Tiassa
05-23-03, 03:58 PM
This might actually kill me, in the end.
In a short while I will be losing the room in which my computer is now safely ensconced; a friend is moving in with us for circumstances 2c2e°
And this in and of itself should not be troubling, however, as I now realize from today ...
(1) The most sensual and inherently erotic female I know is moving in
(2) Right now she's outside in her bikini, hanging with Tig; either her breasts grew or the top shrunk, she says. Uh-huh.
(3) My digital camera is utterly MIA, as in stolen a couple of weeks ago and its replacement doesn't arrive for a couple of days, so I'm sorry I can't share the moment.
(4) But this is going to be my summertime ...
(5) There's no polite way to say it: my partner, in the tradition of stereotypes, has gone utterly frigid now that she's got me in place for a few years.
Seriously ... a friend moving in shouldn't be a problem. I don't actually mind giving up the space but ...
(6) No matter how you cut it, there's something creepy about pornography in the living room, you know?
God my life is about to become a "Catholic" stereotype. "Nothing. I'll be out ... in a minute ... go away!"
This could actually kill me, you know?
I just need to broaden my social circle. Aside from my daughter, I generally don't see the people who are important to me. The rest of it is this: superficial temptation, interpersonal politics, and a general waste of energy that no child should have to endure.
I'll spare you the rhetoric of the actual arguments. It's lengthy, windy, and empty.
There is no issue. I'm just bitching because it's the only thing that will make me feel better about the perverse stereotype my life has become:
- Gender roles are reversed with stunning monochrome resolution. I had been sick for days when I finally f--ked up and locked myself out of the house while my daughter was inside. That things have gotten so absurd as to have me smashing through a bathroom window in the middle of the day has been a bit of a tension breaker, but I still don't think Tig realizes how badly I was feeling because if I answer with anything other than "Wonderful" when she asks how I'm doing after she's been slaving away at work I essentially get the classic, grumbling, "Well I work hard to support his family and I'm tired and all you ever do is complain ...." What, you asked me how I was doing; next time, don't ask. And so she doesn't. I don't think she actually cares that medical attention would have been advisable for me ... oh, round about Monday. Why doesn't she realize this? Because she doesn't actually want to know how anyone is feeling.
- It's like a soap opera. One of my friends recently pointed out that she understood Tig's position regarding expectations of "family time" (which, incidentally, involves me feeding and changing the baby and listening to Tig talk about how cool she is while watching two hours of soap operas on videotape) because, as my friend put it, "Well, you share a bed." Well, to what degree? I stopped worrying about sex itself a couple of months ago because asking, suggesting--I simply won't beg--and otherwise appealing to her sensuality has become an honestly repugnant politic. There is no point. And yet the lack of contact becomes somehow my fault: "I just don't know why we can't seem to work this out," she says. "I'm always tired and you don't seem to want me anymore." Well, the answer that We can't work it out, babe, because it's simply not important to you, which is in fact the practical, observable, mechanical, and coldly clinical answer, is still an unacceptable answer to an ego that works so hard to support yadda-yadda-yadda. How the f--k does it come back to me? I figured that I should stop asking when you said, "Yeah, sure," and then went to the store "for a soda" and stayed out for three hours, then came home and sorted screws, wall hooks, and thumb tacks into separate containers. I get the freaking hint. Add to that the constant talk about "other chicks", and one of my friends swears her faux-bisexuality (I've only known her to try a woman once in seven years) is merely a calculated routine designed specifically to inflict distress. I won't even be mentioning today to him because he would think that this is exactly what it's about. But I don't think Tig is that smart. She's bright, to be sure, but not brilliant in her insanity.
But I lie for this woman (I call it a picket fence of lies, don't ask for an explanation), have abandoned I don't know how many of her house rules because she won't let me keep up on them (never turn your back on this woman; she won't steal from you, but she'll screw something up in a matter of seconds); I even pick up the parts of parenting that she can't keep up on after a hard day at work (like the "Binky emergency, Daddy!" when the pacifier is on the coffee table and she would have to lean forward in order to pick it up; yes, that was a good reason that I should get off the phone while my mother is asking me what she can bring us for the baby when she arrives two days later); my life has become incredibly petty aside from getting to know my daughter, and while that ought to be enough, it does in its own right threaten even that. But that's a different story for a different day.
The cumulative result is that I don't know whether to spit, masturbate, or fall over dead of a stroke. Something or another has got to give, and I don't expect it to be the Ice Queen. And I live in the suburbs, almost in a rural area now, so it's not really time to consider switching teams officially. Some of the neighbors have gun racks in their oversized pickup trucks.
You know that scene in Monty Python's Meaning of Life that starts with, "This man is about to die" and it's the guy being chased by the bevy of naked topless women in bikinis and crash helmets? Suddenly that seems within the realm of possibility.
I guess I could start chasing some bored housewives.
But I reserve the right to be extremely disappointed that this is what my life has come to. Of course, having bitched about it for over an hour, I'm now merely indignant over the insanity of the interpersonal dynamic. But it's a lot easier to deal with when I don't have untouchable hot chicks walking around in undersized bikini tops, you know?
Notes:
° 2c2e - see Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories; "too complicated to explain"; despite my affection for Rushdie's work, this is perhaps the only time you'll see me use this shorthand, as I despise such shorthand outside of Rushdie's abuse of bureaucracy and other similar artistic needs.
:m:,
Tiassa :cool:
In a short while I will be losing the room in which my computer is now safely ensconced; a friend is moving in with us for circumstances 2c2e°
And this in and of itself should not be troubling, however, as I now realize from today ...
(1) The most sensual and inherently erotic female I know is moving in
(2) Right now she's outside in her bikini, hanging with Tig; either her breasts grew or the top shrunk, she says. Uh-huh.
(3) My digital camera is utterly MIA, as in stolen a couple of weeks ago and its replacement doesn't arrive for a couple of days, so I'm sorry I can't share the moment.
(4) But this is going to be my summertime ...
(5) There's no polite way to say it: my partner, in the tradition of stereotypes, has gone utterly frigid now that she's got me in place for a few years.
Seriously ... a friend moving in shouldn't be a problem. I don't actually mind giving up the space but ...
(6) No matter how you cut it, there's something creepy about pornography in the living room, you know?
God my life is about to become a "Catholic" stereotype. "Nothing. I'll be out ... in a minute ... go away!"
This could actually kill me, you know?
I just need to broaden my social circle. Aside from my daughter, I generally don't see the people who are important to me. The rest of it is this: superficial temptation, interpersonal politics, and a general waste of energy that no child should have to endure.
I'll spare you the rhetoric of the actual arguments. It's lengthy, windy, and empty.
There is no issue. I'm just bitching because it's the only thing that will make me feel better about the perverse stereotype my life has become:
- Gender roles are reversed with stunning monochrome resolution. I had been sick for days when I finally f--ked up and locked myself out of the house while my daughter was inside. That things have gotten so absurd as to have me smashing through a bathroom window in the middle of the day has been a bit of a tension breaker, but I still don't think Tig realizes how badly I was feeling because if I answer with anything other than "Wonderful" when she asks how I'm doing after she's been slaving away at work I essentially get the classic, grumbling, "Well I work hard to support his family and I'm tired and all you ever do is complain ...." What, you asked me how I was doing; next time, don't ask. And so she doesn't. I don't think she actually cares that medical attention would have been advisable for me ... oh, round about Monday. Why doesn't she realize this? Because she doesn't actually want to know how anyone is feeling.
- It's like a soap opera. One of my friends recently pointed out that she understood Tig's position regarding expectations of "family time" (which, incidentally, involves me feeding and changing the baby and listening to Tig talk about how cool she is while watching two hours of soap operas on videotape) because, as my friend put it, "Well, you share a bed." Well, to what degree? I stopped worrying about sex itself a couple of months ago because asking, suggesting--I simply won't beg--and otherwise appealing to her sensuality has become an honestly repugnant politic. There is no point. And yet the lack of contact becomes somehow my fault: "I just don't know why we can't seem to work this out," she says. "I'm always tired and you don't seem to want me anymore." Well, the answer that We can't work it out, babe, because it's simply not important to you, which is in fact the practical, observable, mechanical, and coldly clinical answer, is still an unacceptable answer to an ego that works so hard to support yadda-yadda-yadda. How the f--k does it come back to me? I figured that I should stop asking when you said, "Yeah, sure," and then went to the store "for a soda" and stayed out for three hours, then came home and sorted screws, wall hooks, and thumb tacks into separate containers. I get the freaking hint. Add to that the constant talk about "other chicks", and one of my friends swears her faux-bisexuality (I've only known her to try a woman once in seven years) is merely a calculated routine designed specifically to inflict distress. I won't even be mentioning today to him because he would think that this is exactly what it's about. But I don't think Tig is that smart. She's bright, to be sure, but not brilliant in her insanity.
But I lie for this woman (I call it a picket fence of lies, don't ask for an explanation), have abandoned I don't know how many of her house rules because she won't let me keep up on them (never turn your back on this woman; she won't steal from you, but she'll screw something up in a matter of seconds); I even pick up the parts of parenting that she can't keep up on after a hard day at work (like the "Binky emergency, Daddy!" when the pacifier is on the coffee table and she would have to lean forward in order to pick it up; yes, that was a good reason that I should get off the phone while my mother is asking me what she can bring us for the baby when she arrives two days later); my life has become incredibly petty aside from getting to know my daughter, and while that ought to be enough, it does in its own right threaten even that. But that's a different story for a different day.
The cumulative result is that I don't know whether to spit, masturbate, or fall over dead of a stroke. Something or another has got to give, and I don't expect it to be the Ice Queen. And I live in the suburbs, almost in a rural area now, so it's not really time to consider switching teams officially. Some of the neighbors have gun racks in their oversized pickup trucks.
You know that scene in Monty Python's Meaning of Life that starts with, "This man is about to die" and it's the guy being chased by the bevy of naked topless women in bikinis and crash helmets? Suddenly that seems within the realm of possibility.
I guess I could start chasing some bored housewives.
But I reserve the right to be extremely disappointed that this is what my life has come to. Of course, having bitched about it for over an hour, I'm now merely indignant over the insanity of the interpersonal dynamic. But it's a lot easier to deal with when I don't have untouchable hot chicks walking around in undersized bikini tops, you know?
Notes:
° 2c2e - see Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories; "too complicated to explain"; despite my affection for Rushdie's work, this is perhaps the only time you'll see me use this shorthand, as I despise such shorthand outside of Rushdie's abuse of bureaucracy and other similar artistic needs.
:m:,
Tiassa :cool: