Take me out to the ballgame

Tomorrow is Opening Day, which means that until October, I am officially a baseball widow. DD’s season package provides him with a built-in guys night every Friday, or at least every Friday the Tigers are in town.

But the more important significance of Opening Day is that it means summer is on the way. And while I’m not a sports fan, I still think an evening at Comerica Park is one of the best ways to pass a summer evening. A hot dog, a beer, and a warm breeze passing over you. Sitting back and listening to the cheers of a city looking for something to believe in. 

I can hardly wait.

5×365: JC

My first boyfriend, and he’s been on my mind. Maybe because my mother just saw him. All I can think is that I look back and think, wow…you were kind of a mess. And together, we were a big ol’ mess. But isn’t that what high school relationships are?

A funny thing happened on the way to jumping to conclusions

My office has been having issues with e-mail this week. Generally, I don’t pay much attention to these things, until it effects me. In this case, nothing was hampering my ability to do my job.

But to live my life, now that’s a funny story.

DD and I communicate almost solely through electronic means between our time together. E-mail and texts are our preferred ways to whisper sweet nothings into one another’s ears. Well, for me to whisper sweet nothings and for him to be the typical guy and respond to everything in the communique except the sweet nothings. But, I digress.

Since we see each other only once or twice a week, that e-communication is quite critical to the success of our relationship. So, Tuesday we were having our usual daily e-mail convo, discussing our upcoming vacay. Tuesday night, I was up late and checking my e-mail and noticed he had sent me something at 6 p.m., to which I responded back. After that, I proceeded to sit in electronic silence for three days.

I didn’t receive a response Wednesday. That afternoon, feeling slightly odd that nothing had come, I sent him a brief e-mail. The e-silence continued. Now, I know him, and when he gets busy at work, he gets rather tunnel-visioned. He forgets everything around him. But he’s never been known to not respond. Plus, we had tentative plans to get together Wednesday or Thursday, so I was expecting something. Needless to say, it was weird. But, I gave him the benefit of the doubt and didn’t bother him. Didn’t call, didn’t text, gave him his space, and figured I’d hear from him Thursday and we’d get together that night.

But I didn’t hear anything on Thursday either. By that evening, I was getting a little perturbed. Oh, OK, I’ll be honest…I was jumping to conclusions. My last e-mail to him had mentioned that I’d started a blog, which he’s not a fan of — at least the part where I write about him.) What if he was upset about that?! What if he was unhappy with me? What if he was going to dump my ass the next time I saw him?

I’m really good at jumping to conclusions.

To try to stem my fears, I called him Thursday. Got voice mail. Left a slightly passive-aggressive message that went something like “Hey, it’s me. Just wondering what you’ve been up to the past couple days. Call me.”

Usually when he’s non-responsive and receives a passive-aggressive communication from me, he immediately gets on the horn the next day and apologizes with a morning e-mail. But today, I got nada. So, as you can imagine, my gentle pondering was now full-on conclusion-jumping and general frustration and annoyance. After all, I hadn’t gotten to see him this week as planned, and now I had no idea if we were even hanging out tonight.

I had all sorts of snide comments lined up for when he finally did call. You know, to really rub it in that he was being an unresponsive boyfriend. That it was time to get off his duff and remember there’s other people in the world besides himself and that after 9 months of dating, he should be at that point.

Thank God I didn’t lead with that when he finally did call at 4:30 today. I calmly answered the phone and the first thing out of his mouth was “Didn’t you get my e-mails the past couple days?”

Damn those e-mail problems.

The next 20 minutes were spent explaining all the e-mails he had in fact sent me over the past 72 hours and that oh by the way he had stayed home from work yesterday with the stomach flu.

Wups. Obviously my well-prepared “How to be a good boyfriend” lecture didn’t happen. And in the midst of it all, he was sick and I wasn’t there to take care of him. (Then again, I wouldn’t have volunteered to be there, so it’s probably best I didn’t know about it.)

You’d think at some point I’d get over this whole jumping to conclusions thing. At least I’m beginning to improve. As I was beginning to dream up bad reasons for him not responding, I was immediately talking myself off the ledge with legitimate reasons that weren’t bad at all.

I guess it’s a process. When you’ve been hurt in relationships before, it’s natural to be rather gun shy. But as the cliche goes, time heals all wounds, and I see time working its magic with me. Someday, hopefully I’ll be cured for good. 

Epiphany

While I was talking to a coworker over lunch today, I had an epiphany. I abhor the writing process.

Yet, my career is writing. And in my personal life, I aspire to be a writer.

There I was, talking about an article I’m (sort of) working on at the office. I say “sort of” because I’ve been taking procrastination to new heights. The article’s an easy thing, just a couple pages. But I’m struggling and have been generally avoiding it for the past couple of weeks. So I’m telling my coworker about this and explaining why: “See, I have to write these two pages, and I have no idea what to write, and it’s different messaging than everything else I do, and like I said I have no idea what to write and I hate how I write and what I write when I do write, and, well, I just hate the process of writing. I love the end result, but I hate the process.”

What kind of crazy, fucked-up writer am I? To hate the process of writing, which is basically the entire practice of being a writer.

This is something I’ve always known about myself, but never really articulated until today. Upon further reflection, though, it’s so true. And I think (I hope) the writers in the crowd will agree with me. The process of writing just plain sucks. But the end result is practically orgasmic. The process — staring at a blank piece of paper knowing you have to fill it? Scary. Coming up with the right words in the right order that talk about the right thing. Tedious. The self-esteem issues that come with not thinking it’s your best work but it’s the best you can do? Exhausting. But the result? Getting in the groove and creating something really cool? Having people tell you it’s just right, that it’s funny and wise? Ah, those highs bring me out of the worst case of the blahs.

I think my problem is that I feel like as a self-proclaimed writer, everything is just supposed to flow out of me like some sort of prophesy from God. Sometimes I think that’s what people who aren’t writers believe happens. Let me tell you, it doesn’t.

Here’s a typical Supergirl-in-writer-mode experience: Open Word document. Stare at Word document. Check Facebook, MySpace, and Yahoo! Mail. Go back to the still-empty Word document and curse its very existence. Get up from my desk, find someone to talk to. Come back to my desk, stare at empty document. Again check Facebook, MySpace, and Yahoo! Mail. Maybe throw in some blogs as an incentive. Grudgingly go back to document and pen a few (in my opinion) bad phrases. Repeat above procedure until document is made up of lots of (in my opinion) bad phrases. Sit on it for an hour or day depending on the deadline, and edit it. Make it sound slightly better. Send it off and be done.

This tediousness extends to my personal writing. I stare at the document, and then abandon it for something much less scary — like reality TV. I’ve claimed to be writing a book for probably three years now. I haven’t worked on it in months, because I came to a point where the groove stopped grooving and I’m stuck. I have no idea where to go and I’m back to staring at a word document before closing it in favor of The Bachelor or Dancing with the Stars. Or I blog, because that feels like a much easier goal to attain than a 200 page book.

So, some astute readers may say…what’s the point. If you don’t like doing it, why do you do it? Or more bluntly, find a new career honey, this obviously ain’t your thang.

Well, I thrive on the end result. On seeing my words and phrases in an organization’s printed or electronic materials. Coming up with that rare witty line that makes me believe in myself. My life’s dream is to have a book published. (And to have people tell me how witty and fabulous it is.) So that’s why I keep writing, because I get such a high from the final product. Most people could care less with what people think about the sentences they write in a letter or some boring work report. But me? I live and die by those same sentences. If someone criticizes them, I fall to pieces. If someone bows down before their splendor, my ego exults from on high.

I haven’t quite figured out how to combat this hatred of the process, and unfortunately, there’s no way I can work around it. In my career, I have deadlines. That’s really the only thing that saves me there. But I’ve learned I can’t self-impose deadlines on myself in my personal writing; my excuses and love for trashy TV will just blow right through them. So I really need to figure out another way to get past it, otherwise, I’ll never get that book written (much less published!) and my ego will never reach divine heights.

To hug or not to hug

It’s a funny thing about people. We all have our ways of greeting one another and there are those people in the world — aggressive greeters, we’ll call them — that don’t seem to care if their way isn’t amenable to the person they are greeting. Therefore, we often find ourselves in what I’ll uncreatively deem an awkward-greeting-scenario, or AGS.

The first example that came to my mind and prompted me to pen this blog is something I’ve been pondering for a few months. Specifically, DD’s family and my family greet one another very differently. His family: Big Polish/Italian/who knows what. They greet and bid you adieu with an embracing hug. His sister’s mother-in-law adds in a cheek kiss for good measure.

[side note] This kiss is the most awkward kiss I have ever experienced. Worse than the time I almost fell out of a car to avoid a first kiss on a date. Worse than the time I knocked my head with someone else while going in for the end of date kiss. This is because I don’t know what to do with this form of greeting. For me, it’s just too unfamilar. How hard do you kiss back? Is this a brush of the lips or a full-on friendly peck?  [end side note]

I won’t lie, even the hugs threw me off at first. I mean, the first time I met his immediate family, they hugged me good bye. The last time I saw his cousin, she got up off the couch and hugged me goodbye. What’s that about?

See, my family doesn’t hug strangers. We’re the true American, ethnic nothing, quiet and prim, family. We hug one another, sure. We may even hug a friend in need. But a random hug goodbye? Hell, no. And a random hug (or kiss! ooo that kiss is weird…) goodbye upon first meeting someone? Double hell no. That’s just how we roll. And it’s because of that upbringing that I now secretly balk at cheek kisses and full-body-contact farewells. It’s also because of that upbringing that I feel bad DD’s family has hugged me countless times, yet my parents have yet to embrace him. I don’t even think my dad has shaken his hand.

I noticed it especially this past Easter. We did lunch with his family, where hugs and kisses prevailed. Next up was my family, for a little March Madness watching. DD got up to leave, and I naturally walked him to the door and my mom followed. They made small talk, the door was reached, and everyone stood there. My mom didn’t go in for the hug. DD didn’t attempt to bring his family traditions to my household. It was just plain awkward. Of course, it didn’t help that I wanted to kiss DD good-bye but my mom decided to just stand there and it’s weird to kiss him (or any man) in front of her. This goes back to the prim and quiet trait I alluded to earlier.

Taking this out of the relationship realm and into the corporate realm, I had another AGS recently. I went to a meeting where my former co-workers work. One immediately embraced me, because that’s just how she rolls, and my nature is to just comply until it becomes natural for me too. The other co-worker, who also happened to be the person I was meeting with, just said “hello”. No hug. No handshake. It was funny, because I could tell we both were waiting for the other to make a move. In any other situation like this, I would automatically reach my hand out. But she felt to intimate of a connection to simply shake hands with. Yet, neither of us moved in for the hug, which also isn’t unusual given our friendly, but distant, relationship. We were in this weird alternate universe that left us greeting-less…and in this particular setting, I felt I should have done something more. But like I said, I comply. I follow, not lead, when it comes to greetings.

The good thing is that if I do encounter an aggressive-greeter, I usually get used to the greeting over time and it becomes second nature for me — with that person. Introduce a new aggressive-greeter and the process starts over.

If only aggressive-greeters could pick out us passive-greeters and maybe not go in for the full effect on first sight. Maybe do a little coaching or mentoring before going full speed ahead. I mean geez, the first time you sleep with someone you don’t pull out all your crazy tricks. You take a moment. Assess the situation. You’d think the same rules would apply to greetings.

4×365: Leslie

The one I find to “have a frank discussion about sex”. We’ve only known each other a couple years, but she’s one of my closest friends and a favored advice-giver. Upwardly-mobile and the most daring dater I know, I really admire her independence (and excellent fashion sense).

A sad day for my city

While it has made national news, perhaps you haven’t heard yet…Detroit’s illustrious mayor has been charged with 8 counts including obstruction of justice, misconduct in office, and perjury. All felonies.

It’s a sad day preceded by three sad months. The whole sordid saga began in January and finally the prosecutor has reached her decision. And it’s a doozy. The mayor refuses to step down, and while I admire his “keep at it” mentality, I’m disgusted with what he’s done to our city’s reputation. Not that it wasn’t already tarnished; when I say I’m from Detroit to people who live in other states, they look at me, frown, and ask if I carry a gun. When people who live in Detroit’s suburbs find out I work downtown they ask me how I can possibly feel safe and why on earth I would choose to spend time down there outside of my work hours. I once took a friend to a Tigers game and suggested we hit a bar about a block outside the stadium after it was over. He looked at me and said “No thank you, let’s go home.” Home for him is a suburb an hour away from the city proper.

The current scandal only worsens our already bad reputation and it pains me to see that all the progress that we’ve seen the past few years is going to be thrown out the window thanks to a healthy dose of sex and texts.

But, since I have had the privilege of being exposed to the beautiful things about the city, let me share just a few things that I love about Detroit. Hopefully it combats your newly formed negative impressions thanks to our crappy-ass mayor.

1. You can nearly always find free parking. Meters are free after 6 and since it’s not a hotspot a la Chicago or LA, there’s always one open. And if you absolutely can’t find a free meter, garages are available for $5. When’s the last time you paid $5 to park your ride in Chi?
2. Great theater. The good people at Inside Detroit once told me that the D has the most live theater seats outside of NYC. I never would have guessed it, but I believe what they say. And our theaters aren’t boring venues, either. I’m talking old-school, 1920s movie house turned top-notch theater, like the Fox. I’m talking the largest Masonic Temple in the world, turned theatre.
3. Great food. I really do love my food. From greasy spoons to 4-diamond experiences, Detroit has it all. And don’t even get me started on the variety. In the mood for Greek? Greektown is the obvious choice. Feel like a margarita? Hit up Mexicantown. Really want to tempt your tastebuds with a little Middle Eastern cuisine? Head to Dearborn, which is just outside the city and boasts the largest concentration of Arabs outside of the Middle East.
4. History, history, history. Detroit was settled by the French in the 1700s. But outside of that, the architecture and buildings are amazing. Many cities have abandoned their history for a more modern look, but not us. Intermixed among the modern is the historic, making our skyline unique.
5. I can shop ’til I drop. In just a short drive I can find myself in any store, from T.J. Maxx to Gucci.
6. A region outside the city limits. Part of the reason we have such great food, shopping, theater, nightlife, and general entertainment is because Detroit is more than the city limits. Want to pretend you’re rich and fabulous? Stroll along the streets of Birmingham. Feel like hangin’ with the blue-collar folk? Find a dive bar in one of the many inner ring suburbs that line the city limits. Looking to get away from it all? Drive less than an hour from the city limits to one of our many Metroparks.

I could wax on about any one of these things and there are a plethora of others (great music, awesome neighborhoods, and awesome sports) that I didn’t even touch on. But I hope this has instilled some sense of interest in the place I call home. Ignore the negative, consider the positive, and explore all that Detroit has to offer.

The perils of living alone

As I’ve lived alone, I seem to find various perils pop up now and then. The first peril was when I had to make solo trip to the ER at 3 a.m. because I hated to wake up my friends. The peril I uncovered today has to do with nearly lighting myself (and my ghetto-fabulous apartment) on fire.

This morning, I woke up and was rather hungry for pancakes. DD and I lolled about, him watching basketball, me reading a book, and breakfast time came and went. Along about noon I pulled out some chips and the two of us gorged on those like we were on a deserted island with nothing but some Tostitos to keep us alive. While I felt the chips would simply satiate my hunger until we could make it out for said pancakes, it did quite the opposite. It made neither of us very hungry. Two hours later, we parted ways, but my craving for pancakes was still apparent. I thought, why don’t I just go home and make a couple small ones? That will satisfy the craving and not overtax my very un-hungry stomach.

So off I toddled away from DD’s and back home to the ghetto-fabulous old-motel-turned-apartment in which I live. I immediately fired up the burner, set the non-stick pan on it to heat up, and quickly mixed some batter. The last step was to spray some Pam on there to combat the non-stickiness. I happily poured some batter in the heated pan and waited.

Smoke started to swirl from under the pan, but I continued on. There was a faint burning smell, but I continued on. I flipped the pancakes, and BAM sparks flew, pops were heard, and I jumped to the opposite side of my kitchen.

It should be noted here that I have a large respect for fire. I won’t say it’s a full-fledged fear, because I do enjoy a cozy fire in the fireplace. But it’s a respect. I don’t bother it and it won’t bother me, ergo I am less likely to burn to death. So far, that mutual respect has worked. Never have I experienced sparks, much less loud POPS, while cooking. Never have I realized it may be a good idea to keep a fire extinguisher close to my stove.

Until now. After bringing my heart back into my body and venturing cautiously across the kitchen toward the stove (still afraid it may blow up in my face), I realized I’d blown the fuse. And burned a hole straight through my favorite (and only) large skillet. Oh, and a matching hole straight through the burner itself. And to add insult to injury, I’d quite smoked up the place and basically burned the pancakes.

I immediately wondered what I did wrong to elicit such a response from my stove. Upon inspection of the Pam can, I found the culprit. I had applied the oil to a heated surface (the skillet), a major no-no. It was obviously my fault I’d almost lit my place on fire.

I felt the need to absolve myself (or further blame myself) of this, so I called my dad. I regaled him with the story and at the end he said: That was absolutely not your fault. He explained the finer points of electric stoves and said my burning element was simply shot. He gently reminded me that it still was not a good idea to apply Pam to a heated pan because it could have flamed up and caused a much more serious issue, but that these particular sparks were not my fault. He even offered to fix it for me so I could avoid dealing with Landlord Steve, who would probably get around to fixing years from now, long after I’ve moved on to a (hopefully) less ghetto residence.

All of this has led me to the following conclusion: fire extinguishers are probably a good idea for the kitchen. As I stood there, shaking, still jittery after my brush with the fire that used to respect me so, I realized I had no idea what I would have done had it been more than sparks that flared up. Had flames actually occurred, I would have jumped far away, screaming, and NOT grabbing a bowl of water.

I was also reminded of the importance of insurance. Maybe I should up my coverage…

Things that make you go “hmm”

This morning started perfectly. DD and I woke up, he showered and got ready for work while I made myself a bowl of cereal and settled on the couch to catch some morning news. Perfectly routine, perfectly fabulous. It’s what I hope my life to be someday…whether it’s with DD or someone else.

But then, reality set in. GMA featured a story on infidelity, thanks to recent revelations by former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer, the new NY Gov., David Paterson, and our fine mayor, Mr. Kwame M. Kilpatrick. The story included an alarming statistic: 60% of husbands and 40% of wives have an affair. Of those marriages where an affair has occurred, 65% end in divorce. Boom. Marriage is no longer this lofty, romantic idea of happy mornings — it’s work that even when done with the upmost care, can still land you in couple’s therapy and/or divorce. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a vague understanding of the work that’s involved in marriage for the past couple years as relationships have failed and my parents have been increasingly candid with me…but still. I can’t believe that only 40% of husbands work at their marriages, and therefore don’t cheat…I have to believe that at least part of that 60% worked hard at their marriages and still faltered.

And that scares the shit out of me. That you can work and work and still, it can end.

I can’t fathom a scenario in which I would cheat. But who knows. You can’t know what marriage and “til death do us part” really means until you make that leap.

Of greater concern to me is the possibility that my husband cheats on me. Because that’s something I ultimately can’t control. And the things that I can’t control keep me up at night.

To pile more on, I chose to re-rent “The Last Kiss“. I thoroughly enjoy this movie because it portrays all sides of a relationship in an honest way. And it deals with infidelity at different levels — 30 years of marriage and a 3 year relationship — in a real way.

Seeing the very real issues that come up in this movie, and reading those statistics make me stop and think. It makes me physically ill to think that I could be one of the 60% of married women that deal with infidelity. How do women handle it? How do they handle looking at him again? Kissing him and touching him? Making love to him again?

Maybe it’s just me. I’m very protective of the man in my life. I’m one of those girls that wouldn’t be happy if she found out her guy was casually grinding on another girl at the club or getting an innocent lap dance during a bachelor party. So the idea of more-than-innocent contact? Ugh.

I get why people do it. Boredom, loss of interest, temptation. Heck, after only 9 months with DD, there’s times when I’m bored. When the routine gets a little, well, routine. But what keeps me in it is the fact that I love having him to count on. To tell him everything. To come home to at the end of the day. To take care of. But I don’t know. Maybe after 5 or 10 years, even that idyllic view of life wears off. And then what?

How do you know if you’re going to be able to get through the boredom? And more importantly, how do you know the person you choose is going to be able to get through it? I wish they made some sort of future serum that told you if the person you were about to marry would pass the test. That told you if you could pass the test.

I guess you trust your gut, close your eyes, and cross your fingers. Because I have a feeling it takes an endless supply of work, and a healthy dose of luck.

Kids today

[Begin old lady diatribe]

Yes, I know I’m only 26, and therefore closer to my teen years than middle age, but it has to be said — I often wonder about kids today. Growing up, I didn’t get into trouble, didn’t understand how to do anything illegal, and was generally a good kid. As were all my friends. Even those kids that weren’t my friends seemed like “good kids”. Yeah, maybe they got into trouble, but I didn’t see them flashing their va-jay-jays in public. But kids today, well, all I can say is watching them grow up makes me afraid to raise my own kids.

But really, who can blame them? Pop culture today is not what it was 20 years ago, or even 10. This whole thing hit home for me last weekend. DD and I had an 80s bash to go to for his friend’s birthday. So, out came the crazy colors, side ponytails, and monster ballads. Along about 1 a.m., tired and intoxicated, we turned off the 80s Billboard Chart Toppers and turned on the 80s T.V. theme songs. Ah, Growing Pains, Punky Brewster, Cosby, and Diff’rent Strokes. Oh how lovely did Family Matters and Full House sound (O.K., maybe we headed a bit into the 90s, but still, you get the point). Sitting there, singing “As long as we’ve got each other…”, I began to realize how good we had it. All of those shows were strong families who faced troubles, but everything could be solved in a half hour. More importantly, these shows presented strong role models and an actual family-friendly television experience. No need for V-Chips here.

Compare those to T.V. today. Reality T.V. abounds and don’t even get me started on the pop culture icons of Lindsey Lohan and Brittney Spears that kids have to look up to. Yes, I suppose we had our fair share of trainwreck icons too, but somehow, it all seems different. I don’t feel like they were the norm. I feel like they were part of the culture, but not all of it. And now, it’s just different. And sad. Sad that my kids won’t get to enjoy shows like we did — that made us stay home on Friday nights, just to catch up with the Tanner family.

I guess that’s what God made TV series DVDs for.

[End old lady diatribe]