In which I make myself very unpopular

Hello.

There really is no dignified way to start this post, so I will just say it: I watched porn.

Let me explain: I am 41 years old, and it occurred to me recently that I have never seen pornography - not even Playboy. I might have seen a few naked pictures here or there, but basically, I had no experience with the industry and had never "seen" people doing stuff.

I decided that since I wasn't interested in getting turned on - and since I wasn't going to pay for any yucky material - that it would be ok for me to google to google the word "fuck" and click on one of the options in the spirit of education.

Well, well.

Hello, internet. It's nice to meet you...? Did you know that if you are a bored, indifferent, 19 year old girl, you shouldn't yowl on queue and look bored while some dude in his forties infects you with chlamydia?

Did you know that if the guy wearing tightie whities and a coyboy hat offers to go Alamo on you -WAIT- STOP- he is going to shove his stuff somewhere it doesn't go?

Aside from the fact that porn is incredibly boring, I was disgusted by how, duh, unsafe it is. Woman after woman was apparently OK with anal, vaginal, and oral penetration without a condom. HELLO, what planet are we living on?? Plus, these girls were visibly bored and in it for the paycheck. How sad.

Given, that I am about two degrees removed from a pilgrim in terms of sexual morality, I want to say the following:

I want very much to say that erotica has a place in human sexuality - remember the simple thrill the first time he held your hand? Remember the time you looked into his eyes a bit too long and saw everything, saw the whole world, ultimate happiness, right there in his eyes? Remember what it felt like the first time he slid his hand through your hair?

But porn? It wasn't even erotic. It wasn't - truth be told - even sexual. It was mechanical, scummy, and dehumanizing to the people who participated. Seriously --- I find it absolutely impossible that any human person could get off on watching what I saw. It was like watching hogs led to slaughter.

I must be crazy, because this crap is all over the internet.

While I Wait

I have about $200 worth of prescription medication being filled right now, and gosh I don't know whether to feel grateful that such medication exists or melancholy because the reality is I need all that stuff to keep me... alive. Well, let's go with gratitude, since gratitude is more attractive than self loathing.

Speaking of attraction, suddenly I am questioning my "celibate for life" policy based on nothing but the fact that celibacy now seems somewhat severe. Sometimes (often... always) when I am at the gym, I look at the men in the pool and consider whether they are my type or not. People, I haven't had a type since Bill Clinton was president. What to do about this? Should I start applying lipstick again? Should I try to get into my skinny jeans and attempt to be attractive? I really don't know. More on this later.

Oh! I moved. A block away from my job. Two days ago I got the worst performance review in the history of my career, but since I am focusing on the positive, we'll just not talk about that. Well, not today.

Caution! Here is what could happen to your apartment if you go to graduate school a whole lot:



Oh and I bought a dresser that fit perfectly into my apartment. (Please note that I had to buy children's furniture in order to accomplish this.)



One more! My bed matches the dresser. Maybe if I fit into my skinny jeans and start wearing lipstick again I will meet a man person who will tolerate a full size bed. Full beds are kind of small for two people. (What the hell am I talking about? Celibate! Forever!)





See you... next time.

Love,

Nina

Air

Love is in air, or at least the air between my ears.

His name was (is?) Torrey. I could just go for it and embarrass myself, but the post would confuse us all.

But I will divulge that there was a man named Torrey and though I have not spoken with him in years, I loved him like I have never loved anyone else, ever.. He brought me back to myself and made me feel again. In that sense, he saved my life.

Of course, that is not the whole story.

But oh, Torrey, Oh lord. I loved Torrey. Writer, poet, lover, vagabond, boy of no fixed address. My darling.

The relationship is over. But the love, the innocent good intentioned kind, is forever. I have never stopped missing him.

What about the rest of you? Who rearranged the workings of your heart, forever? Who do you miss?

Come on, tell. I did, after all.

Love,

Nina

Sister

I left the house tonight to go buy intoxicants.  (We'll talk about that later). 

As I rounded the corner, I threaded my way through a half dozen guys.  

Internet, in case you were not aware, I attract the attention of people who linger on corners.  The usual greetings are variations of: 

Baby, you fine. 

Mama, take me home. 

Bring it, sistah. 

Baby, I'm your man. 

Etc. Etc. Etc. 

Most women find this kind of attention insulting.  I do not.  Why?  Because these mildly disrespectful greetings acknowledge that yes, I exist, and yes, despite my vice-like grip on celibacy and a single life, men still find something, anything about me worth comment. 

Today, however, was different.  As I rounded the corner, the guys did their gawking and I did my walking and I heard, plain as glass:  "Girl, you go on with them 40DDDs. " 

And internet, something happened.  It happened in the region of my brain responsible for poor decision making.  Instead of chuckling inwardly, I turned and faced the man and his poor estimation of the size and character of my breasts.  

I said, "Are you kidding me?  Not even close.  Want to hold them?" 

And the man who had spoken the numbers to me laughed so hard I thought he might lose a lung.  His friends laughed too.   And frankly we all had a good laugh about my boobs and then went on with our evening.  Half an hour later as I passed those very same guys on my way back from the store, they treated me with reverence typically reserved for nuns.  The very corner dweller who guessed my bra size tipped his hat and said, "Good evening, sister." 

So to him I said, "Good evening, sir." 

And a good evening to you, internet.  

Love, 

Nina 

Like father

A while back I met a man in his 60s. Due work circumstances, we spent a day together that long while back, and on that day, his work was easy and mine was not. But side by side we got through the day and then at the end of it, I thanked him for all the encouragement and advice he gave me. As we worked, I noticed the dark, restless quality of his eyes, as if there were a hundred thoughts all beneath the surface despite his calm demeanor. He offered to take me around the block for a coffee or a glass of beer. I declined, thanked him, and went on my way home.

I am going to say something interesting soon. Just keep reading.

So anyway since that day, I have run into him several times on the job and he is affable and gentlemanlike and every time our paths cross, I shake my head and say something to myself that surprises even me: If he were not married, I would make my attraction to him super obvious. Age? Who cares. Obvious psychiatric malady (mine) known in the vernacular as having "daddy issues"? Heh. Who cares. Obvious inappropriateness of the idea even if his wife and entire history simply vaporized?

Internet, if his wife and his whole life history simply vanished, I would brush up on my man attracting behaviors and go get him. I seriously would.

Gross, right?

It's about to get worse. Keep reading.


A while back I met another man. This one still had about him the glow of something I'll just call mid twenties, a certain high energy and stamina. We crossed paths due to work, and we spent a day together. His work was difficult. Mine was easy. But we helped each other through it and at the end of the day we took a walk around the block together. We held hands, despite the impropriety of doing so. (I justified this either because he was unmarried or because I was drunk. Maybe both). On the second lap around the block, someone started talking (probably me) and by the time were around the block three times we had exchanged our utmost saddest stories and due to the liquor and perhaps the howling wind and the desolation of the block at one in the morning, we were both in tears. We got to our various train stations and I rode home in the empty train car congratulating myself for leaving him be despite his apparent "gameness" you know, for whatever happens between unmarried people in a booming metropolis at 1 in the morning. I tried to figure out what about this young man I liked so much.

Reader, I just ran into his father on my way home from the grocery store. I know this because as his father leaned over to give me to customary cheek brush that we all do on the block, I got a good look at his eyes. Dark, restless and absolutely the eyes he had passed to his son.

So there you have it, internet. I broke up with my last boyfriend resigned to live single and celibate forever, and in four years I have been attracted to exactly two men. See above.





Love,

Nina


ps the flowers are there to perhaps take the edge of your gross out factor. If it didn't work, I am sorry. As it turns out, I am gross, and I am in this case unwilling to hide it. See you tomorrow (maybe).

The good corkscrew

This won't be one of those posts where I make an effort to make sense or hope for coherence. I just have not been available lately, even to myself, for reflection. So I am just going to start typing.

I have been lowering the amount of the heavenly sleep inducing medication that induces sleep but also causes serious metabolic problems for 8 - 9% of patients. Go ahead and infer that I am in the 8 (or 9)% of people experience serious metabolic problems due to the heavenly sleep inducing medication. To be fair, it also caused most of the other harmless but still irritating side effects, so I am certain, even if I never sleep again, that cessation of this particular (heavenly) medication is necessary.

Speaking of heaven, I am not going to get in. Lately when I do sleep, I have dreams that are definitely going to prevent my admission into anything like life after death paradise. I am not even sure they take people who have these kinds of subconscious constructions in limbo. Curious? Well, I suppose I intended to arouse curiosity. I either have raunchy, perverted, vivid and scandalous dreams about sex, or I have dreams about exacting bloody and merciless revenge on... certain people. In my defense, I will say this: aside from that one real life incident where I might have kissed that man who was (and is) in every conceivable way grossly inappropriate, I have been a perfect gentlewoman with regard to sexual behavior in real life -- for like, a huge number of years now. Five? Six? I don't count anymore. Nuns would pretty much behave the way I do, (aside from that one real life incident where I might have kissed that man who was (and is) in every conceivable way grossly inappropriate). And yet due to the perverted things I make up in my brain when I am unconscious, I am totally screwed. EXCEPT TOTALLY NOT. How is this fair? Feh.

Which brings me to this: you know you have a bad relationship with alcohol when you have two corkscrews, one of which works really well and doesn't annoy you - and another that is too sciency and doesn't work very well and annoys you consistently - and the one you really like? You keep that one on your desk. Where you spend 16 hours a day. The other one? Hell if I know. I think it is in the kitchen. Somewhere. Maybe. But boy, howdy, I know where the good corkscrew is.

And how are all of you doing? Have I told you that you are beautiful, and I love you? Have I said so lately? Let me do so now: you are beautiful and I love you. Thank you for reading.

simple yes or no

Can I date a 56 year old gypsy cab driver because he gets me?

Is this  maddness?

And YES - I expect a real answer.  Yes or no. 

What is it with the Jews?

If you are anti-Semitic, Nazi-ish or just a closet Jew-hater, this post is not for you. Sorry to lure you in with the promising title, but here you will not find what you seek. Get gone with you.

(Everyone else: listen to the sound of all the mean people leaving the blog. *Click*).

What is it with the Jews? Since I moved to NYC, I have met exactly three men who I was absolutely certain were kind, decent, straight up, right in the head and right in the heart guys: all Jews. All of them have been my friends the entire time I have lived in NYC and all of them have wanted to be more than friends and have remained genuine and steadfast in their friendships with me in spite of my lack of romantic reciprocation. I go silent for months and they always email and call. I say "don't kiss me, ever" and they say, "That's cool, but I totally love you."

If you're wondering why I wouldn't just go with it and date one of these fine people, it's because I am Catholic, and my Catholicism, though shabby and not going well, is irreversible. And I think you all know I wouldn't raise a child Jewish. I couldn't do it. And if you know much about Jewish people, you know that even a secular Jew isn't going to taking their kids to CCD. No way.

So what's the point?

And yet damn it all if... well, see the above.

And you know what else? I am in financial ruins right now. Ruins. Smoke and ashes. Many many many good people have offered to help. But you know who banged my door right the fuck down and saved my ass - and did it in a way that ensured I couldn't be prideful and reject her help outright?

Sorority sister from way back in the day. Big star of David wearing observant Jew fixed some stuff for me in a way that I couldn't do for myself and in a way that I couldn't afford to refuse and though she knows I won't accept it, she basically left her wallet on the table, too.

Considering how much certain supposedly Christian people have behaved recently, my brain is turned inside out right now and it has made me wonder, anyway. Just a historical question that I demand that you not try to answer in comments: whose idea was it to be all hateful about Jewish people, exactly? Is it merely that biblical shit about Israel in Egypt that started the beef? Because Jews... at least the ones in my corner? Good people. All of them.

Love and Hope and Sex and Dreams

Hi, all, Maggie here posting for our delicious Nina in her regrettable absence.

Looks like we've already covered life, death, marriage and stick figures. (My figure being far from stick-like, I'm particularly glad that Avi has that one covered.) I also found it interesting that Julie met her ex-husband in Ireland, because that's where I was when my grandmother died. See, everything is connected, there is only one theme, and that theme is BLOGGING!

(as Hemingway rolls over in his grave...)

Julie's post really moved me, because I'm in a bit of a mid-life crisis at the moment. 37, unwed, really wanting baby badly, ridiculously single, fabulous boyfriend who loves me but whom I don't want to marry, surrounded by couples, flying solo.

I had a great time with the boy last weekend. Truly fabulous. He's a smart, creative interesting darling who worships the ground I walk on. And maybe I don't deserve him, so I've been beating myself up all week. Julie's words of encouragement couldn't have come sooner.

You know what should have come sooner? My egg. You betcha, I had another insemination last Friday. Went straight from stirrups to airport to Seattle, do not pass go. Earlier in the week would have been nice, but the egg is on its own schedule, unfortunately. My Ob/Gyn thought it was hysterical that I inseminated with Donor 11241 right before I was seeing the BF and could have gotten it for free... and that brings us right back to Julie's Do Not Settle mandate.

See, everything *is* circular. And the circle might just be one of Nina's magnificent breasts. I mean, last year this gorgeous woman somehow found my blog, started commenting, was all supportive and enthused about my impregnation efforts, brought me other supportive readers through the sheer force of her enthusiasm ... and then made me mittens to boot! Now here we all are, strangers bound by our love for that blonde goddess, finding support in each other as we pitch in to keep her boat afloat in her absence. What a beautiful, close-knit bunch on a circular needle.

Sin of the week, 4/20/08 *updated*

I could give you the mitigating factors, but why take the sting out of it? Why not just go all the damned way for it?

Here it is:

I have been flirting with, carrying on a pre-affair...

with a married man.

Yes, me. Nina alone-a-lot. Nina judgmental and prudish. Nina never does anything racy or dangerous (unless you count sporting activities), has been engaged in conversation way too personal and way too friendly with a person of the opposite sex who is currently married.

Does it count that his marriage is circling the drain? Does it count that he is, uh separated? Does it help matters at all that his wife is already seeing someone else? Do I feel any better about the fact that aside from talking to him on the phone, nothing has "happened" between us?

I am going to go hold my body parts over lit candles now, just so I can be sure I know what hell is like.

*update: I am not having an affair with a married man. Everyone calm down. This is a friend thing. He just happens to be a going through a tough divorce and we talk. Mostly about how he is getting divorced and how much it sucks. So calm down, ok? *

See you tomorrow. That is unless I get hit by a truck and then go to the hot and fiery place.

*air-kiss*

Me too

Of course I have done it. And if you have never done it, there might be something a little bit wrong with you. There IS such a thing as TOO GROSS to merit future proximity to your person - not matter how greatly the grossness quotient could be reduced with hot, soapy water.

(Welcome to my post about throwing away your dishes so you don't have to wash them. And you thought I was talking about my boyfriends. Shame on you! Oh and I will be writing about this topic, inexcusable as it is, in an inexcusably verbose manner. Thank you for stopping by).

Several months ago, we (meaning cat-head and I) went through a difficult period where we could barely breathe without snarfing up a whole nose-hole full of fruit flies. It was a heartbreaking time for us. You can read it about it here.

What we discovered, after we (I) had disposed of all their hairy, wiggling, multi-fanged bodies, is that fruit flies are tenacious of life. They hang on, even without food, water, reliable internet access, and affection or encouragement. They wait for you to change your mind about them. Sort of like has very often happened to me when I get a boyfriend and then I try to unget him. (I tend to date people who don't like to be broken up with. Stop changing the subject every other minute).

So anyway I deloused my tiny cubicle of an apartment and then I discovered the source of the issue: a tea saucer I had left in the sink with the merest tiniest smear of something on it. Yes, I know I should not have left my apartment for three days and neglected to wash the tea saucer. I know I am gross. I know. (Stop acting all like you can't believe anyone would ever even want to date me in the first place and STOP TALKING about how you'd be dying to get broken up with if you mistakenly (mistake! error!) started dating me. Cut that racket out, already).

So I decided, as any sane person would, to wash the tea saucer that had provided (apparently) an attractive breeding opportunity for what probably started out as two lonely fruit flies - until they had all kinds of filthy, dirty, perverted sex under my tea saucer, had baby flies and then proceed to have sex with them, too. One would hope, since they were having sex with their own children, that it was at least a little less filthy dirty and perverted. But you know what? You would obviously hope for that because you are a nice person, but you would also be (obviously) be wrong. Everyone knows that fruit flies are dirty, nasty, whores - lacking, obviously, my very fine and deeply felt moral tastes - you know - the ones that prevent me from dating men who suggest that we should get naked on the first dates. Or even the second. Because as girlfriends go, I am totally lame. (Note: it is usually this sort of creature that is so difficult to get rid of - you know, after he has discovered that he thinks I am lame because I don't think it's such a great idea to engage in certain reproductive behavior with him even though I am not certain I can remember his last name and I am unsure if he even is who he says he is - or is even single. Notable illustrations of this type: Grip Spitzer). But that's not the point and I wish you would stop interrupting me to talk about my lack of a love life. I get that you think I am gross and unlovable, already. Just stop talking about it for half a second. Please.

Anyway, I was waiting for the water to get hot and seeing as I had some time on my hands, I amused myself by using my very active, fine tuned imagination to call up images of fruit fly porn.

(I'll give you a minute to do the same. Go ahead. Do it. Don't make me post photographs of breeding insects. Because I think you know I will totally do it if you don't comply).


And then, of course, obviously, I realized that really, the only sane thing to do was get that tea saucer, smudged or no, out of my cubicle as fast as I could carry it down to the garbage chute and listen to it clang its way down to the basement to be removed by the custodian, placed in a plastic container, bagged, loaded onto a truck, driven, and delivered unto a landfill, probably in New Jersey, where right now it is STILL disgusting because it was at least once the scene of a horrific three day fruit fly orgy.


You know what? Fine. If you insist on continuing to harass me about how I don't have a boyfriend, fine. We can talk about it. Or at any rate we could if you would stop making all that noise and listen to me for a change.


Certain recent events and also something that is at this very minute not in the trash, (even though other people might pretend to think it's gross) has convinced me - even at the cost of my sanity (was I ever all that sane? I mean, take a look at this post - wow) that no matter how much I like to think I am done, I am, in fact, probably not done. And yes, it's because I suddenly remember, as a direct result of one completely not disgusting object,* what is nice about having a boyfriend.

I can't even decide if this is good news. But if you think for one second of one second that I would carry it down to the garbage chute and listen to it clang its way down to the basement to be removed by the custodian, placed in a plastic container, bagged, loaded onto a truck, driven, and delivered unto a landfill, probably in New Jersey - horror! I will not do it, so you can quit acting like it is news to you that I am gross in this particular way. You knew perfectly well what you were doing and I might - get this - just not talk to you until you admit that you knew.

Thank you for reading.

*Don't worry about it if you are not the one person on the planet who knows what it is. I can't tell you. Because if I did then you would KNOW and also you might not get it (although I very much suspect you would) and then we might not feel the same way about each other. Why risk that?

Baby, what did I say?

Rather than give you a bullet point list of Grip's crimes, I will tell the story of the time I saw Grip. (Well the last time I saw him before he started stalking me. But I don't want to confuse you. This is the last time I "saw" him).

Grip had told me on our first date that his first marriage had not worked out because they were "too young" and that she had left him for an older man who could "better provide for her." I found this discomfiting but I made no comment. Several weeks later, Grip and I were in his living room on a Thursday afternoon. I was reading Burney's The Wanderer and I came across the word "delusory." Grip was on the other side of the room, reading The Times.

"Grip," I said, "Delusory. What does the word delusory word mean to you?"

"You are getting a PhD in English, and you don't know what delusory means?" he replied.

"Of course I know. I just wondered what you thought it might mean." I handed him the book. He read the sentence I had marked.

"It means delusional," he said. He handed the book back to me.

I read for a bit longer. Grip had put down his newspaper and was staring out the window.

"Why didn't you go to work today?" I asked.

"I wanted to spend the afternoon with you," he said.

"Ah," I said.

To this day I don't know why I said this. This would be the part of the meltdown that is my fault.

"Why did you leave your wife?" I said.

I expected him to be angry, but he simply sighed and stared at the floor. Then he turned and told me this little gem of a story.

"About two years after our wedding, a buddy of mine invited me to go to conference about thinking positive and building confidence. It was a three day thing and I really just went to support my friend because he was having a hard time. Well the whole seminar was about positive thinking and believing in yourself and making decisions based on who you want to be and it totally changed my life. I realized within half a day that I had married Meg because I had been too scared to try to get someone better. I realized I had married her based on an idea of myself that I didn't want to live anymore. Once I knew I could do better than Meg, there was no way I could live with her anymore. I moved out as soon as I got back."

I, speechless, considered a moment before answering.

"Did she love you?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. Then he whipped around in his chair and gave me the anger I had been expecting ten lines ago.

"It's like you," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You with your reserve and your quietness and your ridiculous ideas."

"Me?" I said. I had no idea that the end of his marriage had been about me. I couldn't wait to hear more.

"Yeah, you. You live this tiny little life with, as far as I can see, nothing in it. You like me, so don't try to pretend you don't. There are at least ten ways of preventing pregnancy, and yet your refuse to have sex with me and don't even give me a reason." Then he threw his hands up in the air and stomped off the to kitchen. I could hear him making espresso. My heart was beating so fast I thought it might pop right out of my chest, grow legs, scurry into the kitchen and kick him square in the ass.

Perhaps I should have mentioned before: I was not sleeping with Grip, nor anything near it. I didn't want to. It was too early and I was unsure of him in at least nine different ways. Plus I didn't want to and there is also a rule, among people raised in plaid skirts and knee socks, about not doing it. (But I won't pretend that rule was driving my behavior. The not wanting to was far more operative).

So I read a few sentences and waited. He returned. He handed me a tiny cup of coffee. I wriggled back into my shoes and waited for it to get worse, which it did.

"It's like, you know," he sat again at the window. "It's like we are different on some cultural level or something. There's no reason for us not to have sex and you act like there is no reason for us TO have sex. Ridiculous."

"There isn't," I said. I put my book back in my bag and moved to the other end of the couch.

"Great!" he said. "That's just great! Next I bet you'll try to tell me it's some kind of thing about morals or something. Jesus!"

This is the point at which I started laughing, but it was nervous laughing, the sort that also makes a person cry and also, regretably, makes a person's hands shake uncontrollably. Very inconvenient if one is trying to shrug into one's coat and flee the apartment of a madman.

Grip stared at me, astonished.

"Are you," he gasped, "crying?"

"Whatever it is, I am doing it," I stammered. By then I was on my feet and half way to the door. He came after me.

"Baby, what did I say?"

This is the part where he put his arms around me and was backing me up against the wall and was looking at me with almost believable compassion. Next was the part where I tried to wriggle free. But no luck! He grabbed my face with his hand and started kissing me. To his credit, he let go of me when I said "stop."

I left without another word.

Grip, poor fellow, has been calling me off and on for five years. The messages have ranged from abject begging to pathetic, tearful, mega-abject grovelling. A maximum of three a year, a minimum of one.

Here is the one I got in December:


Hi Nina, this is Grip Spitzer. I know it's really strange that I am calling you, but I just woke up and I just had the strangest really strong feeling that should call you. Um, well, there is more to it than that, but I think there is something that we really seriously missed out on, um and, so, I guess what I am asking, if you are still single would you please, please have a cup of coffee with me? Because, um, I think that I was really really really not ready, and not who I am now in terms of what I want out of life when I met you, and um, I should have grabbed onto you and held on to you with all my might when I had the chance. So, um, if you could, give me a call, ---,---,----. Hope you are doing well. Bye.

Do you think he means, perhaps, that he is now ready in terms of you know, doing better than the wife he abandonned? Might I be the lucky woman he considers up to his standard? Or does he perhaps mean that he is not who he was in terms of, you know, being prepared not to bully a woman into flinging her underwear on a lampshade just because he wants her to? What do you think he might be ready for? Who might he be now?

Well.

What do you say we never find out?

Happy Thursday, and thank you for reading.

This

Standing in line at the coffee shop is like this:

coffee and a muffin no maybe only half a muffin ew muffins bagel but won't sell me half only large coffee maybe a small make more socks or finish papers floor is dirty hair inexcusable many phone calls emails inexcusable severe introversion forgot to pay rent practically schizoid inexcusable check your email, duh! flossing in shower hate hair make more socks make more socks make more socks I don't like anyone my turn yet coffee clear out voice mail no excuse check your email pale blond and ordinary polish the silver clean the rugs muffin? bagel? coffee coffee coffee get your eyebrows waxed and change light bulb polish silver ordinary coffee and

and

and

neck shoulders back elbow fingers on table reads the post sneakers and jeans no hat and hair is dark and drumming on table neck neck neck shoulders shoulders table reads the post I don't like anybody I don't like anybody drumming on table reads the post fingers and elbows reads the post and I don't like anybody

The line moved. I had to decide between the muffin and the nothing, but I could not take my eyes off the back of his neck, the straight male ordinariness of it. I listened to his fingers drumming on the table while I ordered: coffee, small, milk, no sugar. $1.45. The drumming on the table stopped and I had my coffee. I turned.

He folded the newspaper and placed it on the next table, and then he sat back in his chair, looking at me. I looked at him. So I stood there and he sat there and we regarded each other. He had green eyes and brown hair, and he had not shaved. There was something like a smile; he might have blinked. So I closed my eyes.

Then the door opened and it was cold, and I was on the sidewalk and then up the stairs and into the elevator and now I am back here, drumming on the keyboard.



So this is all I have today. See you tomorrow. (I hope I am over this by then). (Thank you). (Oh and have a nice weekend).

Perhaps tomorrow

I promised to tell the story of Grip. I fear I cannot deliver, at least not today.

I have papers to grade this afternoon and then I am meeting Bibi to run stairs tonight. I am sure you will understand, if you glance at my Kili training to the right, how much I can't afford to skip work outs. Beyond a few runs on the treadmill and some gratuitous crunching, I have not done much. Unless you count cookie avoidance. (Which I obviously do).

I do not even have a witty and interesting way of telling you how today's post will be a whole lot of nothing.

Oh look! It's already over!

See you tomorrow. (And thank you for reading).

Even Weirder

Tagged again, this time by Bee, to list the seven most famous or infamous people I have ever met or to do the ubiquitous seven strange things about me post.

Happily, there are more weird things about me to share.

1) I do not own a single tube of lipstick. Gloss, yes. Stain, yes. Stick, no.

2) I categorically reject thong underwear. Whose idea was that? I'd rather not wear underwear than have to wear a thong. And yes, it is possible to find underwear that doesn't create lines. Please stop looking at my ass.

3) I used to be a telemarketer. (I was in graduate school and really poor. Don't judge me).

4) I have twenty bottles of nail-polish. Why is this weird? Because I don't wear nail-polish.

5) I am rarely late or early for anything. I am on time.

6) I have never read a single word of the Potter books.

7) I can't sleep unless I take my earrings out.

Tagged herewith:

Maggie, LAS, Liz, Lotus, Jen,and Cajunvegan.

P, you are also tagged if you want to be tagged but not if you don't. Ditto Woodrow.

(This presupposes that the above listed taggees don't have a choice, which they certainly do).

Oh yes and the "rules" state that if you are tagged you should tag more people and leave comments on their blogs telling them they are tagged.

Etc.

Tomorrow, I will tell the story of Grip. Until then, have a lovely Tuesday.

What rhymes with annoy?

Last night, Roy and I were settling down to watch Pride and Prejudice when I recalled the other bug from my past, one I did not name and incorporate into my household.

I will name him now. His name shall be Troy.

I will tell the story of Troy to illustrate one of the many excellent reasons I am watching five hour "movies" with a common household fruit fly and a cat, in my pajamas, with my hair piled on top of my head and very expensive beauty products piled up on my face.

The reason is that I am annoying. (Secondary reason: debilitating hatred of bugs). (Tertiary reason: petulant sense of feminine entitlement). (To be live unmolested by bugs). (The end).

A bit of pre-amble. Please be patient. Here is where I live:



The building is run by a squad of doormen, porters, maintenance workers and assorted real estate swindlers. These people are maniacs about making sure the building is well-run, organized, and above all, clean. Many times I have to share an elevator with a guy who is rubbing each individual crystal of the chandelier with a hanky. Once a day, I listen and observe that someone is running a vacuum cleaner right up to my door. Obviously, pests such as mice and roaches are not tolerated. In any event, I have had limited exposure to them in my five years here.

I am getting to the part where I explain more fully why I am watching Colin Firth amble across a meadow* in a wet shirt. (For the fiftieth time). Please be patient. Oh! And look at this:



So many years ago, I was bent over my needlework with my hair piled on top of my head. (I may have been wearing $10 worth of moisturizer). I glanced up from my embroidery and saw the creature scurry into my apartment from under the door. It was Troy, urban cock-roach.

(Please forgive me for not making you a proper drawing of Troy. To even picture him makes me shudder).

So in walked Troy. I screamed. I climbed onto the kitchen table, weeping and shuddering, gnashing my teeth. Troy, realizing there were no Ritz crackers and EZ cheese laid out for him on a doily, perceived his error. But instead of exiting the way he entered, he scrambled across the room (that would be my entire apartment) and set himself up under the heater in my bathroom.

If you think I was upset about Troy perching on my welcome mat, you can't imagine the inconsolable mania that resulted from his new location. My hands were shaking so badly that I couldn't dial my cell phone.

Who was I trying to call, you ask?


Why, FB, of course. He was wrangling a stent into Some Old Guy's hardened artery down at the hospital, but no matter.

FB arrived ten minutes later, but by then the problem was much, much worse. While I was on the phone, Troy had vanished. I shrieked and chewed my hands while FB tore the bathroom apart, looking for Troy. No luck.

So FB spent the night at my place, protecting me and Cat-head from Troy. I slept on one side of the bed and he sat up on the other, reading medical journals with one eye trained on the heater.

As you may have surmised, Troy did not reappear. The next day, FB and I had to go back to work and defer bug hunting for another day.

Two weeks went by without word from Troy. I had almost forgotten about the incident.

And then one day, while I was rinsing the shampoo from my inexcusably long hair, I glanced up to find two long, wiggling antennae reaching over the top of the shower curtain.

Oh, ok. I'll make you a drawing.



FB was working third shift in a hospital thirty miles away. Nevertheless, he arrived thirty minutes later to find me naked, wrapped in a quilt, with shampoo in my hair, in the fetal position, sobbing on the kitchen table. Have I mentioned how much I hate bugs? (I do like Roy a little bit).

FB, according to my instructions, disengaged the shower curtain and threw Troy away with it. He then took the trash all the way out to the sidewalk. He returned with a cookie and a bottle of my favorite mineral water. Then we had a "talk" about being a little more grown up about bugs.

Thirty minutes is an inexcusable duration to make Nina wait for rescue. I was most seriously displeased.

If you are marveling at the patience of FB, let me point out the original purpose of this missive. It was to illustrate one of the 345,232 reasons I am still single. (It's because I am annoying). The end.



*Not all women are vulnerable to The Colin Firth in a Wet Shirt pathology, which is attraction to men who are well spoken and refined and who do not define having good manners as being fussy and afraid of a little dirt. What every woman needs to know about Darcy, she learns when he arrives home on horseback, dismounts, takes off his hat and boots and jumps into the lake in front of his house. He is a Man, you see. Stupid Regency Period breeches notwithstanding.

** If you think this unreasonable, well, it was. But in my defense, FB found this behavior acceptable. While intolerant of certain other features of being In A Relationship, (like me speaking more than three sentences consecutively), FB had a very useful "savior" complex. Nothing motivated and pleased him more than being needed. He actually liked going to extraordinary inconvenience and trouble to "rescue" me from whatever situation I could present as beyond my strength. So you see, I was doing him a favor by acting like a spoiled child. (He liked it when I was helpless and he could step in and be competent and powerful). (We all have our issues).

Tower of Power *updated*

*Several offensive typos fixed. Offensive typos happen because Nina is writing from her hotel room right before checkout. She is not to be rushed. (Apparently). *

I write this morning from the fourteenth floor of a hotel in downtown Raleigh. I arrived here last night after a good day's work at Sweet Little College, where I attended a certification meeting (don't ask) and "oriented" about thirty of my eighty students (ie, the ones who felt it important enough to show up).

Following the meeting, I took my state employee ID card and checked into a very nice downtown hotel for the very low price of $53.44. Then I took a shower, put on my favorite (non-corduroy) pants, applied a sweater to the upper regions of myself, and turned my attention to my head.

Did it need a hair dryer and good combing? Yes? I accomplished it.

Did the eyes need some smoky liner and perhaps inky black mascara? Yes? Done!

And lipgloss? Eh. Chapstick and a good pinch will do.

I applied shoes to my feet, tucked my wallet and my ID into my back pocket, and ascended to the twenty-second floor to find Roman, my (fake travel boyfriend and) favorite bartender ever, awaiting me.


Roman is thirty six years old, about six feet tall and upwards of three and fifty pounds. He is blond and blue-eyed and has a booming, melodious, cheerful voice. He has two master's degrees, one in philosophy and the other in literature. He has a cardboard box of excellent bar-reading materials available for anyone who has left her copy of Pride & Prejudice at the airport. He makes Nina's martinis very sweet because he knows she doesn't really like them as much as she thinks she does. He brings her peanut butter sandwiches if she is hungry and doesn't want to eat a big fancy thing on the big fancy menu. He keeps her water glass full and he prevents the Powerful Business Men from trying to talk to her by placing his substantial person directly in their path and glaring derisively at their puny, pale, scuzzy, married selves as if to say "Thou shalt not molesteth my Nina! She is reading."

Of course, if Nina does not feel like reading, Roman is happy to talk about books, movies, music, sports, sixteenth century French philosophy, or whatever Emily Dickinson might have meant by calling a "daisy" a "marauder". He is also good at politics, religion, science, crafts, and interior design. While he is entertaining her, he will serve drinks and food to the Powerful Business Men, but he will also wordlessly communicate to Nina, by a subtle play of words and looks and gestures, that he worships and adores her and would do absolutely anything to merit even the appearance of a real date. He knows he cannot have one because Nina live hundreds of miles away. He also wonders, she is sure, whether his substantialness has anything to do with her refusal, but he does not bring it up, and of course, neither does she. *

Does this make her a bad person? Basking in the affection of one lonely Roman bartender who is content to fix her weak drinks and peanut butter sandwiches and defend her from marauding, married, sleezers so she can read her books in peace?

*I, who have spent many a day with a tape measure in one hand and a Twinkie in the other, have NO right to say one single word in judgment of anyone who has food issues. So I don't. (He makes excellent sandwiches).

Sin of the week, 12/30/07 **updated**

The worst thing I did this week was take a xanax, down a glass of wine and about a half pound of peppermint bark, and then fall asleep sitting up on the couch in the middle of leaving a comment on someone's blog.

I probably did worse things, but that's the most amusing thing I did that qualifies and both wrong and disgusting, so that's what you get. Here, I will draw you a picture of it so you know how funny it was when I woke up not dead (yay!) with my computer on my lap and a handful of sticky peppermint bark.



** update: Mr. Fab suggested I might look flat chested and naked in my first drawing. Here is a new one.



I want to be extra clear: 1) that's a mini-skirt, 2) I have never been naked in my entire life unless there was a reason; I do not sit around the house naked; maybe someday I'll post about why but the reason has a lot to do with the fact that 3) I have not been flat chested or anything like it since I was 13 and finally 4) If you think it's difficult to draw a shirt over those circles (which I clearly did not even attempt to do), try finding bras and shirts to go over them in real life. (Hint: it's not easy, people). **

In other spiritual news, I scored an 80 out of a 100 on the Catholic Sex Quiz created by Father Joe.



Take a good look and see whose name is right there under Papa-ratzi's? See that? It's my name. Nina. I feel my score should be higher because I had no idea that impotent men could not marry. What idiot who knows anything about the Catholic Church would guess that erections were a requirement for marriage? Not this idiot. Father Joe conceded that the item on divorce is a trick question. Therefore I feel I deserve a 90. At least. Also, should I not also get 5 bonus points for NOT knowing all the precise technical rules about man-parts, considering I am a woman?

I certainly think so.

Happy New Year (almost). And thank you for reading.

Rules for teachers

1) Show up on time, even if it means having to wake up stupidly early (you will).

2) Don't cancel classes; even if you are half eat-up with the small pox, go to class.

3) Take attendance, even though it's a pain in the ass and waste of time.

4) Grade stuff, even when it means surreptitiously circling verb errors during important, relationship critical discussions with your significant other.

5) Teach the material, even if it means unorthodox methods (or explaining 4358 times that "frikkin'" is not an acceptable adjective).

6) Never, ever, ever, ever, ever even consider dating a student. EVER. (It goes without saying that you should not do it).


I think we all know what kind of trouble I ran into the other day, so I will just explain without expressing additional self-hatred that, much to my horror, I am (was) ... goddamit.... attracted to one of my students.*

Nothing happened except it was the last day of class and he was the last one to leave and he shook my hand and held onto it for just that tiniest little fraction of an amount of time that is too long. And I didn't hate it.

That's it. I'll never see this kid again, so it doesn't matter. No harm has been done to anyone's learning environment or anyone's professional integrity, but, people, in my entire eight year teaching career, I have never once so much as noticed a student in any way other than a professional one. When I look at students, I see nothing by letters, numbers, handwriting and badly conjugated verbs. I do not "see" anything other than a teaching target. I have never understood college professors who think this or that student is "hot" or "cute" or whatever, and I am such a self-critical and judgmental bitch that I won't have anything to do with professors who date students, because even on the college level, I think it's unfair to both the targeted student and the other students in the class, not to say the student's parents and the student's future spouse (because you know good and damn well that it isn't you).

I should have realized, of course, long before the last day of classes that this kid was flirting with me. I should have noticed it, but because of the"personal" invisibility of my students, I never noticed a thing. He cracked a lot of jokes and I made fun of him some because he seemed to take it as a sign of esteem (a lot of students do, oddly enough) but I didn't notice that he was noticing me. Duh.

And if you don't think that it's grotesque that I had a strange moment of heart fluttering (give me a moment to hate myself a little bit more and I'll finish my sentence... .... ....) you should definitely think it's gross that I had a student flirting with me in one of my classes for an entire 13 weeks AND I NEVER NOTICED BECAUSE OF MY PRINCIPLES.


Because isn't that also a little unfair to the student(s)? Doesn't that also harm the learning environment?

I think I'll go sharpen my knives now. Have a "nice" afternoon.


*He is of age, before anyone REALLY freaks out, here. He is 24 and though incredibly immature, legally grown up.

The strangest, really strong feeling

I just cleared out my voice mail, accumulated over a week of mitten making and grading, and got the following message from a guy we'll call Grip.

Hi Nina, this is Grip Spitzer. I know it's really strange that I am calling you, but I just woke up and I just had the strangest really strong feeling that should call you. Um, well, there is more to it than that, but I think there is something that we really seriously missed out on, um and, so, I guess what I am asking, if you are still single would you please, please have a cup of coffee with me? Because, um, I think that I was really really really not ready, and not who I am now in terms of what I want out of life when I met you, and um, I should have grabbed onto you and held on to you with all my might when I had the chance. So, um, if you could, give me a call, ---,---,----. Hope you are doing well. Bye.

There is a much longer post in the offing, but I have to do grades for Sweet Little Collge this morning and I can't possibly write said post until later.

So instead, I thought I would ask for your... reaction... to this message.

Before reacting, consider that I dated Grip five years ago for about six weeks. Since then, he has called an average of twice a year, saying stuff similar to what you see above - except that the content of this message is far less grovel-y than his past efforts. My favorite message was the one from three and a half years ago. It included the phrase "stamped in eternity."

*snicker*

I will tell the story later, but for now I will say no more.

React.

Thank you.