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Today has been one of those days that had very pleasant high points, and terrible, awful lows. 

On the upside, I was able to spend time with one of my dearest BFFs and finally meet her 13 y/o son, who is a really sweet, great kid. She invited me to a women’s networking event–and then the three of us went out for pizza. 

Although I have a much easier time relating to men than I do to women in social settings, I will continue to work on pursuing newer female contacts and hopefully, make some additional friends along the way. The biggest obstacle to making new female friends, in my experience, is that most other women just really don’t get me or my sense of humor. My closest female friends all have that raunchy, dark gallows humor that I have–at least on some level. And my jokes about being overheated and homeless were met with something more akin to sincerity and sympathy than with the intended laughs over my first-world problems. I guess that all I can do is look forward to seeing all of these new, potential friends next month. And I really do look forward to getting to know these ladies better. I can only hope that they feel the same way about me. 

Now for the hard part. The horrible, awful realization that prompted the title of this post. How do I even begin to explain, process and write about having my hand-made illusions shattered? These careful, fragile walls of self deception–the knowing, deep down, but deliberate, willful ignorance of the reality that I am being used by the man that I love and trust above all others.

 On some level, I know that I am at fault for letting it happen, for not walking away when I found him deceiving me for the entirety of our relationship. For not walking away when his drunken cruelty rivaled that of my ex-husband’s sober verbal and emotional abuse. And especially for not walking away when he refused to visit me in the hospital–the ICU, to be exact, where is sat for five days in critical condition, with a better than even chance of dying from what the ER doctors and nurses (and the ICU nurses) called, the highest blood pressure they had ever seen in a conscious, ambulatory person. 

My parents, a doctor and a nurse, were terrified that they were going to have to plan the funeral of their only child–and the man who claimed to love me couldn’t be bothered to put down his bottle and his computer game to go across town and say, what could have very realistically been, a final goodbye. 

I know that the next logical question is, why do I put up with this? My answer? I don’t know why, other than that I have this naive, childish belief that love can conquer all. I just can’t bring myself to give up on the person who I have been in love with since I was 21 y/o. 

And on another level, deep down, I probably believe that I don’t deserve to be treated any better than this. For as long as I can remember, my dad always told me what a pest and bother I was when I tried to talk to him during dinner, after he had come home from work and any other time that he was around. To this day, I am always, constantly worried about being pesky or burdensome to everyone, even my closest friends. There is a big part of me that honestly believes, and mostly fears, that no one actually wants my company or companionship–that everyone, at the very best, merely tolerates me being around for whatever reason. That I deserve very little consideration by others because I owe them something–because I’ve had almost every possible advantage in life. And I’m constantly having to make up for it. How’s that for fucked-up daddy issues? I told you before that I am a hot mess.  

 Even after today’s early-morning phone call (that woke me up) to accuse me of being in love with someone else–and the later call demanding, not asking for, money so that he could sit and gamble at some sad, ridiculous reservation casino with his mother and step father–I still can’t walk away. My belief in redemption and love is too strong. And I almost gave the money to him. Almost. He honestly thought that it was appropriate and perfectly feasible to expect me to spend my entire afternoon sitting on hold with Capital One so that he could add a PIN to his credit card for cash withdrawals (he is an authorized user on my account). Although he categorically denies that he is using me, he did acknowledge that it sure looked that way in this instance.  

On a related note, I find it disgusting and appalling that his mom and stepfather care so little about his sobriety and the state of his relationship that they happily cart him off to the nearest bar or casino every chance they get. You don’t need any kind of psych or clinical social work creds to see that there is a whole lot of addiction and abject selfishness going on in that triad.

But what gets me the most is that after arguing with me on the phone for the better part of an hour, it didn’t even occur to him to turn the car around, skip the casino altogether and come back to the FM to fight for the relationship with the person he claims to love and value above all else. Forgiving him would be so much easier if his actions backed up his words and if he actually put me and my interests/well being first once in a while. I make so few demands on him that when I actually do, he acts all indignant, as though I’m imposing on him in the biggest and worst way possible. I told him earlier today what I expected from him because I’ve hit bottom. The rest is on him and remains to be seen. Stay tuned. xo

Because my mind is going a mile a minute and my thoughts are all over the place, I’m going to do a list and hope for the best.

1. Apparently, the FM is in the middle of a housing boom. On the average, 29 people move here each day (really?! I’m sorry.). The average house price is $190K. On a related note, the news channels need to find something that is actually news. The “housing boom” is news to no one. 

As for the other leading story–man shoots at police, gets shot by police–the police chief is definitely not camera ready nor camera friendly. He basically looks and sounds like a stuttering moustache. The man-on-the-street interview was with what appeared to be a cognitively-impaired gentleman, who presented as a meth head on the prowl for a can of soda. He thought that the gun shots sounded like fireworks. Thanks, Deputy Dawg, that was super helpful.;

2. Not every restaurant needs a food truck–I’m looking at you, Olive Garden. We’re not family and never will be, regardless of your marketing tactics. Most of the people in my family can actually cook “Italian food”, or as we call it, food. Your food is pretty sucky–and won’t be improved by hitting the road and being served lukewarm, over-cooked meat and pasta out of a window, amidst the smell of truck exhaust and in the company of others who think that the Olive Garden has good food. Seriously, it’s about two steps above Chef Boyardee. If you like this, congrats, you have terrible taste and should probably stay home and hide. This is, of course, is just an expression of my opinion and not meant to disparage the Olive Garden’s business in any way.;

3. Back to the news for a sec–as the FM grows, maybe we’ll attract better bands. Some of them are awesome, but it’s mostly C-list hair bands, country garbage and groups that inexplicably draw crowds based on the presence of, like, one original member of April Wine or something equally as ridiculous. The local bands are leaps and bounds above most anything that slinks in here on a supposed “world tour”. For real, our local bands are craze-mazing.;

4. On a little more serious note, I have come to terms that my dad will never openly, to my face, acknowledge that he’s proud of me. I’m not okay with it–but that’s just how things are, I guess. I know, I know–someone get me a waa-bulance and some french cries–but I’d be lying if I said that it doesn’t sting–some days worse than others–but I’ll live. Not to be braggy–but I hold two Bachelor’s Degrees, a Master’s Degree and a Doctorate. I was initiated into Phi Kappa Phi (Google it), through Michigan State–which means that I was in the top ten percent of ALL graduate students at Michigan State University (including the law school and two medical schools) in terms of grade-point average. All with dyslexia and ADHD. On paper, I look pretty good. In person, I’m kind of a hot mess–and I’m fine with that too. 

People underestimate me and take me for granted. And I let them. Especially the men I love–and some of the women. People tend to treat me terribly–and I will almost always take them back with open arms. It sucks–and I suck for allowing it to happen. Maybe I’ll figure it out someday–and maybe I won’t.

 I don’t know why I included this information (all of item #4)–maybe to give you guys a look into who I am, really. Does this all boil down to, “daddy issues”? Probably. But, it also accounts for why I’m a bit of a nympho–with no real gag reflex. And I’m a pretty cheap date given that I’m small and don’t eat very much. Something to consider.;  

5. It’s been my experience that men tend to be very literal creatures, in general. There are exceptions, of course; but I’ve found that a direct approach works best, especially when it comes to sex. Gentlemen, if a woman says, “let’s get a drink some time”, she will probably sleep with you. I could be WAY off base, and likely am–but in my world, if the invitation goes out–the panties are probably coming off at some point in the near future. Just sayin’.; and

6. North Dakota is a very strange place and it’s really not for everyone. But if you secretly (or not so secretly) consider poultry a vegetable and you have a penchant for eating smoked, over-priced meats in the parking lot of a large events center/football stadium–then, you may want to be one of the 29 people who move here, on the average, each day. Let’s grab a drink some time when you get here. *wink*

As many of you know by now, I am back to living with my parents, in my childhood home, while my new house is being built. I am an only child, and I love my parents more than anything on this Earth. That being said–I am very excited about the new house and cannot wait for it to be finished. Being back under their roof is comforting and familiar–but I have lived on my own since I was 17 y/o, so adjusting to being back here is going to take some effort on my part. 

The biggest issue, is ignoring the bait that my dad sets out to try to get a discussion going about politics. He and I have opposite political opinions (that’s putting it mildly)–and will fight about them like children if allowed to. My mom is the mediator and basically tells us both to shut up when we get going.  Surprisingly, it works.

Another issue is the fact that it’s like the surface of the sun in here–w/out all of that nasty radiation.  It’s like melting-point hot. Seriously, the only place that I can feel comfortable is on my bed, I front of a fan that is on high. I wish that I was kidding.

 And as you can imagine, when you spend your time on a bed, alone (AND your parents walk in all of the time–yup, I can’t even engage in one of my favorite activities to occupy myself)–you end up sleeping. A LOT. I literally share a room with my entire PR inventory (think boxes of lube, sex toys, lingerie…)–so I am basically the most well-rested, currently sex-free nympho in the FM–possibly the state. Lol! 

And the guy that I am so super into (see Ever Fallen…) doesn’t even know that I’m interested–but that’s my fault b/c I’ve actively mislead him on that front. Jeez-oh-Pete’s, I am the biggest dork in the world. I know, I know, I should just tell him–but I can’t. I can’t handle the rejection. I had some rejection just last week, and it sucks. Hard. Stupid? Probably. 

But how do I get the courage to risk the rejection? Maybe I should just sleep on it? *yawn* Or, maybe I should put a lock on this door? OR maybe I should find a suitable substitute until I get up the courage to say something? Any able-bodied men out there willing to help me with this conundrum? Ages 40-47? Who know, at the very least, what conundrum means? I’m probably kidding. xo

Ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn’t have fallen in love with? –Buzzcocks

I certainly have–and he is perfect. And sadly, I doubt that he has fallen in love with me. He probably never will. 

I really have to get this guy out of my head. It’s like he’s gone for a bit–and then he’s back–and I fall all over again. I guess that I’ll always be left wondering, why not me? What is so wrong with me that he’d practically have ANYONE rather than me? And then, as I’m hating myself, I wonder if he even knows that I’m in love with him? I’ve hidden it very well and have even been dishonest when asked directly about it. Ugh. Enough of this. Let’s talk about something else. Anything else. xo

So, we’re here at Casa LaVenuta–all moved in, for the most part. The movers did a pretty great job overall, although when 5pm rolled around–they were no where to be found–like those cartoons where all you see is the cloud of dust as they sped away. 

On a very odd note, J went to the garage of the new house (where our belongings are being stored) to look for my fire stick remote, and heard a buzzing coming from my night table. Turns out, a vibrator had been turned on and was running at a pretty good clip. Ordinarily, it could be assumed that the moving jostled it inside my bedside table drawer and it accidentally turned on. 

But this particular vibrator has a power button that needs to be pushed in order for it to go–and held in for a few seconds to turn it off again. In addition, it has several moving parts, all of which have their own switch. In case you haven’t figured out where this is going–the movers, at least one of them, was handling my vibrator. The one that I use on the regular–the one that not only touches my hoo haw, but actually goes in there too–pretty much daily (don’t judge, it’s healthy on so many levels). I’m really not sure how to feel about the fact that a total stranger was handling something so personal of mine. 

On one hand, it is bothersome that someone, a stranger, would handle another person’s sex toy without the owner’s knowledge or permission; but on the other hand, it’s sort of funny to think about the various things going through that guy’s mind while he was checking the whole thing out. Either way, it’s definitely on creepy spectrum and the vibrator itself will need to undergo a thorough cleaning. Twice. Is there a moral to this story? Probably not, other than complex vibrators are pretty much their own intruder alarms. Well that, and always remember to clean your toys. Twice. 

Okay, if you know me well, you know that I absolutely cannot stand the term, making love. It just grosses me out–I don’t know why but it does. So, if a sexual partner references our activities as making love it always kind of skeezes me out. Ew. 

Anyway, so a particular partner was doing his version of romantic (it’s not) and says, “Thank you. I have a beautiful woman who lets me make love to her”.  It was uncomfortable and not the right moment for me to cringe or say yuck or whatever–so I go with honesty and say, “Baby, if you’re standing behind me, while I’m on all fours on the bed (a tie for fave position, bee tee dubs) and you are pulling my hair by wrapping it around your fist–making my back arch, we are not making love. We are fucking. Plain and simple”. He was bothered by my attitude. My question, darlings: what would you call it? Is that making love or is that fucking? 

So, today was the first day of our move–which means packing. Ugh. Let me back up–the city bought out our house so the land can be used to house a flood wall. There are so many things wrong with all of it–but that is a story for another time. Anyhow, almost everything is boxed up–but because our new house isn’t done yet–and won’t be for another month–we’re off to live with my parents. It truly is a disaster waiting to happen. Stay tuned! xo

Welcome to my life. It isn’t the most glamorous life, but it isn’t the least glamorous life either. I suppose that it is defensible to say that I do pretty well–by most and Midwestern standards. 

I have a core group of friends, who I love and cherish, and a calendar full of events. You will see me writing a lot about J. He is an enormous part of my life and his role in it will emerge as I write about it and him. My parents live here also–which is, in part, why I moved back in 2010. 

Summer is social season in Fargo, ND–mainly because it’s finally warm enough and the days long enough to make you actually want to venture out for any length of time. If you live here (or have lived here), you know what I mean. 

A little Fargo, ND background for the uninitiated. Winter means usually staying out only long enough for your car to cool down just a little. Heaven knows that getting into a cold car in January (and having to wait for it to warm up) is probably one of the most aggravating things about winter, and hence, not going out during our frigid winter nights. I’m not inclined to list all sorts of weather facts about my hometown–if you really want to know, Google it. I apologize if that sounds rude. Oh, and one strange little fact: I’m not nearly as ND nice as I should be. But that, darlings, is what keeps life fun. xo