Grace.

I’ve gotten so close that I’ve imprinted a body groove on the right side of his bed, and he’s imprinted himself so firmly in my life that when I think of happiness, I think of his first. Not once has this been a burden to me. It has, instead, brought me the greatest peace I’ve ever known. I couldn’t have asked for a more understanding person to share my life with. I breathe a certain way and he knows what I need. I smile at him and he leans in and whispers, “I love you.” We probably say those words to each other dozens of times a day, and it still feels new. He is exactly the way I want him to be, even when he makes terrible jokes, or farts in the middle of the night, waking me up.

It is easier sometimes to get angry first, when he does something I wasn’t expecting and it interferes with my plans, for example. And just as I’m about to get angry, he looks at me, holds me close, and whispers, “I’m sorry.” Instantly, I know that he means it, and I’m no longer angry. In fact, I’m surprised at how fast my anger flares up, asking myself why I wasn’t inclined to forgive right away, why I was defensive first.

I’ve never seen him get really angry at me, and he won’t hang up the phone without knowing that things are fine again and that the conversation ended on a positive note. He speaks to me gently, soothingly, patiently, quietly. He’s never raised his voice at me, and when he has misspoken in the past, he’s thought about his words and set things right again.

What a gift he is. I see him as something so precious to me that I don’t want to change a single thing about him, not a hair on his head, not the way he wipes his nose with his sleeve, not the socks he has with holes in them, not his sharp toe nails, not even his snore when he’s congested.

I am thankful every day that this wonderful human being has come into my life and that I was trusting enough to open the door for him.

"I was acting like another woman, yet I was more myself than ever before."

~Francesca Johnson in The Bridges of Madison County  

I’m back in DC, or Maryland, I should say. San Francisco was wonderful, as it always is, and I feel like it’s home.

Home.

What the fuck?

Why is it so hard to just find a place, slap a few things on the walls, get some friends to help lug your freaking oversized couch up the narrow stairwell, and really feel at home? Well, first off, I haven’t found too many friends in DC that would help lug a couch up some stairs. Second, I couldn’t afford an oversized couch when I first got here, and I now know better than to make that kind of an investment in this city. Third, home is about something intangible.

Like how happy I get when I sniff a heavily boy smell saturated t-shirt, my boy’s smell. Or when he puts me in a femi headlock and shoves my nose into his armpit, further emphasizing his masculine prowess as he whispers to me, “This is where your home is.”

And all of my insides melt like salami on a frying pan. My stomach flips, my throat prepares to say something, but all that I can do is laugh hysterically and hold him tightly and breathe in his armpit smell.

Bread, butter, tea, Russian salami.

Cool, San Francisco morning air.

Silent kitchen, two people at the table,

The whole day ahead to lazy it up.

I like how my bed smells like you. You’re out there, somewhere. It’s 7:30 PM and I think other people are eating dinner with their families, and those that don’t have families and are very much alone are somewhere else entirely—bars, streets, crouched in corners.

There are so many homeless people in DC, and so many hungry people. Others are neither, but they sit on the front steps to their buildings, tank tops over dark, wet skin. Necks crane as the one white girl passes through their neighborhood, nods, “Hello, how are you,” bikers on sidewalks speeding by, sticky kids screaming, teenagers hanging around street corners checking each other out.

I like the sense of must and the feeling that responsibility gives me. It’s a sense of purpose, because for me, that’s what keeps me from being one of the people on the street. I like to walk and think about what my future holds. It’s not some sort of set-in-stone road map. It’s a dream, a long dream that starts and stops as I run my errands, stop at CVS to buy shampoo, soap, smell the soap, buy the bottle on sale, will I have children? Do I have my CVS discount card? I can’t separate these thoughts from my daily life because my sense of purpose is very much connected to what I want in the future. I survive today, and I come home today, instead of hanging around on street corners or bars because I have an understanding of what today is for. It’s for tomorrow.

Sure, today is fine for its own sake. But how much time is left? I know, dramatic and trite, really the stuff that juvenile essays are made of. Maybe.

There’s no real difference between being homeless and being lonely. Transience takes many forms. How sad it is to be alone.

I’ve never been happier, and I’ve never been more afraid of losing what I have found. If I don’t fight for what I want, then no one will just come and hand it to me.

Seven layer dip: green chili peppers, black olives, mild salsa, chopped lettuce, shredded cheddar cheese, softened cream cheese, taco seasoning mix, refried beans, one medium tomato. Serve with chips. Delicious. Don’t have too much or you won’t fit into that dress. Strapless dress, three weddings coming up, swimming suit season, okay, you can have just three chips. Pick around the part with the cheese on it.

Twenty minutes later, half the dish is gone and I’ve given up on the chips. They keep breaking, and I have salty fingers and corn crumbs all over. I’ve moved on to eating the dip with a spoon. Beans. Beans are healthy, right? It was either this or eating the Coco Pebbles, but the milk was bad.

I wonder what the recipe is for suburban living and why every home has the same set of chairs in the kitchen breakfast nook—those wooden, highly sturdy farm chairs that never quite match the table. They’re made to be that height so that when kids sit on them, they can exercise the full force of their hamstrings, swinging wildly under the table, ample room to kick siblings. Wind-up and all. They eat Coco Pebbles too, but in that context, chocolate cereal doesn’t seem sad, and milk never goes sour. Bowls made of fax-porcelain, when they fall in the sink they make a very light clinking sound that reminds me of a toddler’s high chair, the way things sound when they’re dropped from that height.

I could do these things on my own, I could do this all by myself, yet it seems grotesque unless it’s in the right setting. What would I do with a breakfast nook? A mismatched table and chairs? The milk in my fridge would always go sour anyway, even the quart containers, because it would still be just me. And the ants would get into the cereal box before I could finish a second bowl. When my place is messy, it’s sad. When a family’s house is messy, it’s somehow right. Even when it’s messy, everything is as it should be.

I think there isn’t enough room in this world for single living—it can actually be cheaper for me to go out to eat for every meal than to cook for myself. It’s cheaper because having to throw out the leftovers costs me too much emotionally. I hate wasting food, but cooking for one and saving the leftovers is grotesque again. I actually feel like I’m taunting myself. And happy hours with hot wings and half price ciders is like a field trip for the lonelies, even those who are with someone.

I’m not sure what everyone else is doing right now—my neighbors, my family, you. You’re probably at that place you were heading tonight, going about your business, and I know that I’ll see you later tonight. And only then will I feel like things are in their right place, when you lay down next to me, into that spot on my bed that already smells like you.

I have two halves, the one that wants that breakfast nook legitimately, the one that can add something to a conversation about how Target brand diapers are really good quality, and then roll my eyes at how idiotic it is that baby formula costs so much. I’d love to go one step beyond and be one of those parents that never talks about these things, the kind of mom that slings her baby over her shoulder in a hammock-like cloth and takes a long walk through the park, pockets loaded with granola and baby wipes. I would love to be that woman who does it all, and you know she’s happy because she treats those in her life with the utmost respect and admiration, like when she looks at her husband, everyone around her knows that she’s in love. That’s not so bad, is it? It’s not too much to want.

I haven’t been happier since I was a child myself. I remember standing at the side of the road on Christmas Eve, freezing and loving it, holding a candle for the one car every ten minutes, even though I’m not Christian. I was so happy that others were happy that night, probably driving with their families to church, that I wanted to let them know that I knew. That butterfly stomach giddiness that kids feel before they go on a flight, or before they open their birthday presents. I was happy then, and I’m even happier now.

I’m slowly unwrapping my future, and I have to remember to take it one day at a time. Even the little things that I do and feel are legitimate, regardless of the times I hear people say to me, “Well, your body bounces back much faster if you have kids when you’re young.”

Feist says it all:

Helping the kids out of their coats
Oh wait the babies haven't been born oh
Unpacking the bags and setting up
And planting lilacs and buttercups oh
But in the meantime we've got it hard
Second floor living without a yard
It may be years until the day
My dreams will match up with my pay
Old dirt road,
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
knee deep snow
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
Watching the fire as we grow
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
o-o-o-o-old
I got a man to stick it out
And make a home from a rented house oh
And we'll collect the moments one by one
I guess that's how the future's done oh
How many acres, how much light
Tucked in the woods and out of sight
Talk to the neighbours and tip my cap
On a little road barely on the map
Old dirt road,
mushaboom, mushaboom)
knee deep snow
mushaboom, mushaboom)
Watching the fire as we grow,
mushaboom, mushaboom)
o-o-o-o-old
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
Old dirt road rambling rose
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
Watching the fire as we grow
(mushaboom, mushaboom)
Well I'm Sold...

I'm sitting at the music school in the computer lab, and there are keyboards attached to Apple monitors. I can hear the hum of the processor and the occasional low note from down the hall. I'm not in my element but at least it's quiet and I've found an outlet anyway.

"I think my music has gotten better since I started having sex."

"Yeah? In what way?"

"I can build up to the climax better now."

I nodded and I saw the similarity between composing music and making love, as much as I think that phrase is not fully representative of what actually happens, because the love sort of has to be there to start with if you're going to make more love from sex. Maybe not. Maybe it's something that comes spontaneously and doesn't require anything else but two penguins making heart shapes with their necks and emitting an occasional low note grunt.

I don't understand how people can deny the humanity in animals and the utter animalness of humans.

I'm off topic and I never had one to start with. But something about the March of the Penguins and listening to the ploop plop of piano keys makes me feel like penguins would play piano if they weren't trapped in that climate, and if they had fingers instead of wimpy wings.

***
I saw a commercial about traveling around the world, snowboarding, chasing snow storms and it made me itch to travel. I still want to pick up and go somewhere for a long time, a year maybe, but the adult side of me is less and less likely to allow me to do that.

Rome would be great. And Sicily.

I took the metro to Rockville station but I like to call it a train instead. It’s more romantic. And the light came through the trees and chain link fences when I came out of the tunnel. Brick storage houses and abandoned weed lots in the back of strip malls made me feel like I was leaving something and going towards something else. An adventure? No.

Lunch at my parents’ house.

I brought in a beat up wheelie bag filled with dirty laundry, sheets, duvet, pillow cases. I thought of bringing his pajama pants that now live at my place like they rent too, but I figured I didn’t want to be his mom and instantly felt guilty about being so un-nurturing, but left them on the shelf anyway. I wondered if my parents would wonder why I brought only bedding to be washed, but they’re adults too, and I like to think that I’ve trained them well enough to let me be my in-between self. Because a real adult doesn’t bring home laundry to be washed—they wash it at their own place, with their own washer. But a child doesn’t worry about how that comes across to start with.

I know someone who is going through that questioning phase, “Will he? Won’t he?” Plucking a petal each time she sways back and forth in her debate, like a pendulum she wonders where her future will take her, and each time the weight swings left she thinks she’s wasted all that time with him, and each time it swings right she sees a home with children and him. I see her where I once was, and she asks me, “What should I do?”

I’m angry because I’m flashed back to a time when I felt powerless and out of control, when I let someone else decide my future like it had been highjacked. I thought I couldn’t live without him because he had become such a huge part of my life, and I thought that there was no one else.

When it ended, I fell deeper than ever before, and I swam and surfaced only with the flow of the current, and I wondered if I’d drown altogether. But I didn’t and I developed gills, so I could swim to the bottom of the deepest ocean and know that I can survive.

She will find her way.

What should I do? She asks me. And I unleash a tirade, but I should have kept my mouth shut. Because each moment is actually a point where two paths diverge, and each word of encouragement can make her more secure in her decision, and each doubting phrase can make her question what she knew was right. But now? Now, I don’t know, she says.

I see her. She’s a beautiful woman with the warmest heart. She’s capable of so much. Love, work, happiness. Without him. With him. It just depends on how many petals there were on that flower to begin with. Sometimes, it’s just that random and sometimes it’s that surprising.

I think that if he waits any longer, she’ll fall out of love with him and he doesn’t even realize it. There’s so much he doesn’t realize—that he’s also standing at a crossroads, and each day that he lets her slip away further is one more step into some other life, but without her.

He’s Peter Pan and she’s Wendy.

He’s behaving like a measured human with a perfectly reasonable desire for self-preservation and above all, selfish disregard for a woman’s need to love, to birth, to create.

She is acting like a mammal—following that need to nest and lick her cubs clean, build a dam of sticks and hang pictures on the walls.

He forgets that we are only mammals in our hearts. She forgets that he is only human. I want them to remember, but these are not my memories. I have chosen my path or I’ve accepted it, at least. It’s her turn to grow her fins and swim or grow legs and choose her path to travel.

I had dinner alone today at a nice restaurant. I walked right up to the greeter and asked for a table for one, outside. And I sat in the sunny-shade, reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower. And I felt infinite.

I ordered Mai Tai and Pad Tai,

With tofu, deep fried.

I wore a new dress today, and work went really well. And everything else went really well too. Coincidences and friends worked in a very connected way, so that I felt like the universe took care of me.

As I stood washing week-old dishes tonight, I caught my reflection in the window, smiling for no reason. The navy blue darkness making my smile even more visible to me as I realized that this is the happiest I’ve been in over a year.

“Do you love him?” My mom asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

Since when do boys know what UTI stands for? Since when do they know that if you wear panty hose with new shoes, the bottoms of your feet will get dyed? Since when do they know that tampons can cause TSS? Since when do they know that most women’s breasts aren’t symmetrical? Since when do they know how a woman’s body works better than the woman herself?

How long does a boy have to date around before he learns these things? Before he is no longer surprised by how long a period lasts. Before he figures out that even when you’re a guest in her home, you shouldn’t sit on the couch while she’s in the kitchen. Before he learns that flowers don’t convey what an orgasm can. Before he wants to put her first. Before he’s happy making her a priority. Before he misses her when she’s not with him. Before he cries when she’s sad.

I would trade the innocence of new-to-dating for the heaviest baggage in the world if it means that the details of women’s lives were learned through difficult times, but not forgotten. Through tears, through break ups and get-up-agains. I’m sometimes shocked when I hear, "I don’t need you to clean up after me. I like to take care of myself." As a woman, I feel slighted, but proud.

"You’re loading me up with food... You’re such a Jewish mother already. You know the fastest way to a man’s heart, right?"

"Yeah, through your khram, as Borat would say."

Ladies, a toast: Our boys are growing into men.

I came home at 11 PM and they were sitting on the couch, under a very thin, brown, fleece, cat fur covered blanket. I’d spent the day on a plane traveling back from San Francisco with my boyfriend. He dropped me off at my door, and I came in the house with my beat up bag. Chances are that, some day, she’ll find this post and get angry at me. She’ll be angry because I’m about to make her look very vulnerable and naive, even though I know she’s not. Then again, she might not find this post, and I will have avoided a head ache.

I came home and she was sitting with him on the couch in front of the TV. He was eating an ice cream cone, mint chocolate chip. She was very approachable, no make up, nice face. He (some of you may know of him, some of you may not) was as he always is. Extremely full of himself, like a Cheshire Cat. (I know this because I’ve seen him offer up women to me in that way before: very ordinary women, the type that deserve to be treasured specifically because they’re so ordinary. But he offers them to me in the way he lets the conversation drift along between me and the woman, going somewhere and not at all, and meanwhile, he thinks to himself, "See? This is why I’m friends with her. Isn’t she interesting?" And I use the word "friends" loosely, very loosely. And I use the word "interesting" with a snide tone. Because friends need each other, and I don’t believe he needs anyone. And lovers need each other, and he doesn’t want to be needed. So I don’t know what all of those other women were. Friends at times, lovers too, and he’d introduce us, if even that, and he’d sit back to watch the conversation between us. Crossed arms over his chest, See? Isn’t she interesting? His posture would say. His conceited mouth would say it too. Throwing two interesting mammals of the female gender in a circus ring together.

Forget the times we’d walk to the metro together, and forget what he used to say to me during those morning walks, "So, who’s the latest guy?" He’d be speaking of someone I’d gone on a date with the night before. "You’ll be bored with him in a week, I bet," He’d say, without even knowing what the hell he was talking about. Conceited prick.

I know that he offered her to me for scrutiny, like examining a taxidermist’s victim, because the kill reflects on the hunter well. Look at her shiny coat, that minx. She ran and ran, but I caught up with her in the woods, cornered her.

He was proud of his kill. He let me ask her questions like, "Where did you go to school?" and she and I talked: Oh, you live in Minnesota. "Who do you know from there?" Oh, it turns out we know a lot of the same people. "Did you ever participate in that synagogue retreat thing?" Oh, then you must know what’s-his-name. If he didn’t want to show her off, he would’ve monopolized the whole conversation, the way he normally does.

He offered her to me as a token, as two people who had to exchange pleasantries with the third, who just got home from a long trip, who was cornered herself. I stood in the living room and chatted for a few minutes, but she took the conversation somewhere else.

"I’m wearing my underwear." And I looked down, to see that she was, indeed, wearing her underwear. I knew this for sure because she had pulled the fleece blanket aside to reveal her Minnesota-white thigh, which almost blended with the white cotton underwear she had on. That was the only thing protecting her poor, bare bottom from the nasty green couch that we have in our living room (which smells like cat piss and has had numerous things spilled on it, including cat vomit and probably other interesting women’s juices.)

"Well, that’s good," I manage to say. "I’m glad you’re wearing your underwear." And then I turn to the tiny space between them and say to neither one in particular, "You should really put something down on that couch–you don’t know what’s been on there. You could catch something." And he shoots me a look along the lines of: What’s the matter with you? Don’t you see this interesting person has come to stay with me for the weekend? Because he knows the truth of what kind of things have been spilled on that couch.

I change the topic by saying that I’ll be in Minnesota over Memorial Day weekend, and Oh, we should hang out when I’m there (We all know that what I’m really saying is, "Trust me, I have no intention to.")

I see her eyebrows lift up as she says to him, "Oh, you should come too." And she begins to steer the pleasant conversation towards the subject of how they were discussing visiting her parents, who live in Wisconsin. So they might not be free after all to "hang out."

But I see him hesitate. And I say to him, "Tickets are really cheap right now. Have you bought yours already?" And she nudges him, "See? They’re really cheap right now," her elbow says. Her whole body says it. Thighs, legs, brown eyes, brown hair, delicious lips. I see her in a different way now.

She is all of a sudden interesting to me.

He looks like he’s not certain about wanting to be paraded around in front of her parents. But he was so certain about what was hidden underneath the blanket just a few moments ago. He knew that part of her well. And I saw at that moment a woman who was old enough to legitimately want a family, a little house, a toddler boy and a baby girl, a husband who would know her thighs and her parents. Next to her, I see a man who doesn’t need anyone. I see a hollow, selfish thing with a penis and an ice cream cone.

I see her, and I like her. I imagine what it would be like if I could somehow become a man. If I could turn my innie to an outie and have the one thing that she would miss if she was with me as a woman. Besides that one, intimate detail, I am certain that I could fulfill her needs better than he ever could. And I want to. Because I understand her. I want to see her happy, at age 27. I understand her so well that I sympathize with her, this strange girl in my strange house, and I understand the entire situation in a way that he never will.

He sees a fun girl, someone who likes to fuck around on long weekends. She’s even willing to fly halfway across the country to partake in dusty, cat fur covered sex. She’s willing to host him too, in her home and in her. But at that moment, I see him like the little shit that he is: a user, a perverted, egocentric infant. Incapable of taking care of anyone but himself.

And I want her so badly; I want to speak to her about what it means to be a woman. What it means to be made of "fine china," like my junior high band director said once, while bitching out my 9^th grade band for inappropriate behavior on a band trip to Missouri (he found out about a clarinet player giving a sax player a hand job in the back of a theater).

I want to protect her above all, from his type. Stone cold, like a frozen fetus, so young and infantile I can see through his eyelids still. "She must know this," I think to myself, "Surely, she knows this about him already." And she knows in the way that I know, the way that I knew. But I walked right into similar situations, time and time again. And I might be doing it again in the not-too-distant future.

I’ve never wanted to have a penis so badly, never so curious than at that moment, never desired a weapon so badly. She and I could take him, just the two of us. She and I could teach him what it meant to need something, to want something so badly that you’d do anything for it.

I spent the day at my parents’ house gossiping with my mom in the kitchen while watching her make holodnik, yet another beat-based, Russian soup. If an outsider were to have listened to our conversation, they wouldn’t have understood half of what we said because we spoke in Runglish. That’s the norm when no one is around. Okay, even when people are around, we still speak this hybrid language. Dad washed the car in the driveway, and later I took him for a "walk." I rode my bike, and he sped-walked to keep up with me. I’m a very lucky person to have my parents in my life this way.

I want to write about how happy I’ve been lately. I met a man who makes me happier than I’ve been in a very long time, and it’s hard not to speak in hyperboles, not to use words like "Ever"... or "I’ve never been happier." The minute you do, you start wondering if that’s true, and that’s not the point. Time changes things. Time heals all wounds, as cliche as that is. But time dulls happiness as well. So that’s a very bittersweet way to say that I guess I don’t remember how hurt I have been or how happy. All I remember is what I carry in me as a basic need–the desire to be close to someone. So close that when I think of myself, I see the other person too.

But I want to speak in hyperboles, because I remember how many people have made me laugh hysterically to the point of snorting, or losing control of my bladder. The answer? Not many. Maybe one person... until now.

When I was younger, I was a fool. I didn’t know any better, that’s all. I thought that these types of relationships aren’t that hard to find, that they come and go and come again. I learned my lesson the hard way, that when good people come into your life, you do whatever you can to keep them in your life. I have no regrets. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve just learned that life isn’t too long, and you only get so many chances at happiness.

When things are good, I don’t want to write. Just like when you’re happy, you don’t call your friends to brag about it. Why not? Because nobody wants to hear what cute thing your boyfriend did or "we this we that" every other word. I wonder why I’m writing a blog sometimes. And then, I inevitably come back to it. I write something cryptic in a secret code to myself, then close my eyes, and then open one eye a tiny bit and click "publish."

I’m going to keep writing, but hopefully more honestly. I just need to find a good balance between being honest and revealing too much personal information. I’m not sure if anyone is still reading this, but if you are, I want to re-post something I wrote a while ago. It was written about someone I hadn’t met yet. The person was just in my mind. But I’m there now... my fantasy came true.

Posted on December 13, 2006:

I love the sound of a refrigerator starting. You’ll be lying on the couch in the living room, the sun streaming in through the windows, warming you up like a cat on the windowsill, and you’ll be pulling the throw up to your chin, exposing your feet. One foot rubs the other, you turn on your other side and bend your knees. Now, your backside is hanging off the couch, your face is to the back cushions, and you’re breathing your own recycled, humid breath, taking in as much oxygen from those warm exhalations as you can, breathing through your open mouth. Then, the fridge turns off and the kitchen clock starts ticking louder, and your breathing back moves up and down with the ticking seconds.

I love watching you sleep that way. The you that I haven’t met yet, the you I would love enough to get another blanket for so that your feet won’t be cold, the you who would surprise me by wrapping your arm through the inside of my thigh, pulling me towards you and then to further melt me into vanilla sugar, the you that would make room for me on the couch beside you. And now my face is up against the back of the couch, breathing upholstered air, and your warm stomach fits just right into the small of my back, and your lips brush up against my neck.

The clock tick-tocks and the fridge turns on again.

Neither of us are perfectly comfortable, limbs are starting to go numb, parts of me are boiling, other parts are freezing, your back is cramping up and your right sock has somehow turned around so that the heal is on the ankle, and I know how much you hate that. But neither of us move. The sun has shifted and leafy dying rays flow in through the windows. You whisper into my neck, "Where would you like to go for dinner?" And I stroke your forearm with my hand and answer after a few seconds, "Why don’t we stay in tonight? I’m happy here."

I found this quote on Stephanie Klein's blog. She didn't write it, but it's in the comments section.

"I believe most of the time a man knows within the first month of spending time with a woman whether or not he would be willing, no matter how inconvenient for him, to have his world turned upside down for her."

I read the following blurb on cnn.com (Sorry I don't have the actual link. This was from one of those annoying pop-up-type trivia things.)

"Longest marriage: Sir Temulji Bhicaji Nariman and Lady Nariman were married for 86 years before Sir Temulji died at age 91 in 1940 in India. The marriage took place when they were both 5 years old. Also married for 86 years were Lazarus Rowe and Molly Webber, both born in 1725 and married in 1743."

Per my calculations, Lazarus and Molly were 18 when they got married. They both lived to be at least 104, although I'm not sure who died first. Isn't that romantic? I hope they liked each other. Can you imagine spending 86 years with someone you don't like?

And getting married at 5 years old... that's like marrying your sandbox buddy. Not sure how the logistics work with that.

Relationships with a capitol R. I wonder what the point is sometimes. I used to jump head first into committed, standard relationships. Even the ones that weren’t standard were standard.

I now wonder why I felt the need for them—and why I don’t know anymore if I miss them. I used to love the idea that someone was waiting for me at home, even if I was bored to tears with him. I used to like the predictability of him watching basketball and spending hours on the phone with his family and friends, yelling in the next room. I got used to having to put my book away and turn the lights out at 10 PM; I found that I had a bedtime as an adult, and I never did as a child.

I got used to family politics, what I could say to his mom, and what was off-limits. I could tiptoe around family faux pas, shopping trips, vacations. I learned how to manage my life as if it was a blow that was dealt me—and I started hating it and him. And me. I had become boring. I’m not sure if I’d be friends with the old me, and I’m not sure if I’d be friends with him all over again.

I have a distinct feeling now that I can only really depend on myself. I leaned on him for everything: forcing me to go to the doctor, dealing with cell phone companies, booking plane tickets, making returns at stores, signing leases and contracts. I think he was live-in counsel, comfort. He was built-in support, like built-in shelving.

When things ended, I didn’t miss him the way I’ve missed other men—I didn’t miss the friendship. And I think that’s a travesty. I’ve thought about what it implies, how I could’ve deceived myself into thinking of him as my best friend, when I can’t even remember his phone number half a year later.

It wasn’t him—it was me. I should have had the strength to follow through with what I had been feeling for a long time. I was a coward.

To say that there’s someone out there for him, someone perfect, is such a cliché. The very subject bores me.

I now find myself doubting everything I always relied on as Truth. Just because a person picks up your prescription at the pharmacy doesn’t mean that he fills the emptiness you still feel. And when you think of him with a dull aching, a sort of disappointed bluntness, then maybe you shouldn’t spend another day with him.

A true friend will be missed, and they’ll be cherished. You’ll make cookies for them because it makes you happy to do something nice for them. You’ll wash their dirty dishes and pick up after their guests. You’ll worry about giving them enough space, and you’ll want them to be exactly who they are, even if it means that they’re hurting themselves in the long run. You’ll let them make their own mistakes, follow their own paths, feel what they need to feel. You’ll let them walk all over you. You’ll love them for every imperfection that everyone else picks up on.

I know. You’re still hung up on “you’ll let them walk all over you.” Well, get over it. It’s the same thing as the stupid phrase, “No man is worth your tears, and the one who is will never make you cry.” There are people out there who are worth your tears. Their presence in your life may have been very brief, but years later you still think of them, and you remember every detail about them—the way their hair smelled in the morning, the shape of their fingernails, their phone number. Some people leave imprints on your life, and some people maim you and scar you until you’re no longer recognizable. But you still love them. And you love who you became because of them. So you cry, and you laugh while you’re crying, because you cherish every moment you got to spend with them. You’re grateful for the chances you had to do nice things for them when they didn’t even ask you to.

There are two ways to love someone: the way they want you to, and the only way you know how. Most of the time, you won’t love your partner the way that they love you. I’ve been thinking about the phrase, “If you can’t be with the one you love, then love the one you’re with.” What if you can be with the one you love, but they don’t love you back? What if it’s totally one-sided?

It’s probably torture, on some level. But it’s so damn Real. And it makes you feel alive, to love someone, to take care of them the only way you can, to nurture who they want to become—even if it means that they won’t stay with you forever.

Which brings me back to my original point: Relationships guarantee nothing. And they don’t define anything either. They spell out rules, and rules don’t take into account how much you care about someone, or how much you want to see them happy, even if it means that they’d be happier without you. Relationships imply a certain amount of selfishness. They’re about branding a person as mine and about setting boundaries for their behavior. They’re about forcing a person into a framework and controlling them so that you feel better, less jealous perhaps, more secure, more needed, more settled. On some level, Relationships are about suffocating a person just enough to deflate them and their spirit, so that you can pull them in closer to you.

So why not relationships with a lower-case “r”?

Because maybe you want the person to take responsibility for maiming you, for making you feel certain things, for leaving you so vulnerable, so unable to take care of yourself. So that when you don’t feel like following the rules, you’re reminded that human nature must be reigned in once in a while and that desires must be quelled.

I’ve heard of marriage defined as a “rising above animal nature.” It’s about giving in, and never giving up. It’s about breaking your own will and giving up your own selfish desires for the other person. It’s about making the other person happy before yourself.

I went to my best friend’s church to check out an art show and I found a quote that night: “Marriage is a beautiful paradox in the broken world we live in.”

The perfect marriage is spelled with the smallest “m” possible. Like maybe even a negative font size… in Times New Roman, of course.

I see women on the metro wearing gianormous diamond rings. And I see that their Marriages will have "Ms" as big as the "M" in the word Me. I also see women with the thinnest gold bands...so thin, you could crush the circle between your thumb and forefinger. And these women make me smile. 

Why?

Because the desire to lay yourself down for the one that you love will guide you through everything. Through every fight, every impasse, every daily compromise. The ring you wear has nothing to do with the reality of daily life.

Marriage is the desire to care for someone the way you don’t even care for yourself.

There are no guarantees. No ring will fix how you feel when, one day, you wake up and wonder, “Who is this person sleeping in bed next to me? Who is this stranger?” And you might not recognize them as your spouse.

The scariest part is when you wake up, and you look at the person and you see yourself, just like looking into a mirror. And you still say, “Who is this stranger?”

I used to think that marriage was about curbing your own animal desires in order to grow inwards towards your spouse. I used to think that you shouldn’t wake up one morning and say, “I’d like to move to Shanghai,” and that you shouldn’t drag your spouse with you, uprooting them against their wishes. Now, I don’t think of marriage as a growing inwards, but rather, a growing outwards, even at the risk of growing apart. That’s the only way that marriage even has a chance of surviving.

The old ways that marriage kept people prisoners no longer exist. Women can take care of themselves financially, and their husbands. Women can have children without men. Women can find fulfillment and joy without the presence of men. Societal restrictions no longer require unhappy couples to stay together “for the sake of the children.”

I realize this is sort of all over the place, but I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. And I think I believe in arriage again.

No, that’s not a typo. That’s the smallest “m” in the world. It’s the kind of marriage that doesn’t have a gift shower, a fall wedding, or even a ring ceremony. All it has is the greatest, most freeing love that I know how to give… and no groom. Yet.

You know that feeling you get when you realize that whoever you’re talking to isn’t really listening? It’s sort of a mix of disappointment and the question you ask yourself: why do I even bother? Because they never listen, but you keep giving them second chances, and third, and fourth.

They get done venting about their day, gesticulation and all, and then, releasing a huff of air, they say, "So, how are you?" Maybe a plastic smile reveals some pearly whites. And you know, before you even begin recounting your day, that nothing you say at this point could interest them in the least.

But you start anyway, and by the time you reach the end of the first sentence, you hear yourself say, "I guess my day wasn’t as interesting as yours." And you slump your shoulders a little bit, but you can’t see that you’re doing it. You just know that you feel tiny and so insecure.

And you feel sort of embarrassed that you let someone squish you and grind you into dust.

**

I love the sound of a refrigerator starting. You’ll be lying on the couch in the living room, the sun streaming in through the windows, warming you up like a cat on the windowsill, and you’ll be pulling the throw up to your chin, exposing your feet. One foot rubs the other, you turn on your other side and bend your knees. Now, your backside is hanging off the couch, your face is to the back cushions, and you’re breathing your own recycled, humid breath, taking in as much oxygen from those warm exhalations as you can, breathing through your open mouth. Then, the fridge turns off and the kitchen clock starts ticking louder, and your breathing back moves up and down with the ticking seconds.

I love watching you sleep that way. The you that I haven’t met yet, the you I would love enough to get another blanket for so that your feet won’t be cold, the you who would surprise me by wrapping your arm through the inside of my thigh, pulling me towards you and then to further melt me into vanilla sugar, the you that would make room for me on the couch beside you. And now my face is up against the back of the couch, breathing upholstered air, and your warm stomach fits just right into the small of my back, and your lips brush up against my neck.

The clock tick-tocks and the fridge turns on again.

Neither of us are perfectly comfortable, limbs are starting to go numb, parts of me are boiling, other parts are freezing, your back is cramping up and your right sock has somehow turned around so that the heal is on the ankle, and I know how much you hate that. But neither of us move. The sun has shifted and leafy dying rays flow in through the windows. You whisper into my neck, "Where would you like to go for dinner?" And I stroke your forearm with my hand and answer after a few seconds, "Why don’t we stay in tonight? I’m happy here."

Recently, someone from my college days has come back into my life. It’s odd because I’ve never been one to maintain ties with exes. There was a reason the break up happened in the first place, right? I’ve always found it easier to make a clean break and go “our own separate ways,” but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that people don’t fit into crisply-defined roles all the time.

For example, in the junior high dating scene, the most important element of having a boyfriend was being able to call someone a Boyfriend. With a capital B. It didn’t matter that the relationship consisted of passing notes to each other during social studies or being chauffeured to the movies by mom and dad. What mattered was being able to refer to this person by a well-defined title, perhaps as a signifier to everyone around that we were, in fact, receiving some sort of attention from the opposite sex, or that we were popular enough to be crush-objects.

I digress. This person (I’ll call him Jon) has come back into my life. Jon used to be the King of insisting on clean breaks. He couldn’t stand knowing that I was still in contact with exes, or that some of my male friends had formerly played somewhat ambiguous roles in my life. It drove him crazy to know that I had been in love before him, and wanted to live my own life while with him. It didn’t matter to him that as I had grown older (aka, grown out of the junior high mentality of clean labels for people), I could no longer force people out of my life because they didn’t fit a particular, well-defined role.

That’s not to say that I didn’t squeeze some people out of my life to appease this rather jealous boyfriend. In fact, I ditched way too many friends and acquaintances to keep his jealousy at bay. But I knew at the time that I was making a mistake in choosing to mollify the Man in my life, instead of nurturing my own sense of right and wrong.

Life just wasn’t black and white, as I saw it. In fact, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate the gray tones of life, how much more difficult it is to navigate moody, ambiguous waters, instead of pretending that the water is clear, or tormenting people with the question: Why can’t you just see things the way that I do? This question is naïve and rather tragic. Anyway, I’ve come to see how much more rewarding life can be if it is approached diplomatically, and not autocratically, as if an iron fist of absolutism guides my decisions.

***
“I’m going to go pick out a plaque for your grandma,” My mom said to me this weekend. In Jewish tradition, there is something called the unveiling ceremony, which is normally held 11-12 months after a person’s passing. It’s where the headstone is “unveiled” at a ceremony once the bereavement period is over. One of the main ideas behind this tradition is that everyone is equal in death, and that there is no place for haughtiness, displays of wealth, or any other mortal displays of life status. That’s right, no crypts, vaults, buttressed marble arches, or any other fancy things.

Most Jewish cemeteries allow headstones. Traditionally, a Jewish headstone isn’t supposed to have a picture of the deceased, although modern Judaism and laser technology have allowed for photos to be engraved in marble or granite. The cemetery where my grandma is buried only allows a small plaque to be imbedded in the ground at the site of the grave. Uber-minimalist, I know.

“And to think that that’s all that’s left of her,” My mom said. “You live a long life, and then this is all that’s left.”

***

I have often thought about what difference a title makes. In the last six months, I’ve thought a lot about why so much emphasis is placed on shaping love within a given framework, or squeezing caring into a mold.

I’ve thought about how little those things matter in the end, and how much it means to have loved at all, free of whys or hows or what-fors. My grandma cared enough to bake banana bread and make Jell-O fruit cups. She kept a candy drawer of blue Brach’s mints, and bought clip-on earrings and imitation pearl necklaces from garage sales. She grew a jungle of plants that have survived her. To have done these things while thinking of others… it comforts me to know that my grandma loved me.

Because of this comfort, I don’t feel compelled to muse in the same way that my mom does. The bold, pastel memories grandma left me are enough, and because of this, the plaque will be enough too.

***

I wonder if Jon realizes that he is now one of those who I couldn’t let go of. That he knew me at a time in my life that I will never be able to forget, or want to forget. He took me to my high school prom. He was the last boyfriend who knew my paternal grandmother while she was alive, who actually got to taste her mashed potatoes, borscht and cheese blintzes. He helped me deal with my cousin’s suicide, with the hours that my dad was unaccounted for on September 11^th, with my parents’ move across the country and the sale of my childhood home. He knew who I was before.

To think that I could have lost this personal history if he had succeeded in changing me, molding me into who he wanted me to be.

I have a title for him—ex-boyfriend. But it doesn’t describe how much I loved him at one point, or how I know that he isn’t right for me. Titles don’t capture the intangibles, and it’s the intangibles that are worth remembering.

Old friends are hard to let go of, especially when they come back to you through long shadows and afternoons spent catching up on tragedies transpired since the last time… since the last time we caught up on tragedies that were maybe more recognizable, since we’d been around for at least a part of them.

I don’t know how his life would be different if I had stayed with him since we were ten years old, if I had kept watch over him as I wish I had, if he had let me play that role in his life, if he had nurtured that desire in me.

I have seen him stumble through life in a very purposeful way, as if he was defying random chance and yet egging it on at the same time, yelping the battle cry, “Bring it on! I can take you down.” Secretly, I have wished that he wouldn’t fly the kite in nights so dark, amidst storms so fierce, that he would exhibit a little more humility or even fear, so that perhaps he would not foul quite so flagrantly.

I’ve waited for years to see if he would notice how fragile those tipping points have been in his life, where each decision has led him down a new path of some sort, each one inevitably further and further away from me.

I haven’t stayed in one place either. I’ve climbed all around the perimeter of the pool, sometimes kicking my legs away from the wall in weightless pauses, drifting, dead wood. But I’ve kept an eye on him the whole time, and I’m sure he has done the same for me.

I worry that if I wait too long, the next time we have an afternoon of dusty rays and sad honesty, we may have traveled those miles and miles that Frost has talked about, miles and miles through roads best not taken, fragile tipping points and all.

In time, I may forget that I felt love for him in that moment, and in those countless prior moments too. I may forget that I had wanted to sweep him up in my French bread arms and smother him with understanding and accomplice-infidelity. That moment might hang in the air, right where we left it, untouched, forever, a paper-thin glass ball filled with oil. Or I may remember that moment as long as I live, always looking back at it as the point where our paths diverged for the final time, where I failed to see the fragility of who we had become and the improbability of having crossed paths again in that particular way, so innocently.

When I meet a new guy, I sometimes think to myself, “Is he marriageable?” And, of course, I hear this voice inside my head that instantly chastises me by saying, “And so what if he is? Then what?”

I’m embarrassed by this thought process. I’ve been avoiding it by pretending that these thoughts don’t actually flash through my brain whenever I meet someone new. But they do.

Honestly, I understand that marriage is not a prize at the end of some strenuous journey—it is the strenuous journey. And from past experience, if you are focused on the “when will I find him,” you probably won’t notice him when he shows up. Worse yet, you could scare him away through any number of ways (like actually mentioning that you want to get married).

Over the last few weeks, three married friends of mine have come to me with various problems that they’re having with their spouses. These aren’t problems like “whose family should we go to for Christmas” (although this has also been an issue with one of the couples). There have been issues ranging from financial infidelity to dissatisfaction with what happens in the bedroom. These three couples don’t know each other, and admittedly, I’m really only friends with the women. So I only get the female perspective on what marriage is like for a couple who is in their 20s.

Let me tell you…from what I hear, it’s damn hard work. I see women who are unsatisfied in some way, but don’t want to start fights. They can’t be fully honest with their spouses because feelings will be hurt. Issues are tiptoed around sometimes. Other times, the issues are put out there in the open and still, the husbands don’t see the gravity of some of these problems. I see young, beautiful, educated women who are married and who still feel dissatisfied. Their eyes wander; temptation abounds. But it’s more than being physically drawn to a gorgeous man at a bar—it’s the desire to have an emotional connection outside of the marriage with other men.

From what I hear, the line “I’m just not happy” is uttered sometimes. And the response comes, accompanied by the spouse’s hands being thrown up in the air, “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

I don’t know what it’s like from the other side—the husband’s side. No doubt, it is no less difficult than what the wife goes through. And I don’t see much of a difference between the sorts of dilemmas that a married couple goes through and what a couple who is dating seriously experiences (considering that most couples live together before marriage). The only real difference is that for a couple who is dating, there hasn’t been a public announcement of lifelong commitment, no signatures have been put down on paper, and the entire situation lacks “official” status. (Of course, I am simplifying the matter by ignoring family relations and children, if there are any.)

But what does “official status” mean? Just because something is official doesn’t mean it can’t be officially dismembered, piece by piece, through lawyers, arbitrators and judges. Just like when a couple is dating, a married couple has to choose to be with each other on a daily basis. Because, unlike several decades ago, dissolving a young marriage can be as easy (or hard, depending on how you look at it) as breaking up with your boyfriend or girlfriend.

I’ve heard the term “start-up marriage” used for couples who got married fairly young and got divorced soon after for a myriad reasons. Just like a start-up business, a start-up marriage lasts between 2-5 years, involves a lot of hype and excitement, usually requires a substantial financial investment, and can go belly-up seemingly overnight. The key factor is that, at this stage of the marriage, kids were not in the picture yet.

So, I’m brought back to my initial thoughts. Why do I care if a man that I’m considering dating (see 100 Deal Breakers) is marriageable? Is it a way for me to perceive commitment? To feel like I have even a tiny bit of control over him and us? It’s almost absurd, really. And what does commitment mean anyway, if marriage itself is only the beginning of the really difficult times, and it can be dissolved as quickly as a lump of sugar in some hot tea?

I am starting to realize that I have no clue about what being married is. I know that there are times of horrible loneliness, isolation and depravity. I also know that there can be true friendship between a husband and wife, companionship, support, and security.

It’s easy to look at my friends who have gotten engaged or married and think to myself, “That looks great. I’d like to try that.” But a while ago, I realized that I was starting to put the process ahead of the person, and that realization scared me. Today’s realization is that I don’t even know what I’m striving towards.

Wedding invitations, guest lists, catering, reception halls, dresses, veils, gift registries, china and silver wear…these things don’t interest me. These things are part of the hype and financial outlay necessary for a true start-up marriage, and I’m not interested in any of it. What I am interested in, however, is understanding what makes a marriage different than dating a person, being in love and cohabitating with them indefinitely.

Please share your thoughts with me—what does marriage mean to you? Aside from societal pressures, why do people get married? What makes it last? What makes it fail? Or anything else you want to discuss.

Last night, my mom came into my room at about 5:30 PM and requested that I tear myself away from my computer long enough to set the table for dinner.

“Set the table? Why, Mom? It’s just the three of us, and…”

She cut me off, “How often do I ask you to do anything?”

It’s true. She doesn’t ask me to do anything that could be construed as benefiting the household, perhaps in part because I’m not technically part of the household. She doesn’t want to chase me off, I think.

I technically don’t have an official domicile. I’ve thought about what to do if I get pulled over for speeding while driving my parents’ car. I’d present my parents’ insurance card to the police officer, and when asked if my Minnesota license was current, I would say “yes,” that I was “just visiting from out of town.”

Recently, my mom asked me to move a piece of luggage that I had purchased for my upcoming trip and that I had left sitting in the hallway for two weeks. The bag remained untouched for two days, post-request, until my dad mustered the courage to ask me to “Please, vacuum the hallway and your room.” I moved the bag 10 feet by throwing it on the floor in the guest bedroom and shutting the door. (If you don’t see it, it’s not there.)

That night, my mom walked into the guest room without turning on the lights. She probably stubbed her toe pretty badly because I heard a dull thud, saw the bag fly out of the room, heard it hit the wall with a very loud bang, and then watched it land in the exact same spot it started out in in the hallway. Full circle; life is beautiful that way.

***

I changed out of my smelly pajamas last night to join my parents for a pre-Yom Kippur dinner. Mom was spreading a white tablecloth on the kitchen table as I made my entrance. “Okay,” I said to myself, “She’s got a point. I should do something to help.”

The sun was low in the sky and a warm pomegranate light filtered through the bay windows into the kitchen, soaking its juices into the hardwood floors. The smells of fall mixed with aromas of a meal I didn’t help cook wafted through the air. Dad brought in the barbecued vegetables and pulled out the homemade cherry vodka concoction in a crystal decanter. Mom took the salmon out of the stove and set a green salad on the table, next to freshly sliced pieces of wheat baguette.

I plopped my laptop down on the kitchen floor and put on the Gypsy Kings. “There,” I thought, “My contribution.”

Mom lit the candles and said a prayer over them. “This is really nice,” I said to her. “Thanks for creating this atmosphere.”

She looked at me in a very restrained way, and said, “If you don’t do this for yourself, you won’t do it for anyone else.”

As the sun set, my parents and I ate and talked about how childhood is wasted on the young, and how adulthood is wasted on the old. We talked about how people change, but how slow we are to forgive them for changing on us. How slow we are to forgive people for lifelong faults in their personalities that always seemed to bother us but never them. How slow we are to recognize ourselves in the mirror, the imperfections within us, the sins we have committed against those closest to us.

My mom raised her cherry vodka shot glass in my direction, the crystal sparkling and glowing garnet-red in the dying sunlight, and said, “May this year bring you everything that you want for yourself.”

While Dad protested the entire idea of such a toast, it wasn’t Rosh Hashana, after all, I thought about that which I most wanted in the coming year. My insides melted in a bittersweet realization that I might not spend the next high holidays with my parents, that my life may take me…elsewhere.

As the candles flattened themselves out like mushrooms, I read aloud the “100 Tiny Things” and “100 Deal Breakers” lists to my parents. The three of us laughed so hard at the ridiculous specifications and whims that I had to pause numerous times to wipe the drool off my face and tears from my eyes.

Several family friends have approached me in the past, and have, while placing a heavy palm on my shoulder, said, “My dear, how hard it will be for you to find a love like your parents have… the example before you is almost unattainable. Your father, he carries your mother in his arms. He always has.”

Our neighbor once told me, “Your parents take a walk together every night, don’t they? I see them through my window and they seem so much in love. I can see it from across the street… How do they do it?”

My insides melted when I heard that, just as they melt each time someone tells me that I should probably lower my standards because I’ll never have what they have. It’s just not the norm; it’s special.

They say that you aren’t supposed to share what you wish for before you blow out your birthday candles, because otherwise, your wish won’t come true.

I don’t know if the same rule applies to wishes made at a Yom Kippur dinner in semi-darkness by the light of perhaps out of place Shabbat candles, but at the risk of such superstitions actually being grounded in truth, I will refrain from revealing what I wished for.

Besides, you probably already know.

My mom is a wise woman, and I’m oftentimes stunned by what she says. The false simplicity of her wisdom surprises me most. That’s because I’ll analyze something to death and still not reach the same beautiful “aha!” moment that I get from one conversation with her.

A long time ago, I went through a phase of loving rabbits, rabidly loving them. I would go to the House Rabbit Society website and click on the pictures link, probably annoying my roommate at the time because I’d squeal each time I’d hit “show me another picture.” My mom didn’t understand this phase I was going through, considering I was in college and I was well beyond the “please please please get me a pony” age.

It was just something my boyfriend and I both loved at the time. We loved looking at cute animals and bonding over something so simple and innocent.

The little things are easy to overlook, in almost any context. I tend to complicate things by nature too, which makes it hard to get to the Real.

Last night, my mom and dad returned from a weekend mushroom-picking trip to Ithaca, NY. It’s a Russian thing. Once my parents descend onto a forest, no mushroom is safe. As a disclaimer, don’t try this at home, kids. Skillfully avoiding poisonous mushrooms is the culmination of a Russian upbringing and cultural nuances, which take decades to seep into the bloodstream until they become just as much a part of you as Sunday night football or Chinese take-out and poker nights.

My mom once got admonished by a park ranger for picking wild mushrooms at a state park. Little did the ranger know, my dad’s pockets were filled with white tops and gray stems too. They work as a unit, like Bonnie and Clyde. And they work quickly, which is key when pilfering mushrooms from public lands.

While my parents were gone, I spent the weekend the way I usually do—doing things that complicate my life and that make me feel alive.

I also went to Rosh Hashana services on Saturday and Sunday morning. It’s been a year since I went to services, and I feel like I’m in confession right now, or maybe some sort of 12-step support group.

“Hi, my name is Marina, and I haven’t gone to synagogue in a year.”

I went for the same reason that women insist on wearing a thong: even though it’s uncomfortable, it’s necessary. High Holiday services have become crucial to the wellbeing of my soul. I use the time to meditate, and I rarely follow along with the prayers. If I do, I do it absent-mindedly. I think about myself a lot more than I do about God, but somehow I don’t think God minds. I enjoy the feeling of being surrounded by other Jews in various states of belief and non-belief. Tradition creeps up on you, in much the same way that becoming an avid mushroom-picker does.

As I was getting ready to go to sleep last night, my mom sat on the edge of my bed and we talked about our weekends. Mostly, I blabbered and she listened. She listened to my drama with boys and relationships, about falling for someone who is keeping me at a distance for the same reasons I want to keep him away. I talked to her about wanting more than pedestals, about wanting to be independent, about how much I’ve changed in the last few months.

My mom didn’t say anything at this point about the gallon jar of mushrooms that were in the fridge downstairs. She let me go first with my sycophantic me-me-monologue. About how I’m not sure if he likes me or not, but I…like him a lot. And about how he intrigues me, and how he’s so much like me right now, it’s scary. And then, I quoted one of my mom’s little bits of astonishing wisdom back to her: “Don’t be afraid to love someone who doesn’t love you back. It only matters that you love something.”

My mom sat on my bed, nodding. “Exactly, that’s what I’ve been telling you all along.”

In my strange bunny-loving phase, my mom’s heavy-hearted, soviet-émigré view of the world obstructed her ability to see why I was so obsessed with something as idiotic and mindless as a pet rabbit. I’d have to say, in retrospect, that this phase coincided with the nation’s post-September 11^th depression, and with my simultaneous interest in anything to do with the Iron Chef and the Cooking Channel, in general. Avoidance. Reclusiveness. Introspection. These became the nation’s pastimes.

I could’ve pursued anything but CNN and my-then boyfriend’s real life problems, like his cousins and family home in Afghanistan, and the drunk veteran who hissed into my ear on a city bus, “You know he’s only with you to get his citizenship.” I imagined myself turning around and clobbering the man’s face with my shoes, just until I’d collapse on the floor in hysterical sobs of complete and utter defeat: “This world will never be the same.” I managed to turn around and say to the man, "You are cruel."

He replied in alcohol breathe, "This world is cruel."

What the veteran didn’t know is that my boyfriend and I had spent the afternoon at Marshall Field’s, shopping for a friend’s wedding gift. In the fine china department, I pointed to a Lennox statue of a man and woman in an embrace that was beautiful, corny and comforting. A piece that my boyfriend remembered, and which he gave me one week later for Valentine’s Day. What the veteran couldn’t have known was that my boyfriend was already a citizen and a PhD student in physics. What the veteran couldn’t have ever imagined was that I was madly in love with this dark-skinned man, and that we both loved rabbits more than people at that time in our lives.

Don’t be afraid to love something that doesn’t love you back. As long as you love something, that’s all that matters.

I eventually grew out of my obsession with rabbits in much the same way that home theater sales have leveled off and declined in the last few years. I stopped watching the Iron Chef and returned to CNN.

My parents still love being surrounded by trees and nature, smelling the clean air of an isolated forest, picking baskets full of mushrooms. And I am no longer afraid to love something that doesn’t love me back—an unmistakably bittersweet and Real emotion that makes me feel alive, an emotion that I am grateful for.

I’ve thought of a thousand and one different ways to start this post. I’ve thought of cliches, and maxims. Garbled, jumbled thoughts with cherries on top, like grandiose realizations of purpose. An opening worthy of oral recitation.

I’ve settled on a quote from the back of my tourist’s map book of DC:

"Looking for an Adams-Morgan bistro or a Georgetown boutique? A downtown nightclub or the nearest Metro station? Wherever you want to go, Flashmaps will get you there quickly. First-time visitors or life-long residents–anyone can easily navigate DC with Flashmaps."

I wish it were that easy. Navigating anything, at this point in my life, seems like navigating the Potomac with a dead otter for an oar and colander for a boat.

I’m not a first-time visitor, and I’m not a life-long resident. I’ve had one toe on DC’s soil and the other 99% of me anywhere else but here. Minnesota, Israel, Manhattan, anywhere but here. And I’ve known this for a long time, it’s not a sudden realization that I’ve actually been avoiding my own reality.

Please forgive the utter girliness of what I’m about to say, but last night, I watched "Rumor Has It" starring Jennifer Aniston and Kevin Costner. Costner’s character uttered absolutely drivelish lines like–and I’m paraphrasing here–"You’ve got to do something crazy once in a while. Otherwise, life becomes a bunch of Thursdays strung together." Immortal words, I know.

He also tried to comfort Aniston’s character, as she completely fell apart in her pre-mid-life crisis, by telling to her to "be present."

So, that’s what I’m trying to be–present.

I feel that I must add some things to this post before I get into the meat of what I want to say. I have two rules when I blog. And I probably got them from Stephanie Klein, because she’s a blogging diva, and she’s had plenty of years of experience with this medium.

Rule number one is don’t blog about something that you couldn’t tell your friend face to face. Rule number two is don’t blog about the person you’re seeing. I’ve written about men on here, people who’ve graced my life with their presence and have made me feel great, and people who have made me want to scream and lose all hope in humanity, especially the male variety.

It’s pandora’s box, however. Once I write about a man, I know that I will never pursue him again, or try to see him. I just lose interest in him, and I no longer want to keep him close–I want to show him to you, and throw him to the wolves for scrutiny. It’s fucked up, quite possibly. I don’t care.

What I’m about to disclose is true. It really did happen.

I started chatting with Jdate loser number 198, 237, 998. I liked him. I liked him enough to call my best friend in Minnesota to talk her ear off about how this one is different.

We had two great dates, and I only got a quirky, fun-loving vibe from him. He didn’t make me want to vomit, and I told him so. This guy was unique.

The third date rolls around and we agree that I’ll be spending the night at his place. I didn’t have anything in mind necessarily, other than I just wanted to be by him, with him, near him, next to him, on top of him, beside him, you get the point.

He didn’t object to the idea, needless to say.

Fast forward to imagine a man, a woman, a bed and dim lights. It’s eleven o’clock. Things are going well, and I can only assume that we’re both enjoying each other’s company because suddenly, as if a lioness has grabbed her cub by the neck, the guy bolts out of bed and runs out of the room. I thought he was going to let the cat in, or something. Or something, indeed. It turns out he was tending to another sort of pussy. His female roommate.

Ten minutes later, he comes back into the room, shuts the door, and says, "I don’t know how to tell you this, but my roommate is crazy and she doesn’t want to have anyone staying over. She’s pissed at me that I invited you over because she doesn’t feel comfortable with strangers spending the night in the apartment, and she doesn’t want anyone seeing her when she gets up in the morning..."

All of this was interspersed with awkward-ass silences and pierced by an utterly mind-fucked look on my face, much like the look that Katherine the Great must have had when she realized she was about to be crushed by the horse that she was trying to have sex with.

I have to give some details for this story to make sense. It turns out that this guy had just moved into the apartment with a young woman who was recently divorced. She moved across the country to start a new job, and these two didn’t know each other very well when they decided to live together over email.

Well, he certainly got to know her a bit better when, after explaining to me that he was kicking me out, he received a cell phone call from her while she was standing right outside his bedroom. Yes. Instead of knocking, and having to face me, she decided to CALL HIM to scream at him some more. Flustered and really fed up with my entire existence, I changed into normal clothes, got my shit together, and agreed to let him drive me to my car. Correction, my parents’ car.

He proceeds to tell me that once, when psycho-bitch was drunk, she confessed to him that she thought he was "hot" and "her type." So, I stepped into a rabid lion’s den there, ladies and gentleman. Yes, again. Jealous crazy bitch, allow me to introduce you to your new roommate: spineless-jelly-beans-for-testicles man. You deserve each other.

I should work for the DC police because I’m really good at finding where the crackheads hang out.

This place was crackhead central.

I now have to admit the most embarrassing part of the entire story–the part that shows how insane I am, and how utterly ridiculous I can be. I emailed the fucker the next morning to find out if he was okay. And guess what? He didn’t email me back.

I called two days later to see if maybe, just maybe, he’d say to me, "Oh my god. I was so embarrassed by all of that... I just didn’t know how to face you again." But no. He proceeds to tell me over the phone that he has a "friend" in town, and that they’re going to be staying with him. And that the two of them are going dancing and to the zoo.

I’m the monkey. I should charge people money to see me. I could make a fortune, I’m sure.

Fast forward to tonight. Friday, September 8^th, 2006.

I’m on my way to meet a friend for drinks and dinner–yes, a real and actual friend. I walk past the Supreme Court, the Hart Senate Building, the Library of Congress. I’m vaguely aware that these buildings inspire a sort of awe in me. The weather is starting to feel more like fall, and I watch my feet as they crush the dried leaves that have already started to speckle the sidewalk. I try to sort out what the hell has happened to me over the last few days. What forces have conspired against me to make life so painful? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?

Over wine and pizza, my friend tells me that he has a condo in The District that he’s trying to rent out, and am I interested in it? At first, I dismiss the idea as ridiculous. All kinds of excuses come to mind, and I begin to utter a few of them, until I realize that they don’t hold any water. I actually want this place. I want it because it’s a chance for me to live my own life–to begin to plant both feet on DC soil, to focus on anything but the crackheads who’ve come and gone over the last two months. To start living. To be present.

We drive to his place and he gives me the grand tour. I’m excited by the prospect of living in Chinatown, and I decide to take the night to think it over. We part ways.

The night is still young, but I decide that I’ve had a long week. I just want to go home and get to bed. I call my parents to coordinate a ride, and nobody answers. I call about twenty-three more times, and still, no answer. So I’m stranded, watching happy, drunk couples and sad, drunk loners pack the streets.

And now, I have to go to the bathroom.

What’s the only business that lets loiterers use their bathroom? Besides McDonald’s. Starbucks, of course. I run in, and plop down in a chair to wait for the potty to free up.

Gorgeous guy at three o’clock, I’m thinking. But he says, "hello," and asks a question about the gym bag I’m carrying, so I’m plunged into reality again, because before they speak, they really aren’t even human. They’re just posters of someone. I say "hi" back and then the bathroom door flings open, and I smile awkwardly, leaving his question unanswered. Relieved. Two-fold. When I come out, he’s still there, with his tiny laptop and a really sweet smile. I decide to sit down and strike up a conversation.

It turns out he’s a social worker who counsels HIV positive drug addicts. I think about telling him about a crackhouse I just discovered, but decide against inflicting this sort of reality on him–he’s probably never experienced anything like that.

I don’t know how much time passed, but he made me feel much better. Especially when he told me that he was gay, and that his boyfriend would be joining him soon. If you hadn’t read the above, you might think that I was disappointed by the fact that he was unavailable, but if you’ve seen the movie "Monster," then you can probably breathe a sigh of relief that no blood was spilled tonight. A perfectly wonderful gay gentleman ended up offering to take me to a coffee shop where people do poetry readings. We exchanged phone numbers, and before I forget, I did ask him if he’s heard of Josh and Josh Are Rich and Famous. It turns out he used to read it "all the time."

I place another dozen or so calls to my parents, and nobody answers. I waste a half an hour putzing around the United Colors of Beneton, but thankfully talking to my best friend on the phone, spilling my guts to this angel who’s been with me since I was six.

Finally, contact is made with the parental pod, and I run underground to get on the metro.

My head is filled with thoughts of the apartment. How much furniture I’ll have to buy. Could I sleep on the floor for a while, just until I can buy a mattress?

I make eye contact with a guy who looks like John Travolta in his younger years. I contemplate telling him this, but I decide to curb my ridiculously random appetite.

The train arrives, and I sit down in a two-seater. He sits down next to me.

He’s holding a tie in his hands, and I can’t control my impulse to talk to him, so I ask, "Those things are uncomfortable, aren’t they?" Small talk, blah blah blah. Pleasa