After a week or so of absolutely no news, I finally cornered The Oldest Brother (who did live in my state because that's where he was attending college) and asked what was up. He told me he hated to be the one to tell me but that The Middle Brother had met another girl during the mission trip. He said that according to The Middle Brother, he and the girl had "just clicked." Ouch.

After that, I didn't hear from The Middle Brother, but I continued to be friends with The Oldest Brother. Then one day I got a letter in the mail from two states north. It had the same return address as the letters I'd gotten from The Middle Brother, but the handwriting was different. I opened it up and found a letter from The Youngest Brother, whom I had met once or twice but had barely paid any attention to because he wore glasses and just seemed a little bit dorky. He wasn't as cute as The Middle Brother either.

But here was a letter from him, and it was very friendly and very sweet, and it seemed sympathetic. So I wrote him back, and we had a spotty correspondence for the next year, which was his senior year of high school. (By this time, The Middle Brother had graduated high school and moved to my state to attend the same college as The Oldest Brother, but we weren't speaking to or seeing each other.)

At the end of that year (my junior year, The Youngest Brother's senior year), The Youngest Brother sent me a senior picture and a graduation picture. He also had plans to attend the same college as his older brothers. We lost touch through the summer, and the letter including the pictures was the last I heard of him. I eventually forgot about him and all of them and thought of them fleetingly at random times throughout the years.

Then last week I became friends with all three of them on Facebook. The Oldest Brother is now married. The Middle Brother is engaged (to a girl who doesn't look very pretty, but perhaps she just isn't photogenic, or perhaps I'm just spiteful). The Youngest Brother had suddenly gotten very cute.

He sent me a message and said he couldn't believe it was me and that it had been far too long and that we must catch up. I looked at his profile and saw he had joined the army after college graduation. I also saw that he seemed to have just gotten back from a three-year tour and was possibly in my hometown area (where he went to college). And as it happens, I am spending the upcoming weekend in my hometown. So when I told him that, he said we should hang out and gave me his phone number. I messaged him back with mine and told him when I would be available. Then I waited.

Since he's gotten very cute in the past ten or so years, I started to get excited. I waited three days without hearing anything. Then I got a message from him that said he had a date on Friday and possibly again on Saturday and that he'd call me if he ended up having time to squeeze me in. And he even had the audacity to use a smiley face emoticon.

So as it turns out, he is just as big of a jerk as his brother was, and I never should have gotten my hopes up. And it's really too bad because I got a new haircut two weeks ago, and I look very, very good. Ah well, though. His loss.

On a different note - I joined an online dating Website about five days ago and already have a possible date next week and was friend-requested on Facebook by someone else. The Facebook friend and I have the most chemistry so far of any of the guys I've talked to, but as we've just learned, it's never a good idea for me to get my hopes up. So we'll see what happens.

Missing & Aching

This month two things happened that I had at one time fully expected to "be there" for. And I wasn't.

First, The Scientist's little sister graduated from high school. I expected to be there. Even up until the actual day, I planned to go. But in the end, I thought it would be way too awkward, so I didn't go. So today it was really hard to look at the Facebook pictures she put up, especially the one of her with her family. The picture I should've been a part of because The Scientist and I theoretically would have been engaged by now. She stood proudly with the family that should have become my family. And my heart wrenched to look at that picture of the four of them.

Second, and even more heartbreaking, The Scientist graduated from college. I had a chance to go to that graduation as well, but again, I didn't because I thought it would be too weird. But I wanted so badly to go. When we were together, I waited so patiently for that day to come. Three years. If we had still been together by the time he graduated, it would have been four and a half years. While we were together, I was especially looking forward to his college graduation because we were dating when he graduated from high school, but I missed the ceremony because I was out of the country (in Paris).

My head tells me that it wouldn't work to get back together with The Scientist. But my memories and my heart tell me differently when I think about him, about me, about us, about his wonderful family, and about how it feels when we hang out "as friends." The dynamic when we hang out now is the same as it always was. The amount of chemistry is the same. The amount that he makes me laugh is the same. And I miss him.

But he thinks my faith is stupid. And he has turned himself into a pothead. Which I could deal with if I saw an end in sight. But I don't. And last, but probably most important, he doesn't still feel all the things I feel. After all, that's part of why we broke up.

Sometimes my heart aches for him. It doesn't happen all that often, but when it does, it's very strong. Like right now.

I wonder what he would think or do or say if he knew I felt this way . . .

Down but not Out

I've been thinking a lot lately about what people see when they look at me. People who don't know me, people who know just a little of me, and people who know me well. I wonder what they all see and what they perceive to be true about who I am. And then I got to wondering what my blog readers see.

When I look back at the past year and a half of my life (basically since I broke up with The Scientist), I see a lot of strikeouts. Because linking can get annoying, I'm not going to link. (However, I have tagged the post, and if you want to catch up on stories, you can make use of the tags or of the sidebar, as there are numerous links in the character sidebar, continuing stories, and author favorites sections.) So I will not link here. But I am going to list.

According to this blog (which hasn't kept a one-hundred-percent-accurately-detailed log), I have had attempts or pseudo-attempts with the following guys since breaking up with The Scientist:

The Photographer
The Drummer
The Guy (who is not in tags or on the sidebar but can be found by clicking "The Secret" tags)
The Runner
The Industrial Designer
The Work Traveler
The Artist

Seven guys in a year and a half. Not a lot. Not embarrassingly sparse either. Kissed three of them. Had sex with one of them. Went on multiple dates with two of them. Got only a phone number from one. Became one's closest friend after finding out he's gay. (There are three others not listed whom I kissed and one other I wanted to kiss during the year-and-a-half span between the breakup and now, but none of those four seemed worth writing about on here, so I never did.)

Some luck, huh? 2008 was when I made my resolution not to chase guys. I chased none of these guys, and I still seem to have gotten the short end of the stick. Weird how that happens. Reminds me of that Friends episode when Ross has finally come to his senses and is trying to be with Rachel but she's been hurt too much to be able to consider it anymore. She says, "I fall for you, and I get clobbered. You fall for me, and I get clobbered. I'm tired of getting clobbered."

Boy, can I relate. For five of these seven guys, the main reason things didn't get more serious was that they were hung up on other girls they couldn't get over. (Same went for three of the four others I never blogged about.) That's a large percentage of guys with the same problem, and it's a problem I'm getting tired of encountering.

Sometimes I still miss The Scientist and wish that once, just once when we hang out (we still do so on a semi-regular basis), he'd make out with me again. Just once I'd like to run my fingers through his shaggy hair again, feel his erection rise against my crotch or the inside of my thigh. The Scientist and I never had sex, but that does not mean things didn't get hot and heavy on a regular basis, and it certainly doesn't mean I never satisfied him.

Often times, mostly when I see an update on Facebook about him, I still miss The Drummer and wish we could hang out one more time. If we did, I know I'd hold nothing back. I can't for the life of me figure out why I never let him kiss me. We even lay in bed all night together that one time, and he wanted to kiss me, even tried, and I never let him. And now, when it gets late and my mind wanders (and Facebook has reminded me of his continued existence), I think about The Drummer and what it would be like to kiss him. Sometimes I even think about him while using my vibrator and imagine what things would have been like if he had called on Valentine's Day like he was suppsed to. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that my imagination and fantasies are more pleasurable than he would actually be. He's 19. How good could he possibly be in bed? But damn, he's hot, and I can imagine him being amazing in bed no matter what the truth is.

Occasionally I still miss The Photographer. We occasionally "sexted" (according to recent news reports, that's the new word for phone sex through text messages), but that has mostly dwindled to the occasional friendship-and-nothing-more text. In fact, it's been several months since we had a text convo that was anything near sexual. He was gentle with me when we were together. Kissed selflessly but passionately. His hands didn't roam. Neither did his eyes. If he had erections, he kept them hidden. He never forced himself on me, only took what I was willing to give slowly. His kisses were never sloppy and always left me wanting more. He cuddled comfortably with me. He stared into my eyes.

I've never talked about this next person on here, and I've never missed him, but I often remember fondly what he gave me. I don't know what to call this person and don't think I'll give him a pseudonym, at least not right now. He doesn't appear often enough to warrant one. But just so there's some context, he happens to be The Photographer's best friend. I've known him for about seven years, but most of our friendship has been conducted long distance. I spent a weekend in his hometown two months after The Scientist and I broke up, and during that weekend, he almost never left my side. Things had never been romantic between us before, but the first night I was there, he picked me up from the airport and took me to my hotel, along with a bottle of vodka and an apple-flavored mixer. We drank and talked and drank and talked. Eventually, after we both had collapsed on the bed from exhaustion, he turned to me and asked if he could kiss me. I knew he only wanted to do it out of curiosity, and my curiosity was begging to be satiated as well, so I acquiesced.

He kissed me softly but skillfully. He navigated my lips in such a way that made it seem he'd studied them before that moment, learning each curve and crack intimately. That soft, skillful kiss turned into a more intense makeout session. We rolled around on the bed, we embraced, we lay next to each other, we stroked each other's backs and arms and hips and stomachs. We were fully clothed. We lay so close that I could feel his erection (as opposed to when I lay with The Photographer). Sometimes he pressed it against my body intentionally, but most times it pulsed comfortably between us.

At one point during the night, we discussed sex, and he asked if I would consider it with him. He was a virgin. He doesn't want to be a virgin and wants to get the whole shebang over without any pomp or circumstance, but he wants the non-fireworks to be with the "right" girl. I took that to mean a girl who would understand, which we both knew I would. He asked again if I would consider having sex with him. I took a second to think genuinely about it, and then I told him no. When he asked why not (a question born of simple curiosity and not hurt feelings or disappointment by any means), I simply said, "You don't want to lose your virginity to me." And I think he somehow knew exactly what I meant. A while later I asked him if he even had any condoms with him. He said no. I nodded and snuggled more closely to him.

We began to drift off to sleep, so he took off his pants so he could sleep comfortably with me in his arms. I woke up three or four hours later still wrapped in his secure embrace. He opened his eyes and smiled at me. Kissed me on the nose. Then the lips. Things got more intense. I rolled on top of him and felt a firmer erection than I'd felt all the previous night. I kept my hands above his waistline, though, and his hands did not go anywhere sexual either. After we kissed for a while, I said to him, "I can't believe you haven't tried anything more with me." He asked me what I meant. I elaborated. "Well, it's obvious that this turns you on, and it's been sort of intense. But you haven't tried to touch me, nor have you asked me to touch you or forced any part of yourself on me."

He stared into my eyes for a moment, thinking on what I'd just said. Then he let out a breath and said, "Oh, Emmeline. I'm so sorry." When I asked what for, he said, "For all the guys you've been with before and the way you've been treated and for what you've been taught to expect." It was that simple. And that meaningful.

He was an excellent kisser, and the weekend we spent together (we spent the following night together as well) was fun and satisfied both our curiosities sufficiently. And I remember him and that weekend fondly. But I don't miss him or wish it back. It's just a pleasant memory.

Where does all this leave me? Essentially, with nothing. Although, if someone asked me honestly how I feel about my life, I would never say I had nothing. But I have had a lot of perceived failures since The Scientist. I should be down, I maybe should even be out.

But I'm not. I still hope. I still desire. I still fantasize. And I still give every situation the benefit of the doubt. My "someday" might happen. And then again, it might not. Either way, I'm pleased with the lessons I've learned and the things I've experienced. I'm content with who I've become and optimistic about who I still have yet to become. Just in case anyone was wondering.

Buying Time

Wendy from Adventures in LaLaLand tagged me. She's sorta new to blogging, or at least to my circle of blogging friends, and she's really great, so if you haven't migrated over there, check her out!

I'm only sort of a team player, though. I'll play if tagged, but I prefer not to tag others. So here goes.

What is your current obsession?
Hmm. Hard to say. Obsession is such a strong word, but if there's one thing I can't seem to have too much of right now, it's time with The Artist. Lately he and I have been spending a lot of time together, and it's always great. We talk together, we laugh together, we drink together, we cry together (not often, and more so me than him . . . I'm a crier), we sit silently together, we watch movies together, we work together, we drive together, we run together, we cook together . . . there's not a lot we don't do together, and right now, I'm digging it.

In fact, a week or two ago, when we were at the grocery store purchasing ingredients for the dinner we would make later, I asked him if he was okay with making things a little spicier, and he said yes, and I said, "Oh that's right, you like hot stuff, don't you?" and he said, "Yes, I love it" (and I do too), so I said, "Man, we make the perfect pair for cooking" (because we like all the same stuff), and his answer was, "You know, we really just make the perfect friend pair in general. We are excellent friends." And it's true.

And since I've got you, I might as well go on a tangent . . . remember the drunken confession I made to The Artist a few weeks ago and how I was afraid things wouldn't be able to get back to normal after that? Well, things were slightly tense for a couple of days but mostly okay. At certain times we would skirt the subject or awkwardly avoid it if it started to come up, but all other aspects of our friendship went back to normal. Then, one day last week, The Artist called and asked me to come over and hang out. This was three days before he was supposed to leave to go on the trip I discussed in the aforementioned post.

When I got to his house, he told me he wanted to "talk about something," so we sat down in the kitchen and he began. I won't give the details because they're kind of private, but basically it all resulted in him apologizing and telling me he finally realized I'd been right and that he'd decided not to go on the trip (partly because of that but also partly because of some other unexpected expenses that came up that he needed to take care of). By the time the whole conversation was over (it lasted longer than the thirty seconds it just took for me to summarize), I was in tears (see? crier) and we were hugging. And since then things have been great.

What do you think your name says about you?
This answer could apply to my blog name or my real name because both are uncommon (and though I love my blog name, I do actually prefer my real name). I think my name shows my willingness to be different and stand out. I think it implies confidence and a desire to be remembered.

Who was the last person you hugged?
The Artist. Yesterday.

What's your favorite dinner?
Swiss steak, a recipe I got from an ex-boyfriend's mother. She was a complete mental case, but her cooking was amazing.

What was the last thing you bought?
New CDs on amazon.com. Schuyler Fisk (worth checking out), The Last Kiss soundtrack (a movie worth checking out - Zach Braff), and two others that I won't mention because they were an impulse buy and I don't know yet if I should be happy with them. I've never heard of the guy.

Where are you writing this?
In my bedroom, on my bed, under the covers, with the dog curled up at my feet, the fan on, the light off, and the window open.

What is your favorite weather?
It depends on the day, but if it's going to rain, I prefer it to be on a day when I can lie in bed and listen to it. Or when I'm driving. The rain when I'm driving is beautiful. I love the sound it makes on the roof of my car.

If I'm going to be doing outdoorsy things, then I suppose I would want it to be like anyone else would want it - sunny (so I have a chance for a tan), slight breeze, temperature in the 70s Fahrenheit.

If it's going to snow, I want it to happen at a time when I can watch it. One night in March (a couple of months ago), I was hanging out with The Innocent One watching college basketball for March Madness. The game we were watching ended around eleven p.m., and when I left her apartment to go home, it was snowing huge, fluffy flakes that looked deceptively warm and cuddly. The Artist and I were supposed to run the following morning, so I called to discuss this new and cold weather development. He was at home by himself and asked me to come hang out with him. So I swung by his house and went inside long enough to collect him and tell him we were going for a drive. And we drove around for about a half hour marveling at the beauty of the snowfall.

What is your least favorite season?
That's hard to say because they all have their redeeming qualities. But the one I probably get tired of the soonest is winter, and that probably has more to do with geography than the season itself. The climate where I live creates ice storms more often than snowstorms, and who wants those? Ice is dangerous, and it hurts when thrown at someone.

What's in your bathroom cabinet?
I don't technically have what most would call a medicine cabinet. I have a few drawers and an under-the-sink cabinet, which houses a lot of stuff, including tampons, medicine, Band-aids, loofahs, handsoap refills, razor blades, cleaning supplies, etc. My drawers contain my makeup, brush, toothpaste, hair ties, straightener, curling iron, deodorant, etc. My counter perpetually contains my hairspray, detangler, moisturizer, mini mirror, toothbrush, perfumes, earrings, lotions, etc. Nothing super embarrassing or incriminating. Run-of-the-mill bathroom stuff. No shocking prescription meds that would cause a date to run out of my life if he decided to go snooping.

Say something to the person who tagged you.
Wendy, you're a sweet girl, and I'm glad I found my way to your blog. You write well, and you sometimes remind me of an alternate version of mself. I hope you find your happiness!

What's your favorite tea flavor?
Rooibus. I was introduced to it in Africa last year. It's not as good here in the States and not as available. But there's a little joint I've found where I can get it, and that makes me happy.

What did you want to be as a child?
A veterinarian. I was a huge animal lover. Now I'm mostly just a dog lover, though any species of baby animal will still get me to coo and cluck and fuss excessively. (Have you guys seen Earth? Prime example of said cooing, clucking, and fussing from me.) When I found out that veterinary science would require a lot of math and science, I had to retire my childhood aspiration in favor of logic. My talents: writing and spelling. Those do not really come in handy in a science lab. It also soon became clear that instead of putting up adoption signs or putting down sick animals, I would more than likely adopt them myself if given such access to animals in need. And the logistics of that just don't work out no matter which way you try it out.

What do you miss?
Sometimes I miss other versions of myself. Right now, though, I think I'm living/creating a version of myself that I will miss in later years. Right now I feel confident, independent, and unburdened. There's no way that'll last forever.

What's your favorite brand of jeans?
I don't really have one. I've never worn a consistent label throughout my life. The two pairs I'm digging right now say Buffalo and HiNT on them. Both were hand-me-downs, one from The Flight Attendant, one from The Fashionista.

What designer piece of clothing would you most like to own?
Not interested in designer clothing, nor do I know anything about it.

If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
I hate to say this because it shows how non-independent I really am. But I'd choose to be wrapped in someone's arms if I could. It doesn't have to be anyone specific or anyone that I even know right now. Just someone who smells good and with a strong, secure embrace. I would love to be held and cuddled with. I've been craving such affection for about a month now. Which is probably one of the contributing factors to the fact that I get "huggy" with the Artist ("huggy" is his word, not mine) when I drink a little too much. (Besides that, he smells good!)

Whom do you want to meet in person?
I hate this question when it has to do with famous people. It's so boring. So I'm going to go with bloggers. I'd love to meet the Waiter from Waiter Rant, or Jay from Cynical Bastard, or SO from Starting Over at 24. Hmm. Those are all guys. Girl bloggers? Jen from Tales from a Texaconsin Diva, and/or Farmer's Wife from Glass Half Full (though I don't think that's the name of her site anymore).

What is your most challenging goal right now?
Getting enough in shape to be able to participate in some kind of run (5K, half marathon, marathon) or other sporting event. The Artist wants to do a triathlon. I don't know that I'm up for that or that I'll ever be.

What's your five-year plan?
Work at my current job five years (I've been there eight months). Then quit and move to another country and start a new career. Could be in the same field. Doesn't have to be. I want to spend a portion of my thirties outside the U.S., since I missed my chance to spend a semester in London in college.

Salty or sweet?
Salty. When we cook, I add salt to everything, and The Artist adds pepper.

What is your favorite sport to watch?
NFL football, preferably the Denver Broncos. (I wish that meant I was from Denver. It doesn't.)

To play?
Badminton, if that can be considered a sport. Skiing too, though you don't "play" skiing, you just do it.

What is your favorite piece of jewelry that you own?
My silver heart-shaped necklace. The length is adjustable, and the heart is lopsided. It's my signature piece.

What can't you live without?
Affectionate people and people who make me laugh. The people in my life don't each need to have both of those qualities, but each of them has to possess at least one or the other.

The Sibling Chronicles: Blips and Bumps

Here's where we left off. Bliss. With a storm ahead.

My brother started junior high school, as it was called in our part of the country, since it included grades 7-9. (Most other parts of the country call it middle school and include grades 6-8.) He rode the bus, something we'd never done before. He had a different class with a different teacher in a different room every hour. There were vending machines he could use any time he wanted as long as he had the change. Swimming was part of gym class. And here was the best-sounding part - he had a locker with a combination, where he could store his books, homework, and backpack, and which he decorate with pictures or posters or whatever other personal memorabilia he felt like putting up!

All of these new stories made me feel like he was so grown up, and as usual, I couldn't wait to join him at the new school. Suddenly, sixth grade seemed so babyish in comparison, with my one teacher and one classroom and our stupid lunch recess. Most kids dreaded the days when recess would end and they'd have to spend the entire day inside a school building, and I'd been that way once too. Until my brother started seventh grade and spending the whole day inside suddenly seemed so mature.

Finally, finally, sixth grade ended, and with it, I was able to shed my elementary-school career and move on. I was ready to ride the bus. (I would soon get over this novelty once I found out that being the last stop on the way to school [and therefore being awarded the shortest ride] also meant being the last stop on the way home [and therefore the longest ride], and once I realized that I could not linger leisurely at my locker or chat with my friends once the three-o'-clock bell rang because my bus would be leaving the lot around 3:06.

The novelty of junior high itself quickly wore off as the grand things I'd imagined (and which my brother had falsely related) quickly turned out to be less-than-ideal, and everything soon became nothing more than routine. Yes, we had vending machines, but I hardly had the money for them. Besides, I had to save what money I did have for the nachos with cheese and chewy, fudgy, warm, Otis Spunkmeyer cookies at lunch.

Switching classrooms was kind of a bore because all it meant was that if I took too long and didn't make it to the next one by the time the bell rang, I'd be in trouble for being tardy. Switching teachers, however, continued to be a nice perq all through the rest of my academic career. If you don't like a particular teacher, knowing you only have to spend one hour with him/her as opposed to the whole day is always a bright spot.

Swimming was the worst two-week sport session of gym class - worse even than flag football, which I despised. We actually had to swim. And get our hair wet. And we had no way to dry our hair afterward except to stand awkwardly under those stupid hand dryers, but even then, we still only had the requisite five minutes between periods to change out of our suits, shower and get the chlorine smell off our bodies, and get our hairstyles back into some semblance of "cute" before having to share a desk with the hot boy in the next class.

So junior high soon lost its appeal, and I became a regular adolescent. And things changed quickly between my brother and me.

My mom used to drive us to the bus stop, so on our first day, after we hopped out of the minivan to stand on our designated corner, the girl who shared our stop and was in the same grade as my brother squealed, "Ooooh, is this your little sister?!" A proud grin began to spread across my face as I waited for my brother to introduce me. My heart promptly sank (and the grin faded) when he said, "No. Shut up and leave me alone." Then he yanked her ponytail and sent her screaming with delight down the street.

When the bus screeched to a violent and shuddering stop at our corner, both my brother and the girl hopped on and went straight to seats which seemed to be designated just for them, high-fiving and hello-ing everyone they met along the way. I climbed aboard timidly after them and stood there at the front, searching for a seat. My brother had a seat to himself near the back. I started toward him and got halfway down the aisle, but as soon as he realized what I planned to do, he pulled his hat low and looked away, stretching out lazily across the whole seat as if he hadn't noticed.

Luckily, before I could feel extremely humiliated about being shunned by my own flesh and blood, I heard a timid voice say, "Emmeline? Would you like to sit with me?" I glanced down and recognized a girl from my elementary school and quickly took my seat next to her, silently thanking her for sparing me a huge embarrassment. (Little did I know, I had nothing to be embarrassed about. Nobody knew my brother was shunning his little sister because nobody knew I was his little sister. But I didn't know that yet.)

And thus the tone of our relationship and interaction with each other was set for the rest of our junior high years. At church I was still publicly acknowledged as his sister, even by him. At home he still teased me, but the tone had lost its playful quality and taken on a crueler, more malicious one. Things would continue this way for the next two years, until my brother would move on to the high school, at which time I hoped he would grow out of his pubescent immaturity and make me his popular little sister and friend again. They do say that ignorance is bliss, and that might be true. For my early teenage mind would not have been able to bear the burden of the knowledge of what was to come.

To be continued . . .

Drunken Honesty and Skewed Truth

I planned to continue The Sibling Chronicles today, but some stuff went down last night, and because I analyze everything through my writing, I have to write about it.

The Artist and I, since we work for a Christian company, have Good Friday (today) off from work. And lately we've been trying to run on Saturday mornings, and we both attend church on Sunday mornings. So getting piss drunk on Friday and Saturday nights hasn't been something that has worked out all that well for us. So we decided since we had today off work and no reason to get up in the morning, to hang out and drink last night. I don't know what he was wanting to do, but I wanted to get plastered. I had no particular reason for this except that it had been awhile (probably since New Year's Eve) since I'd been really shitfaced.

So we made dinner and drank a lot. And as I had hoped, I got really drunk. And as usually happens when I get really drunk, I started to run my mouth. One problem I do not have in life is being honest. I will usually tell people what's on my mind. If my feelings are hurt, I usually address it with the necessary parties in order to get things resolved so we can all move past it.

So far with The Artist, I've laid things on the table pretty openly and candidly, as you all know because you've all been along for that ride. I have never had a hurt-feelings issue to address with The Artist - only confessions and admissions of other types of feelings to let him know about. None of these admissions or confessions has put a strain on our friendship. If anything, I'd say all my honesty has only served to improve things and bring us closer.

I've tried very hard, by setting the example, to lay a foundation of honesty in this friendship so that The Artist knows he can say anything he needs to say to me. Even if it doesn't have anything to do with me or our friendship, I want him to know he can tell me anything he has on his mind if he wants to discuss it. And I hope he does know that and will take advantage of it if/when the opportunity arises.

That said, last night I got too drunk to function and told The Artist he had hurt my feelings. Here's why.

Ever since I started the job I now have, The Media Fan has been pushing me to get The Artist to come with me when I visit her in her city, which is a six-hour drive away. She's talked to The Artist about it too. I've tried to get him to go with me more than once. I've never gotten more than a "maybe" out of him. Because of this perceived reluctance, I have not pushed the issue. I figure that if someone never says more than "maybe" when you propose an activity, that is basically a passive message that indicates, I'm saying "maybe" to humor you, but I don't really want to go. And I would make this interpretation for anyone, not just The Artist. So when this happens, I decide not to push the issue in favor of keeping things non-awkward and smooth.

However, people quickly learn with me that when I say I want to do something, I mean it, and I intend to make it happen if I can. I love to travel, so when I talk about taking trips, if I say I want to do it, then I really mean it. (Case in point: In February, The Flight Attendant texted me out of the blue and asked me if I was interested in going to Australia with her sometime this year. I said yes, and we discussed the logistics, and within a week, we'd bought plane tickets. So in September, we will have a vacation that includes Melbourne, Cairns, and Sydney.)

I have had a lot of bad experiences with people being flakes. (For proof just on this blog, read any posts about The Photographer or The Drummer.) Maybe I'm over-sensitive, maybe I'm high-maintenance, maybe I'm a stupid, typical girl (and maybe this is why I'm single), but there is one thing that hurts my feelings more easily than anything else, and that is when people flake on me. Since I try so hard to be honest with people, it hurts very much when someone gives me the impression that we'll do something or go somewhere and then it doesn't happen. Sometimes, logistically or because of schedules or unforeseen things, plans legitimately fall through. And I understand that, and that's not what I'm talking about.

I'm talking about when something that has been specifically discussed never comes to pass just because people aren't proactive enough to make actual plans or aren't honest enough to admit they aren't that interested in doing it. I need more than a passive-aggressive "maybe" answer from my friends. I need a definite yes or a definite no. Because there are things in this life that I want to do, and I don't want to waste my life on maybe-someday thoughts.

Now that you (hopefully) understand my thoughts and motivations a little more, here's how this applies to The Artist. At the end of February, he and I went to see a concert for a local band we both really like. It was our first time to see them, and we both really enjoyed the show. Afterward, he told me that he enjoyed the show so much that he wants to see them as often as he can. "Basically," he said, "any time they're in town, I want to be there. Any time they're close to town, I want to be there."

Fast forward to sometime in March. He told me that this band was going to be in a city that is a three-hour drive from us. I asked if he wanted to go. He said yes. I said, "Let's do it." I can't remember if he ever said "okay, let's" or some other type of confirmation, but he definitely never said he didn't want to. So it wasn't settled in my mind, but I figured it would happen. I didn't feel the need to bug him about it, however, because I didn't want to annoy him. I figured it was something that could be more of a last-minute type of planning situation anyway, since the city is only three hours away. We don't need a month's worth of planning in order to drive three hours. So I didn't mention it again, except in random, casual conversation, the purpose of which was to remind him that it was still looming and was something we'd discussed.

Then something else happened. There was a ballet coming to town at the end of March. The Artist approached me about it and told me what it was and said he thought it'd be cool to go. I told him I'd be up for it, and I looked up tickets and found that the cheapest ones were $26. I told him this, and he said that seemed reasonable and that he'd be okay with spending that much money. By this time the show was going to be happening in about six days. So as not to be pushy, I let the matter rest for a couple of days, and he didn't mention it again either. On Wednesday before the weekend of the show, I told him that if we really wanted to go, we should probably buy tickets pretty soon, possibly even that day. He said he couldn't do it that day because he was too busy. He did not say, "but let's do it tomorrow" or anything like that. The next morning, when I asked him if he was really that interested in seeing the show, he kind of shrugged his shoulders non-committally. So I dropped it and we didn't go.

The way all of that went down made me hesitate to bring up the upcoming concert again. I thought that if this passive way of handling something he didn't really want to do (even though we started talking about it in the first place because he said he wanted to do it) was just his way of dealing with things and getting across a message that he didn't want to do it, then I would not try to put him in an awkward position by pressing it. I figured that if he just felt bad being honest with me and saying no and was not being honest because he didn't want to hurt my feelings or make things awkward, then I would just let him be that way, even though I would prefer total honesty. If he's comfortable that way, then I don't want to make him uncomfortable.

Deciding to leave it like that was a mistake. I wasn't being true to my standard of honesty when I chose not to confront him about it or ask him to tell me the truth. I was basically setting myself up for hurt feelings.

So a few days ago he told me that he had been invited to go on a trip to Chicago to see a concert and hang out in the city for a few days with three other people, only one of whom is a good friend of his. He knows the other two people who are going, but I wouldn't really call them friends of his, and I don't think he would either. So when he told me this and named the band they were going to see, two thoughts entered my mind one right after the other. The first was, I guess this means we aren't going to that concert in April. The second was, What's so appealing about this trip that he's willing to go but he wasn't willing to go when this same band was going to be in The Media Fan's city?

Because yes, a couple of months ago, The Media Fan found out that this same band (which she and The Artist both love and which I like but do not love) would be playing in her city in May, and she made it very clear that she wanted The Artist and me to come down for it. I was fine with that and told The Artist such, but he was hesitant for no clear reason, so again, instead of pushing the matter, I dropped it, thinking he just wasn't that interested, that it would cost too much, that he didn't want to go that far, etc. But this trip is even farther away and will cost him even more money.

So, and I'm not saying my feelings were right or justified or anything like that, I'm just being honest - it hurt my feelings when I found out he was going on this trip. In fact, when he first told me, I even said, "So I guess that means we won't see [band name] in [city that's three hours away], huh?"

He looked confused for a second and then said, "Oh. I guess not. When was that again?" And I told him and he said, "Huh. Guess not. Oh well."

That was pretty much the end of that. I didn't tell him that my feelings were hurt because in the light of day, I didn't feel like I had a valid enough reason for them to be hurt. And I know that he would never do anything intentionally to hurt anyone. So, knowing that he wasn't hurting me intentionally and knowing that bringing it to his attention would probably only make him feel bad, I resolved not to say anything. But because I'd already had a string of disappointments and slight frustrations involving half-formed plans with him that never got followed through, I was setting up a pattern to get my feelings hurt again and again by not mentioning any of this to him.

And everything seems like a great idea when you're drunk. So last night, under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol, I blurted out to The Artist that he had hurt my feelings, and the whole stupid thing came spilling out before I could control my tongue. He was blindsided by it, as I'd expected. He even made the very excruciatingly-painful-to-hear comment, "Wow. And this was the one friendship where I thought there were no issues."

I cringed and began to cry when he said that. To know that my honesty had caused that kind of pain and confusion in him made me hurt even more. At this point I didn't know what to do. We talked about it at length and didn't really come to a conclusion. My head was cloudy. He vaguely promised that we would take a trip somewhere, sometime. We eventually shifted the tide of discussion and left it behind us. My car was in the shop, and The Artist was too drunk to drive me home, so I crashed in his guest bed for the night.

This morning things felt so awkward. There was a distance. My heart sank. I felt like I'd personally placed that distance there. Like I'd driven a stake between us. The auto shop had called and my car was ready, so The Artist was driving me over there in what was a painfully silent atmosphere. He broke the silence by laughingly reminding me of some of the stupider things I'd said and done the previous night. I shook my head and said I wished I was the kind of drunk who could forget her antics once sobriety set in. But I'm not. I remember everything.

Eventually the conversation came round to the painful discussion we'd had. I told him I was sorry and that things were fine between us and that they weren't as bad as I'd made it sound the night before. I apologized for being so drunk and stupid. He was mostly quiet. I told him how much it hurt when he'd made that comment about thinking we didn't have any issues. I looked at him, pleading with him to understand that it can still be like that and that we certainly don't have "issues" and this one little thing cannot qualify as such. Still, he was quiet.

When we got to the auto shop, he said, "So, I'll see you later tonight, right?" (He has invited about six people over to watch a movie, and I agreed to attend yesterday, before we got drunk.) I hesitated before reluctantly saying yes. He asked if something was wrong.

I said, "Not really, I just feel stupid and angry with myself, and I'm really sorry about last night."

He said quietly, "You don't have to be sorry. Really, you don't have anything to be sorry for. Don't worry. We're really okay."

I asked, "Promise?"

He said, "Promise."

I opened the door to get out, and he said, "Okay, I'll see you later then. Call me if anything else is going on." I said okay and shut the door, and he drove away.

I still feel pretty terrible about how it all happened. I don't feel bad about my honesty so much as the way I handled the situation as a whole. I didn't explain anything nearly as articulately as I have here. Maybe I've come off sounding selfish and needy and ridiculous here, but I feel like I've at least given reasonable explanations for why things have hurt me. Maybe I should have a thicker skin, but even if you guys don't agree that my feelings should have been hurt, I feel like I've at least provided something that gives you an insight into why I was hurt. I provided nothing of the sort last night.

It was just a jumble of complaints and drunken babblings that left The Artist feeling confused. If only I could explain it this well now. But I think it's too late. I think the damage has been done and that if I have any hope of repair, I need to let the past ("the past" being last night) stay right where it is. At least, that's what The Media Fan says. She is confident we'll get past this and be fine. I am not so confident, but I'm willing to trust her judgment. After all, she knows The Artist better than I do and has certainly known him longer. (And by the way, why is she not hurt by this situation? She's losing out too by The Artist choosing to see this band in a different city with friends other than her. Why does that not hurt her feelings? I guess in the end, she's just tougher or more easygoing than me, one of the two. And I'm fine with that. Maybe I can learn from her.)

And now, in the aftermath, in the settled dust, I wonder, What happens now? Where do we go from here? Are we really going to be okay?

I hope so. I don't think I could stand to lose The Artist.

The Sibling Chronicles: Little Sister

You can find the Sibling Chronicles introduction here if you need to catch up. It's not very long. I'm trying to do something new with this series - keeping things short.

I'm sorry I haven't been around for a while. A couple of you have wondered where I've trotted off to. I'm both flattered and surprised that you've asked. But I've definitely been gone longer than this before. You guys know me. You know how sometimes I need to disappear and live my life for a bit. And I know you're waiting eagerly for The Artist's post. Believe me, so am I. And I wasn't really trying to hold off posting until I could post that - I just haven't felt like I've had anything to say. Nor have I really had the time. But here is the second episode in the story of my brother. And yes, it is short. But that should be a welcome respite.

I last left off with wanting to imitate my brother in every way possible. As we continued to grow up, I continued to admire my brother. He was just so cool. I was known everywhere - at school, at church, and anywhere else we went - as his little sister. Almost nobody knew me as Emmeline. They called him by our last name ("Midwest"), and they subsequently called me "Midwest's Little Sister." And I did not care at all. I reveled in it, in fact - in the association with such a popular person. I was so proud of my honor as his little sister.

I did my best to follow him everywhere throughout grade school (which lasted through sixth grade, ages 11-12, in our part of the country). He came home with detention slips for talking in class. I began to come home with similar detention slips. He came home with detention slips for reading in class instead of paying attention to the lectures. I began to get similar discipline. He got straight As. I tried my hardest to master mathematics so I could bring home grades that impressive, but he always seemed to beat me by the slightest margin.

Church was no different. He and his friends got into rollerblading, so what did I do? I begged my mom to buy me a pair of blades so I could skate with them in the parking lot before and after church. He joined a roller hockey team. What did I do? I went to every game and coveted their jerseys, wishing I could have one too, but I never actually joined the team, so I never got a jersey.

In our grade-school years, my big brother was appropriately protective of me. He threatened all his friends to the point of death if they even made one move in my direction beyond calling me "Midwest's Little Sister."

I loved my brother. I looked up to him. I wanted to be exactly like him. And I considered him one of my best friends. Little did I know, in just a few short months, that would all change.

To be continued . . .

A Girl Has a Right to a Little Fantasy . . .

I don't know if any of you have been wondering, since the whole Artist thing has unfolded, whether I've got any new prospects edging forward. I know I told you right when it was all over that I did not. And the truth technically remains that I still do not. However, that does not mean that I don't have my eye on one or two. It seems like my eye is always on a couple.

(By the way, speaking of The Artist, he is working on his post. Last night he read me what he has so far, and perhaps my opinion is biased, but I was riveted and thought it was brilliant. I can't wait for him to finish it. I really think I'm more excited about this than you guys are! Weesle commented on the last post and said that he hopes The Artist's standard of writing is up to what I've gotten you guys used to over the months (years for some of you). (Which, by the way, was a very flattering compliment, Weesle, thank you!) I assured him, and I'd like to assure all of you, that The Artist is, in addition to being a superbly talented artist, a gifted writer. I really don't think you guys will be disappointed. His style is different from mine, but I think you'll be irrevocably drawn in nonetheless.)

So, back to the crushes. There are three. I'll talk about them in increasing order of importance. What this means is that only one will have a pseudonym at this point, but even he will not be added to the sidebar just yet. (And just so we're clear, let me explain how I define crush for myself. A crush is someone I think is physically attractive and would like to get to know better. Someone whose personality and character traits I don't know enough about to make a decision about whether to like him. Crushes are always distant and rarely pan out into anything more.)

#1
This guy is one I went to school with. He's outgoing, friendly, and rather popular with everyone he meets. Everyone knows who he is. He seems to be a genuinely nice guy, not caught up in the ways of the world or worried about others' opinions of him. I don't know if he has a great memory or if perhaps I've actually made a memorable impression on him, but I'm inclined to believe it's the former.

We met one year before I began college, at a two-week, camp-like program for high school students about to enter their senior years (the last year, for those not familiar with the U.S. school system). He was already in college and was a volunteer at the camp. We didn't spend any significant amounts of time together, nor was it ever in a setting where we were away from the rest of the group, nor do I recall us even having any one-on-one conversations. However, he was cute, funny, and very personable, so I got an instant crush. It's the kind of crush a freshman nobody has on the senior class president. It's not the kind of crush that ever actually materializes into anything (however, I'm starting to get deja vu, for that is almost exactly how I felt about The Artist and his twin when I first met them, and look how close The Artist and I are now). But seriously, I knew this would never materialize. I just enjoyed looking at him from time to time.

When I began college the following year, I was amazed to run into this guy on campus and find that he remembered my name and who I was and where we'd met. However, our acquaintanceship never progressed further than polite hellos and how are yous as we passed each other on campus. Until one day the week of Thanksgiving break when I returned to my dorm room to find a message on the dry erase board The Roommate and I kept on the outside of our door.

Em,
#1 called. Didn't say what it was about it. Wants you to call back.
-Roommate

Needless to say, I was ecstatic. Not knowing how long that message had been there and not wanting to delay whatever he needed any longer than necessary, I immediately dialed the number she'd left on the board. He thanked me for returning the call and asked me if I would be so kind as to drive him and his brother home for Thanksgiving later that week. As it turned out, they were headed to the same city I was (which was a surprise because where I'm from is north of where I went to college, and where they're from is very far south). I don't know the details of why they didn't have the means to take themselves. I didn't ask because I was only focused on the devastating fact that I would not be able to drive them because I myself was not in possession of a car my first year of college and was having to bum a ride from someone else. I very regretfully declined amidst a shower of apologies and explanations about why so he would be sure to know that it had nothing to do with whether I wanted to and that the entire situation was out of my hands. After a "thanks anyway" from him, we hung up.

I don't remember having any contact with him after that, other than that at some point, once Facebook came along, we became Facebook friends along with the 3,000 other students at our small school. Until last week.

On St. Patrick's Day last week, The Artist had plans to meet a small number of people from his church downtown for some green beer and Irish celebration. Since it was a cooking night for us and I was already at his house, The Artist invited me to join him. I agreed halfheartedly. It wasn't that I didn't want to go, but I wasn't feeling all that well. Also, I looked a mess. My hair was an absolute fright, and my eyes were getting droopier and baggier by the minute. In hindsight, I really should have said no and just gone home and gone to bed.

And I would have done just that, but the thought that I'd never in my life celebrated a St. Patrick's Day coupled with the words from The Artist that he sorta wanted me to meet these friends of his (because he thought I'd like them) persuaded me to say yes. Unfortunately, perhaps because of my newfound total honesty with The Artist, or perhaps because I was just too tired to try to mask it, The Artist could plainly see that I wasn't thrilled about the pending excursion. He gave me a way out more than once, but I did not take it. So we trotted off downtown to meet his friends. (We didn't really trot, however. While we do our best to be as green as it is possible to be when you live in the suburbs, downtown is ten or fifteen miles away, and we were already very late.)

When we arrived, we met up with The Artist's friends, who turned out to be only two people. (The way he'd described it, I'd thought there were going to be five or six of them, in addition to the two of us.) They were nice people, though, and the four of us plodded around downtown, in and out of parking lot block parties, up and down streets crowded with people dressed in green and bursting out of bars. We finally decided on a bar and went inside, where we found a table and promptly began a very in-depth discussion on politics that covered the economy, religion, gay rights, foreign policy, domestic policy, and education. It was exhausting, and I think I only formulated two sentences during the entire discussion. These people are lightyears ahead of me when it comes to politics and ideas, so I contented myself with drinking my two beers and doing my best to follow the conversation. After three-ish hours of such conversation, someone decided it was time for us to go, at which point we sat and discussed not-so-heavy stuff for a half hour while we waited for our waitress to reappear so we could tab out.

Once we escaped the bar, we walked the few blocks back to The Artist's car with a new plan of action underway. The Artist was ready to take me home and get home himself so he could go to bed (it was past eleven p.m. by this point, and he and I leave between 6:20 and 6:30 a.m. for work each morning). The other two members of our party, however, wanted to head over to another bar about fifteen blocks away, where a couple other of their friends were - friends who were supposed to have met us at the previous bar and never did. I was under the impression that The Artist was going to drop them off at the bar and then we would drive home. (By this point, I was so tired and out of the conversational loop that I did not care what happened!) So when we arrived at the bar, I was mildly surprised to discover that The Artist intended on pulling into a parking space and heading into the bar with the other two. But I like to think I'm good at going with the flow, so I hopped out along with everyone else and entered the bar.

As it turned out, The Artist wanted me to meet this specific guy they had been talking about all night so I could put a face with a name. He's actually told me about this guy once before, and I remember being intrigued because he has a very cool, very unusual name, and like I've said before, I'm a sucker for unusual names (probably because my own is so unusual). Plus, The Artist had said he was single. However, by the time we arrived at this bar where this guy supposedly was, my interest in meeting him had waned. The discussion they'd had all night that had revolved around him had also revolved around his very opinionated, very conservative political ideas. The first red flag was raised when one of them said, "The thing about this guy is . . . well, it's okay to be a conservative, but . . ." As soon as I heard that but, I was turned off. When it comes to my personal political opinions, there's not much that could be labeled conservative. So it's likely that I won't get along with someone who is unapologetically, self-righteously, intensely, perhaps even insanely, conservative. Their discussion of him only seemed to be on the decline after that.

So as soon as we walked in the door, we ran into #1, who cheerfully greeted the three of my companions in turn. Since I was the outsider, I was near the back of the group, so he didn't see me at first. When he did see me, he got a surprised look on his face and immediately said, "Hey, Emmeline! How's it going?" It was a pleasant surprise that he remembered my name, since I really think it had been about four years since we'd spoken to each other. Unfortunately, since it was nearing midnight by this time, my poor, politically taxed little brain could not come up with anything to say to him beyond, "Great! It's good to see you!" About that time, the other guy they'd been talking about all evening that The Artist wanted me to meet sidled up to the group and offered to buy a round of drinks. However, he was standing right next to me and never once actually looked at me, nor did he ask me if I wanted anything to drink. He literally skipped right over me when he asked everyone individually. This could have been strike two for my interest in meeting him, but I don't know if it's fair to give someone you haven't even formally met yet a strike. So maybe just a party foul.

Then we stood in a close, awkward little group for another half hour to forty-five minutes while everyone caught up with these two guys. The Artist was on the other side of the group from me, so I couldn't even try to talk to him. The guy who had bought the round of drinks and the only other girl there besides me struck up a conversation with each other that The Artist seemed to be involved in as well. They were really too far away for me to try to participate. That left #1 and the other guy we'd been with all night. However, they promptly began a discussion about #1's recent breakup with his girlfriend (good news I suppose but still not a conversation I could join because I didn't know his girlfriend, nor was I aware that they had just broken up).

So I stood there a little bit bored, without a drink in my hand, and looking like someone who is completely socially awkward, waiting for The Artist to finish his drink so we could get the hell out of there. Finally, #1 took off, and The Artist decided it was time for us to go as well. We said goodnight to everyone and ducked out. I was never introduced to the guy they wanted me to meet.

The conclusion to the story is: #1 will always be just a distant crush, I am sure. But the fact that he remembered my name after four years of not having any contact has triggered numerous new fantasies about him to appear in my daydreams as well as my sleep-dreams.

#2
Hopefully this will be a shorter story. #2's name I don't know. We've never met. We've never spoken. We've only ever made eye contact (or at least, what I perceive to be eye contact; he may very well be looking over my head at someone else). He plays the guitar in the worship band at church. He has scraggly, curly hair, which is a weakness of mine. (The Scientist's hair was like that.) The more unruly or shaggy a guy's hair is, the larger the likelihood that I'll be attracted to him. Before last week at church, I'd never seen this guy. But I saw him both last week and this morning, and besides being attractive with the unruly hair, he's got this easy smile that makes you feel like he'd be approachable. He also looks just a little familiar, but I don't have a clue where I might know him from.

This morning I was late to church and so had to sit somewhere I don't usually sit. I grabbed the first empty seat I saw, which happened to be between two girls I'd never met. When the praise and worship portion of the service was over, imagine my surprise, delight, and disappointment (yes, all three) when the cute, curly-headed guitar player came to sit on my row, on the other side of one of the girls I sat between. I think this means she is his girlfriend. Who knows if I'll ever learn his name now.

#3: The Sailor
The Sailor is the only one of this ragtag group I can claim to know. I went to school with him, and we're from the same hometown. However, we did not meet until we were in college together. I can't even remember now how we met. It obviously wasn't significant or life-changing. And we were never great friends. But The Sailor is (you guessed it), a sailor. He makes his living sailing the high seas on a real-life, honest-to-goodness, pirate-style sailboat. Or rather, sail-ship. Because it's really a ship. But it's got gigantic sails that they actually use. I don't know exactly what The Sailor does on the ship other than messing with the rigging, masts, and sails, nor do I know exactly why he's decided to be a sailor. But he has. And I've got on a crush on him.

The Sailor and I had some classes together in college, which must be how we met and made each other's acquaintances. His sense of humor is very dry and sarcastic and also very witty. He's too smart for me to be able to banter with him, but I enjoy his jokes just the same. I don't think I've ever had more than a five- or ten-minute conversation with The Sailor, but we have been more acquainted, more familiar, with each other than #1 and I have been, or even than The Artist and I were in college.

Shortly after graduation was when The Sailor embarked on his maiden voyage. He's been sailing now for two years, and he started a blog at the outset, where he planned to record his travels. I have been a faithful reader of his blog since the beginning. Sometimes he has sent me Facebook messages after I've commented on his blog, asking me how I'm doing, what I'm doing, and how things are in this college city he left that I've stayed in.

Recently our contact has been slightly more frequent. I had been away from his blog for about eight months. A couple of weeks ago I finally got all caught up and was leaving him my thoughts in the comments along the way. A few days after I caught myself up, he wrote on my Facebook page and thanked me for all the comments and asked me how I've been doing. A few days after that, he read the brand-new real-life blog I started recently and had only good things to say about it. We sent a couple more facebook wall posts back and forth, and then all became quiet again.

Only a few days after that (last week), he wrote a new post on his blog. I mustered the courage and commented on that post, asking him if we could perhaps get coffee next time he's on land and in or near my city.

Two days later I had a facebook post from him that said, "Coffee. October. See you then."

I read it at work and startled The Ex-Law Student when I squealed with delight about having a coffee date with The Sailor in seven months. The Loud One joked that I'd be way over him by then. And maybe I will be over my crush by then. But my motives in this case are not actually romantic or ulterior. I've always had a desire to get to know The Sailor better, and his lifestyle truly fascinates me, so much so that I would love to hear some stories in person because I know he's not sharing all his stories on the blog. Whether this would ever turn into something more than a friendly acquaintance, I can't say, nor do I really care. But he counts as a crush because I'm so impressed with his lifestyle, and his maritime scruff and rugged, wind-hardened, weathered appearance has made him far more sexually appealing than I ever remember him being before.

So you see? I wasn't lying when I said that I still have no potentials. My eye is on each of these three guys but only lazily. I don't expect anything but random flashes of giddiness to happen with any of these guys. But they do spice up my daydream life, and I'm always okay with that.

*I apologize that this post, which is so obviously a filler post while we all wait for The Artist to finish his side of the story, was so long and unrewarding. Thanks for staying with me to the end. You guys are troopers.*

Your Turn: Ask The Artist Questions

The Artist and I hung out again last night, and we discussed the blog again. He admitted that he came back on his own and read a few posts. He sounded really nervous about admitting it to me, as if he thought I'd be mad. I guess everyone in my real life who knows why my friendship with The Fashionista ended has reason to be nervous about admitting they've read my blog. (The Innocent One also admitted recently that she had found and read only a small portion of it.)

But the truth is, I don't care as much now as I did back then. I don't have as much (if anything) to hide now as I did back then. And I don't have as shallow of friendships now as I did back then. Part of the reason I cared about The Fashionista reading it was that at that point, she was backstabbing me with The Photographer, and I was writing about it on here. Our friendship did not end because she read my blog. Our friendship ended because she was selfish, shallow, and superficial. (Dang, try to say those words three times fast!) It is clear to me now that I was, for her, a friend of convenience. I get sad when I think about her life now. But anyway, let's not go into that. Back to my friends now reading the blog.

These friendships, though I haven't known these friends yet as long as I knew The Fashionista, are already deeper, less selfish, and better friendships in general. There's far more trust with these people than there ever was with The Fashionista. I have never worried about any of these friends turning on me, and I used to worry about that constantly with her. Besides that, if they were finding the blog without having any information, that'd be a different story. But I'm giving them plenty of information that enables them to do a Google search and find me easily. And the blog is still so well-disguised that The Innocent One still wasn't positive she'd found it when in fact she had. So I no longer worry about it.

But on to the reason for this post. I got this grand idea the other day and pitched it to The Artist last night when we were discussing the blog. I said, "So, I've got this idea, and it's okay if you don't want to do it, but I thought I'd pitch it to you anyway. My readers would love it if you'd write a post for my blog."

He looked over at me with a quizzical expression on his face, so I quickly continued. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to, but they've only ever gotten my side of any story I've ever written on here, and I think they'd love it if you'd tell your side. And you can wait until you've read all the posts I've ever written about you if you want, so you know exactly what you're up against. . . . So, what do you think?"

The Artist opened his mouth and started to answer, but I interrupted and said, "You know what? You don't have to answer right now. You can think about it and let me know later if you want to do it."

He said with a smile on his face, "Actually, I like the idea. Let's do it."

So he's agreed to write his side of the story. I don't know when he'll do it, but hopefully it'll be soon. I told him, "It can be as long or as short as you like. My posts are pretty long, so they're used to that."

I think he's excited about it. I know I am. And I hope you guys are too. I've never had a guest poster on here before, so the inaugural post (and from such an exciting character!) should be good. Last night we were discussing the post I wrote where I bravely included pictures of myself by blocking out my face. He told me, "If you want, you can take a picture of me and do the same thing and put it up on my post." But I think he was drunk when he told me that, so I won't hold him to that part.

But just before I went to bed last night, I had another idea: giving you guys the opportunity to ask The Artist some questions that you don't think I can answer, or questions that I have answered but that you'd like to get his take on. So here's your chance. Comment and direct any questions you wish toward The Artist. Ask anything you want.

Here's the small catch. I haven't run this part of my idea by The Artist, so if he doesn't want to do it, then I'm sorry. I won't force him. And I will give him license to refuse to answer any questions he doesn't want to answer. This is his life too, you know. We have to treat him with respect and as if he's an actual person rather than just a character in the story of my life.

And here's the other restriction to your questions: do not ask him prying questions about his homosexuality. This is not a chance for you to ask personal, awkward questions about homosexuality that you've always wanted to know but have never had a chance (or the guts) to ask. (And I'm not saying you have to leave out the gay factor completely. Obviously, it's a factor in the story. I just mean, if you've got a question you've always wondered but could never ask, such as, "How does gay sex work" or, "What kind of men are you attracted to," or, "Is there anyone in your life who isn't okay with your homosexuality.") I'm not giving you that much free rein. If you have intensely personal questions about homosexuality to ask, then find yourself an awesome gay friend in real life, as I have. For this occasion, please keep your questions of The Artist limited to his relationship with me.

And like I said, he may not be comfortable with this part, and if he isn't, I won't push him. But I think he'll be okay with it. And by the way, I also reserve the right to screen all questions and only pass on to him the ones I'm comfortable with.

So there you are. Ask away! (Each person can ask more than one if he or she so desires. I won't limit the number of questions you're allowed to ask.)

*PS . . . Farmer*sWife has a cool contest going on (that ends tomorrow!) to win some cool stuff! Check it out!

The Artist Knows Everything

I have realized that I completely forgot to answer comments on the last post. But it's been so long, and now I'm writing another post, so I figure it's kinda too late. So I apologize.

However, I would like to point out the prophetic quality of this, from one of my posts, written almost exactly two months ago:

Truth be told, if I could keep any one person from reading this blog no matter what, it would be The Artist. I am not embarrassed about what I've written on here about any guy except for him. However, in a year or so, when this all blows over and he and I are the best of friends and he knows all about the crush I had on him a year prior (because I'll finally spill the beans one night when we accidentally get too drunk, I'm sure) and he stumbles upon this blog and figures out it's me and asks me about it - then I'll laugh and direct him specifically to the posts that were about him and he'll compliment my writing style and we'll laugh together and move on. Or make out. One of the two. ;)

Okay so we didn't make out. But let me back up and tell you what happened. The Artist and I are faithfully keeping our weekly cooking night appointment with each other, and we are still making fantastic food. This week was our fourth week.

I already told you in the last post that I got a little alcohol in me and admitted to The Artist that I had had a "slight" crush on him before I knew he was gay. On Tuesday after dinner, while we were sitting around talking, I loosened my lips once more. This time, though, there was no liquid catalyst. I don't remember what exactly prompted me to tell him, but we ended up talking about it for a long time.

I told him about his poster on my door. I told him about the Christmas card near-disaster. I told him about my reaction to his date at the Christmas party and scheming to go to lunch with him and the disappointment when he brought along eleven of his coworkers. I told him about my misinterpretation of his invitation to turkey taco and movie night and my misinterpretation of his invitation on my doorstep. I told him every story I could think of that had happened over the course of the four or five months that I was interested in him.

He already knew about the blog but had no other information. So I told him he was in it. One time, before he knew any of this, he'd expressed his interest in reading some of it. I told him no way because there was too private of stuff on there. So he was surprised when I offered to let him read it on Tuesday. He said, "But you said it was too private and too personal." I said, "Well now you know why I said that. It's not anymore!"

So he said he was definitely interested in reading. I told him he could do it right then if he wanted. He got up and led me to his computer. I typed in my blog's URL and pulled up this post and let him read it while I sat next to him. He even read all your comments!

His main reactions the whole evening were:
1. laughter (lots of it)
2. surprise (shock, really)

He'd had no idea how I felt. Which I had suspected. I was so concerned that all this information was going to make him feel awkward, that he might try to pull away, that our awesome new friendship that I've been loving so much was going to be over with my revelations.

It doesn't appear to have been the case. He seemed to see the absurd humor in most of it rather than the awkwardness, which I'm glad for. He even made the comment, "It sounds like a movie or the plot of a book, especially the way things turned out with me being gay." I told him, "That's why I blog about it."

It felt good to be honest. You guys know from experience that I'm not much of one to keep things in. I don't like to keep things from people. It was good to tell him finally all sorts of stories from work involving our coworkers teasing me. These were stories I'd always wanted to tell him because they were so funny but never could.

The poor Artist. Everyone at work (except for two of my coworkers) thinks we like each other, and he hates it. It makes me laugh. People's speculations, teasings, and gossip is entertaining to me. However, if I were being linked to someone I couldn't at all see myself dating, I'd probably be upset too. But it's The Artist. Gay or not, he's still got a great personality and I don't mind people thinking (or saying) we'd be good together. After all, since I once thought that myself, it'd be rather hypocritcal for me to be upset about someone else thinking/saying it.

Last weekend, I told The Artist I wanted to get drunk with him. So he called me around 8:00 p.m. and told me to come over. What commenced was a fun night. One of his friends from high school was there too. We did get drunk, and I wandered outside and collapsed on his lawn. He panicked when he looked for me and couldn't find me, and I wasn't answering my phone. He circled the neighborhood looking for me and finally found me, slightly disoriented and still on the lawn, when he came back. He helped me up and walked me inside, then sat me down in the kitchen and told me he was cutting off my alcohol. I wasn't happy about that, so he had to fix me a fake drink when I went to the bathroom. (He told me that the next day.)

When too much alcohol hit The Artist's system, he got a little emotional and a little groggy. He ended up sort of tipping over on the couch into my lap. When he found himself there, he looked up at me, said tiredly, "Would you scratch my head?" and relaxed again. So I scratched his head while the three of us talked for another hour or two. At six a.m. I called it quits and went back to The Artist's bedroom to climb into bed. He only had one spare bed, and that had been promised to the other friend. So he had told me earlier I could sleep in his bed, using the logic, "It's a queen. And it's not like I'm gonna take advantage of you . . . you know, cause I'm gay."

So I went to his bedroom, found a pair of American Eagle sweats next to the bed, stripped down to my tank top and put on the sweats, and climbed under the covers. The Artist apparently fell asleep on the couch after I left, but he did climb into the bed around 8:30. We mumbled a few words to each other about the evening then drifted off again. Shortly after 9:00, my phone alarm went off, and I got up and drove home to get ready for church.

It was a fun night. However, because of the lawn incident, I am fairly sure The Artist never wants to get drunk with me again. Which is okay. It really scared him, and he's kind of a worrier by nature. Besides, I'd rather see him sloshed than be sloshed. I have a feeling he's got stuff up his drunk sleeve that I don't know about (I've heard stories), and I want to bring it out!

So we'll see. For now, the friendship is still progressing as awesomely as ever. With all honesty and revelation. It's weird that he's reading the blog now. But whatever. He's told me some pretty personal stuff himself. So I guess I sort of owe him. (By the way, he doesn't have the URL. I am currently controlling what posts he reads and when. So far he's only read the one he read in my presence and the first two I ever wrote about him, which I sent to him in an e-mail.)