the itch

It’s taken longer than expected, but it’s predictably arrived, a little over 2 years since I returned to America.  The tardiness of the itch (overdue more than 6 months) is a testament to how happy I’ve been these past two years (along with the serious dearth in blog posts–a busy ho is a happy ho ).  And though I searched and feared for its imminent appearance, the itch always manages to creep up on me until I find myself lying awake at night, consumed with thoughts of starting a new life and leaving everything I know behind.  When the itch comes, I stop sleeping.

So I lie here in bed and try to plan my next move, but it won’t play out like that.  My new life is never a result of careful planning and reasoning.  Instead, the inertia of my old life will herd me into a corner until I am about ready to suffocate, which will lead to the inevitable rash of bad decisions comprising my escape route.

But I am always successful.  The dirt underneath my fingernails is a small price to pay for the fresh air above my grave.

I roll over on my side and watch Wm. sleep.  For the first time, I’m unsure whether my old boyfriend will be part of my new life–traditionally, they have been kicked to the curb as part of the catharsis.  But I don’t feel his pillow over my face this time and Wm. makes me feel free when we’re together.  Then again, maybe Wm. is just a new kind of prison, suffocating me in a way I don’t yet understand but will kick myself later for in hindsight.  Must be vigilant about not settling.

I know California is where I’ll go.  That’s something, I guess–some direction.  How to get there?  Not just career-wise, or life path-wise, but like logistically…holy shit, moving across the country is a nightmare logistically.  How did I move to Singapore?  I had friends then, storing things for me in Boston.  Lugging my suitcases to the airport.  Packing up my life…I don’t even think I can drive a U-Haul to California.  I mean, I’m a fucking terrible driver.  Nina did it, but she had her mom.  Who would I have?

I shift my leg out from under Wm.’s leg, accidentally rousing him.  ”Mmmmmm…you want to cuddle?” he murmurs, half-asleep.

I cuddle obligingly, and stare at his closed eyelids with wide eyes that give away a restless mind.  Silence. “Would you drive with me across the country?”

I’m annoyed that I gave in to my girlish tendencies–I mean, what the hell kind of question is that?  There’s really only one right answer–it’s such an insecure girl sort of question that isn’t actually a query for knowledge but a plea for reassurances and reciprocated feelings.

Wm. grunts.  ”In a Wienermobile?”

I laugh though I know he already can’t hear me in his near-deep sleep.  I begin to drift off myself…because wouldn’t that be quite the adventure.

easy bidding

I pounced on the king-sized bed, sprawling all fours across the embroidered bedspread, and exhaled in deep satisfaction. I despise made beds–I like mine to look rumpled and comfy, inviting. But I make an exception when it comes to hotel beds at 4 PM. I prefer to lie on my stomach on top of the smoothed blanket and prop my chin underneath my knuckles to watch TV with the ideal prospect of falling into a quick slumber before some fabulous dinner I have to wear a dress at. But I didn’t turn on the TV, because my parents do not make it a habit to pack formalwear in anticipation of attending sumptuous dinners on vacation. They sport fanny packs and polo shirts with pharmaceutical drug brands stitched into the breast pockets while arguing over maps folded 40 times too many. And in this particular moment, they also recount their savvy bargaining on priceline.com for the umpteenth time:

“…and that’s why you just have to ask for what you want. $100 for THIS room on graduation weekend in a college town like Boston?! I thought, no way, they won’t take my bid, but that’s why you have to TRY…”

I rolled over onto my back and stuck out my palm, eyes glued the ceiling moldings. “Nice one, Dad, you’re a real badass. Can I have a peach?”

He rummaged through the twenty-some plastic bags we’d lugged from Haymarket and tossed me a warm fuzzy.

“So how is E.? What is he like?” Mom interrupted. Wow, she must be really desperate for a topic change. I didn’t blame her. She’d probably had front seats to the live, play-by-play online bidding last month.

They had agreed to meet E. for the first time at my graduation, so we were going to dinner at Tresca in the North End tomorrow night. I lay momentarily speechless, finally managing, “He’s good, I guess…he’s a nice guy.”

“Do you like him?”

I smiled at the ceiling. “Yes. I think we will be together for a very long time.” I said this matter-of-factly–I simply could not imagine a time, place, or reason why we would NOT be together.

“Oh, really?” Mom sounded surprised. “Why do you think that?”

I shrugged, sinking my teeth into the soft peach. I licked my lips, catching the juice running to their edges. “I don’t know…we’re just…right for each other, a good match, you know what I mean?”

Dad smiled knowingly. “Yes, I know what you mean.”

Perplexed, I remembered how I used to list every achievement and amenable personality trait of past boyfriends when my mother probed, trying vainly to convince her of their worthiness. Tyler spoke six languages, Wilkerson was president of his fraternity, John…well let’s face it, John was just plain adorable. Even the hard-nosed chairman had to concede to that one. And yet, my parents had just completely accepted my vague explanation of why I was dating E., no skepticism or bubble-bursting rebuttals served up on the side. Was love really that transparent, and dare I say it…simple? Easy to believe, to recognize, to make sense of?

Needless to say, things got complicated–like, Facebook-relationship-status-complicated, and it’s difficult to tell who fell out of love first. It took me a very long time to admit this change of heart which in truth, must have been quite obvious (reminds me of that bathtub scene in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere tells Julia Roberts he dropped 10 g’s to finally declare aloud “I was very aaaaaangry with my father”). For years, I clung to the belief that the breakup was a result of circumstance, logistics, bad timing, whatever–but never a lack of feeling. And yet, at the end of the day, that’s what it has to come down to, doesn’t it?

I’ve fished in the pond pretty frequently since then and as the months have passed, the absence of Prince Charming (and also my slightly more realistic alternative, John Cusack) has encouraged me to settle more, to forgive that midget fin and compromise with discolored scales. To weigh pro/con lists and agree to oooone more date on the offchance that I’ve been totally mistaken about him during the last three. Somehow I’ve developed this mantra that relationships take effort and love ain’t easy…but the thing is, it is. It’s just that it only comes once in a blue moon, when you score a really, really great deal on a hotel room.

margins

The Novelist: You don’t write notes and thoughts in the margins of your books?

Me: No.

The Novelist: Why not?

Me: Don’t you think that slows down the reading?

The Novelist: …Do you not like kissing when fucking?

genesis

Even though this was my second UROP experience, I had the first-day jitters. I felt like a little kid puffing out her chest trying to blend in with the grown-ups. And maybe I would have, if my smile weren’t too wide and willing to please, and my laugh even louder than usual. And if I weren’t following Mo around like a lost puppy.

“So you’re going to try this ELISA, which is going to help us determine if the binding of…blah blah blah blah more scientific terminology blah blah…”

I walked on Mo’s heels, trying to memorize everything he said. I really wanted to do well, to make a difference in this UROP. I reaaaaaaaaaally wanted to contribute something, anything. Oh my God, I already forgot what ELISA stood for.

We reached Mo’s bench, where he whipped out a piece of scrap paper and drew a shitload of circles. He began explaining the controls to me as I nodded and mmm-hmmmed at the appropriate pauses.

“What’re you guys up to?” came a voice behind me.

I turned around.

“Oh hey E., this is my new UROP Joan. She’s going to help me with the ELISA stuff we talked about.”

I laughed nervously. “Aaahhhh yeah, we’ll see. ‘Help’ may be a strong term…”

You grinned, and I felt better. “Don’t worry, Mo’s already failed at this twice. You’ve got nowhere to go but up.”

And that was how it all began.

mystery of why I am failing thermo is solved

29 Elm St. is usually a pretty fly houseparty, so it’s no surprise that yours truly is a teensy toasted when sleepy time rolls around. Actually, yours truly is a teensy toasted as she writes this post right now, so please forgive any spelling errors etc.

Like true gentlemen, my buddy Awesom-O and my brand-new buddy ZooYork walk me home to make sure I’m not going to get raped on Columbia, as this is a very likely scenario since I am a walking sexpot. ZooYork asks to exchange digits as we round his destination, and though once again, I am hammered, I manage to type in my number correctly into his phone (well, I made sure to confirm it by calling my own cell).

At 2:06 AM this morning, I get a text from ZooYork:

“Guess who got second place in the costume competition? I’ll give you a hint: he was dressed as Awesom-O.”

I reply:

“Haha, that kid is crazy.”

My friend Awesom-O had gone to the Kells tonight for Halloween, and I am ecstatic that his brilliant costume has paid off…as well as a little regretful at not joining him at the Kells–clearly half of Boston must’ve been there since ZooYork bumped into him too. The party must’ve really been bangin’ cuz Awesom-O didn’t even remember talking to ZooYork, and loss of memory is usually a sign of a bangin’ party.

Later on today, I notice 2 missed calls from ZooYork on my phone, and listen to a voicemail I can’t understand:

“Hey it’s ZooYork a;lsdkfja;sldkfja;sldkfj;aslkdfj;aslkdfj;aslkf microwaving some food a;sdfja;lsdkfja;slkdjfa;lsdkfj”

My phone sucks balls. So much goddamn static. The missed call is from some 510 number which isn’t ZooYork’s normal cell, so I call the unknown number first. No answer. I call his cell. He picks up:

Me: Hey what’s with the 510 number?
ZY: Huh?
Me: You called me from a 510 number.
ZY: No I didn’t.
Me: Yeah you did….wait, did you even call me?
ZY:…Today? No.
Me: Something something microwaving food? No?
ZY: What? Microwaving food? No.
Me: Huh, ok. Must’ve heard my voicemail wrong.

I check my voicemail again. Nope, it’s deffo ZooYork. Maybe this was yesterday? I check the date and time. Today at 5:30. Weird. I google “510, area code”, and discover it’s a California Bay area code, which is where ZooYork hails from.

Now I am PISSED. He is fucking with me. I will never understand those people who think it’s funny to just randomly fuck with people. It’s immature, it’s borderline mean, and it wastes a whole lot of time for both parties. I am going to call ZooYork back and give him a piece of my fucking mind.

Me: Hey, you DID call me…you left a voicemail with your first and last name dammit, I know it was you!
ZY: I didn’t call you!
Me: Why are you fucking with me?
ZY: What?! I’m not fucking with you!
Me: Yes you are, I googled the 510 number, and it’s a Bay area code!
ZY: I’m a 580 number!
Me: I KNOW, but you called me first from a 510 number, and thaaaat is a Bay area code?
ZY: …so what?
Me: So WHAT?! You’re FROM the Bay!
ZY: What?
Me: You’re from the Bay! You went to Berkeley!
ZY: I’m not from the Bay!

Oh my God, why is he mind-fucking me like this? I am about to open up a can of whoopass on this dickwad.

Me: Ok, now I KNOW you’re fucking with me…why are you fucking with me??!!
ZY: I’m not!
Me: I KNOW you’re from the Bay; you told me you’re from the Bay.
ZY: I’ve never lived in the Bay!!
Me: AAAR;LKSDJF;ALSKDJF;ALSKDFJ!!

*Pause*

ZY: Who do you think I am?

Oh. Jesus. Christ.

Me: Omg. Is this Awesom-O?
ZY: …Who did you THINK it was?

Somehow, in my drunken stupor last weekend, I assigned ZooYork’s name to Awesom-O’s number, and I have been yelling at the wrong person for no reason for the past fifteen minutes due to my own idiocy. And suddenly, I am no longer mystified by why I am failing thermodynamics. Kids, stay in school. Don’t drink and multitask.

in pieces

I am really good at being friends. I mean it. I have never met a man or a relationship where at the end of the day, we couldn’t be buddies. Some would say I like to keep my exes “wrapped around my pinky” but that isn’t my game; I’m fingerless and ready to pal up, whether I’m the dumper or the dumpee. I have loved all the men in my life, hard. They have been my best friends, typically for 1 to 1.5 years, which is a nice percentage of my 22 years. And I couldn’t imagine them not being in my life after the fact.

Weeks following the breakup, it’s customary to rehash those nitty gritty habits you despised about your ex and wonder why you ever found him attractive, why you even dated him. Years after, you think how you’ve outgrown him, how young and stupid you might’ve been. I’ve never regretted any of my relationships, despite shouldering three over the past four years. They were all handsome, funny, smart, and wise men whom I will always love in some capacity. I don’t wonder about my past choices, I remember: his goofy smile and warm brown eyes, his salsa moves, his strangely sexy white lab coat. These things are committed to memory so I don’t fall into the trap of loathing what I once loved. You lose faith in your own judgment if you practice this too often.

It’s a tricky matter, to confess that you’ve been in love multiple times. People don’t like to admit it; they like to check the “once” or “twice” box. Check the “many times” box and you obviously:

a) don’t know what love REALLY is
b) are a whore
c) are a diehard romantic (which is interpreted by most men as desperate/needy)

Most multiple-timers are accused of option a), mostly because it seems the least offensive, and well, it appears logically pandemic for most young whippersnappers who haven’t yet “seen the world” or “gained perspective”. I say, bullshit. The big L is one thing, and one thing only: when you believe it completely inside and out, in that very moment, then you’ve got it. Who cares about longevity, stamina, staying power? Romeo and Juliet didn’t have to prove their true love by surviving 30 years in a sexless, supportive-yet-judgmental marriage. Oh sure, we assume it would have worked out, but c’mon, how do we really know? That whole double-suicide tragedy seems a LITTLE too convenient for me, Shakesy. (You want a real tragedy, let’s read about Romeo getting fat and unappreciative, Juliet growing into a paranoid nag, and how they eventually resort to incest to satisfy their sexual needs. Billy didn’t have the balls to write that one. But that’s neither here nor there.) Yeah, el-oh-vee-e is elusive. You wonder if you really had it after parting ways. I mean, we couldn’t have, right? Otherwise we would’ve made it, we would’ve walked the distance, because the big L is all-powerful, all-conquering, isn’t it?

None of my relationships ended in a dramatic double-suicide, but a small part of me dies inside every time. I give away pieces of my heart, pieces I can’t recover. But I see them, dangling in front of me, when I eat with exes, when I drink with them, go out with them. And I am tempted to reach out and snatch back my piece, my bloody, beating mass of pain. It would be so easy, to slip it back into my chest, like the edge segment in an unfinished puzzle. I want to, but I know it won’t fit like before. The curves are all wrong, and the cardboard is frayed at the corners.

I am afraid, as I lose more and more pieces, that I don’t have enough left in me to love someone new. How do I turn back time, make myself whole again, love as blindly and passionately as the first time?

But then I check inside, and I am surprised to find other puzzle pieces. Ones that don’t match my heart–but they are blood-red and robust. Looking up, I see E., see him staring at his piece, dangling inside of me, catch temptation flit across his gaze.

And I understand, and am afraid no longer.

the desire for change

it’s like this
you arrange your room
with a given amount of furniture
so that it’s the perfect setup
and you know it can’t be any better
but after a year or so
you decide to switch it around
and do
and like it
but within a week’s time
you put it all back
to how it used to be
if only

–M.

sushi regime

On my last night in the phaaa-bulous B-town, the most curious thing happened. I was chowing down at Blue Fin with E., man of my dreams, when I looked down to see an eel and sweet egg omelet (SEO) roll challenging the reigning world-class champion spicy eel roll. Which to eat first? Which delectable, mouth-watering, bundle of joy deserves to be saved till the end?

Anyone who’s ever shared a sushi combo platter with me knows, the eel and SEO roll is a goner. Doesn’t stand a chance. Spicy eel is my favorite roll, and therefore it must be the lingering taste on my palette as I leave. Perhaps if a spicy salmon roll were challenging, and I happened to be in an odd disposition that day. Say, in an orangey mood–maybe–the spicy eel might lose. But an eel and SEO roll? Egg isn’t even a conventionally accepted ingredient of sushi in my opinion. Not in MY sushi regime. Cucumber, maybe. Avocado…fatty and tasteless, but I grudgingly allow. Ha, but egg? DO not even GO there, sista. *zigzag snapping*

In fact, I only began ordering the eel and SEO roll a few months ago, for lack of other rolls to try, and at the suggestion of E. Boredom drives people to dangerous cliffs. Soft, spongy, egg-y cliffs. And so I stood, wavering at the edge of an abyss, stretching for my chopsticks, staring down into the confusing oblivion that is rice wrapped in seaweed and seaweed wrapped in rice…

In the blink of an eye, with very little fuss, it was done. Gone. Swallowed. I quickly reached for the other, to assure myself that I’d made the right choice. It was unexpected, and delightfully surprising that I had.

“Did you see what just happened here?” I asked E. Of course he hadn’t, it was only a split-second. The sweet egg never sees it coming.