Sense Sabotage. A Tale of Letting Go and the Regretting Foe.

Back in Blighty, we have "Jumble Sales."  They are rather like yard sales or small-scale flea markets, usually held in dank church halls, or rearranged and bleached school canteens.  They are frequented by elderly ladies who smell of lavender and have dangerously sharp elbows.  The point of a jumble sale is to get rid of all your shit that you no longer have use for, and for the church, charity or endeavour to make money.  The point of attending... well, it's slightly less well defined, but those treasure-seeking, antique-snuffling, bargain-hunting floral octogenarians, froth at the mouth to get elbow-deep in piles of jettisoned tat.

When I was about six or seven years old, old enough to know not to suck my finger, stick it up my nose or in electrical sockets; when I knew what a thunder clap crying or screaming in public would bring to my thigh, arm or any exposed part south of my head; when I knew throwing my skirt over my head was not the best tactic when playing hide-and-seek; I was asked to donate my toys to the school jumble sale.  Yes, I was asked to de-clutter my life at such an early age.  I was given the choice to pick, the Empirical power of dolly life with me, or dolly life with someone else who was not me--surely, Dolly Death!

I had a lot of toys.  I was like the Octomom of the Cabbage Patch nursery.  Certainly, I didn't NEED all those weirdly-named adopted children with squidged faces like Leonardo DiCaprio, or brightly coloured animal mutants.

I was almost nightly drowned in a sea of soft toy, smothered by Cabbage Patch Doll hair, asphyxiated by Wuzzle trunk, or tail or horn.  I was often found--so I am told--half out of bed, limbs dangling from the edge of my mattress, in slumbering retreat and surrender to the toy sprawl.


And thus--very maturely, I thought--I bundled up a bag of...rejects.  Katie was my one-eyed, hair-hacked plastic baby.  I think she was probably second-hand when given to me.  (As the youngest of two, and then of all the cousins, and a June baby to boot, so youngest in my school year, most things were second hand; by the time they got to me, someone else had loved and squeezed the shit of them, but heck, they were new to me and I was grateful.)  Katie was such a foundling.  I might have loved her at one stage, but she didn't have the cornsilk hair of my Cabbage Patch clutch; she didn't have nice clothes--she sported a knitted yellow onesie with a patchwork grass green pocket; she didn't make noise or cuddle well at all.  Frankly, she was ugly, and blinded, and, since I had got scissor-happy with her blonde hair, she rather resembled a strange lesbian pirate baby in a custard-yellow prison jumpsuit.

I gave her up without much soul-searching.  I had grown out of her.  Why not give her away at the jumble sale?  I didn't want her anymore.

She was tossed in the plastic bag, face down, yellow feet up, the handles were tied together and the bag was  thrown into the back of an open truck.  I felt so mature being able to give up my things.  I had let go of something that no longer served me.  I had decluttered!  I had move on!  I had put away childish things... and other grown-up cliches.

I must have slept well.  I was a content kid, the over-thinking consciousness was yet to kick in.  I can only imagine that I must have awoken to the sea of stuffed toys and plastic dollies in my bed and felt a Home Alone-esque, cheek-clasping realization that one of my babies was missing:  "KATIE!"

I remember running to Mum in a panic.  I had made a big mistake!   I didn't mean to give her up.  I wanted her back!  How could I get her back?!  I loved her!  She was my one-eyed lesbian convict pirate baby!

I cried.  I wailed.  Yes, I was old enough to know better, but sometimes our hearts speak without thinking.  I couldn't bear the thought of someone else cradling my baby, singing her sea shanties, and telling tales of her lost eyeball.  I didn't care that someone might love her or look after her better than I, or that I had many more pretty dolls, without bad buzz jobs.  She was mine and I wanted her back!

Mum phoned the school secretary, Mrs Windsor.  I watched intently, eyes awash and over-spilling with hot, stricken tears.  She was laughing!  How could she laugh?  I had lost my baby!

When she replaced the receiver she reeled me into her, my hot face buried at her waist.  Mrs Windsor would look for Katie she promised.  Don't worry, there would be a way to get her back.

And so it was, I later learned, that Mrs Windsor, her own children around my age, picked through the jumble of discarded belongings, through bag upon bag until she located the odd one-eye baby with the razored hair and the unenviable wardrobe.  Katie was restored to me.  I forget what happened then.  I probably made a fuss of her, told her I loved her all along and would never let her go again, but of course, I did.


I thought of that this week, decades later, as I watched a friend release their former loved one for reasons of sound judgement, and then, the panic... the self-sabotage, as the innate instinct of familiarity and belonging and ownership screams to get them back, reel them in again, bring them home, love them more.  Sometimes the screams are so loud they drown out the many little voices that raised discontent in the first place.  And this panic is human.  The thought of you without, in bed alone; the thought of your baby with someone else.  It hurts, even if you did instigate it.  But, and here is my point, if you had the gumption to let go, don't grasp back on, it's just confusing and time-wasting and pointless.

A good friend said once, "There are plenty more Muppets in the Sesame Sea," and some day, you will find one that you never consider letting go of, or donating to the jumble pile.  So chin up, dear friend.  Thrive on!


(And remember, if you get weepy, it's just "an inflammation in your tear gland.")  ;)

Dumping Etiquette. Or, How to Avoid Relationship Roadkill.

Relationships: when they are good, they are great; when they are bad, they are horrid.  To this we can all attest, but huzzah, yahoo, chocs away, cut the cord, thank God we live in a day, an age and a society, when we can choose who we want to be with, and, if it is not working out as we would like, we can say "Adieu."  

What is tough, is when the cord is wrenched, ripped untimely and we are left, bleeding, bruising from beneath, battered by implosions of hope; when we have been driven to the edge—sometimes thinking that we are going on a nice little road trip--only to be pushed from the speeding vehicle and thrust off the Scenic Look Out Point.  So long cosy town called Relationship. Welcome to Rejection, Population 1.

It’s an ugly state, none of your friends understand why you visit; you are perennially beaten when you go there, after all; you hate yourself for not reading the map, seeing the signs; you always proclaim that NO ONE will ever take you to that rotten fucking place again... and yet, here you are!  Ta dah!
FUCK.

 Whether expected or not, being dumped and left for dead in the town called Rejection, is one of the brutal aspects of dating.  It’s inevitable.  Or is it?  I think when one or other parts ways and drives away, there is a way to do it without relationship roadkill.  

I was reminded of this recently as I watched, in glorious technicolour and bioluminescence, Yann Martel's The Life of Pi brought to life by the superb Ang Lee.  The screenplay is slightly different phrasing from the novel--the novel verbose, the script succinct--I think both are valid here.  

"What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell...It is important in life to conclude things properly.  Only then can you let go.  Otherwise, you are left with words you should have said, but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse."

From the movie--typed furiously undercover in the black out of the movie theatre: "Life is made up of acts of letting go.  What hurts is not taking a moment to say goodbye."

The Face to Face Goodbye

This is the bravest form of relationship termination, because the reaction is always unpredictable.  It takes a steady, even, well-brought up Dumpee to keep his or her cool.  It takes a thoughtful, kind Dumper to tactfully put forth all the many and varied reasons why their journey is over.  The Dumper knows that he or she may be on the receiving end of a melt down, perhaps a few “But Why(s)?”  But then it is done.  Hollywood, Jerry Springer, or Taylor Swift autobio-songs may spice it up a bit with an ice-pick, some suit alterations with a pair of sharp pinking shears, or boiling poor innocent bunnies, but REALLY, REALLY, don't most intelligent people just take it on the chin and walk away?

The F-to-F break-up can be honourable.  It can be kind.  In this disappointment in person, face to face, voice to voice, there can be a finality between former fond friends, flames, lovers or partners.  A final look, an acknowledgement of what was, perhaps a kiss, a last embrace, one last glance of what could have been.  And perhaps then both can take heart that once they shared a closeness: memories, comedy lines, pet names, songs and jokes that will never mean the same when explained to anyone else.  

The Telephone Goodbye

Alexander Graham Bell, has a lot to answer for: namely, inventing the conduit that facilitated my own 17 year-old heart to be pulverized, pummeled and pulped; when Tom Long told me that “he just wasn’t into relationships.”

I clenched the receiver in my right hand, my knuckles so taut they went white; I curled the twirly cord around the fingers of my left until they pulsed purple.

Breathe.

“Oh.  That’s okay.  That’s fine.  Fine!  You know, I’m not really a relationship type person either.” Came the voice from the pole-axed teen, desperate to save face while her heart was imploding.  I could hardly believe it was my own, so calm, so at odds with the voice inside screaming NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 I don’t know what he said after that.  Maybe that he’d see me at army cadets on Friday, or that he hoped I’d make it to the rugby match on Saturday.  I only know Mum had to wrestle the receiver from my grip, the handset blaring audibly from the hall to the kitchen, that it was off the hook.  He was off the hook.  My poor pulmonary was not.

In spite of this early telephonic rejection, I generally think telephone dumping is good for all involved, because, as Dumpee, you can retain your pride if you want, (and hopefully not cut off your circulation); and if you are the Dumper, you can save yourself the risk of being stabbed in the eye with a fork.  However, it is kind in its way because it means you care enough to listen to the Dumpee’s response.  That’s important folks.  Everyone wants to feel special.  Everyone wants to have their opinion count, to mean something.  If you have any common decency, as a Dumper, you have to give the Dumpee a chance to say their piece too.  It is considerate.  It doesn’t mean you are going to like what they say, but suck it up, Buttercup!

The Voicemail Goodbye

      On what planet is this acceptable?  It is the cheat.  The easy way out.  It is the medium that allows a one-sided conversation.  Not even a conversation, it's a con.  The rug pulled out from under your feet, landing you flat on your back, winded and breathless, with nothing but the ghost of your relationship ruffling the curtains and rippling the shutters on it's way out.

      

       The Dear John Goodbye Letter, Post it or Email

       A letter is hardly the popular method of communication these days, but I love to receive a handwritten epistle.  The last letter I received was from an ex-boyfriend thanking me for being such a lady during our sad break-up scene.  You know, that showed real class.  He acknowledge I had broken it off with reason and honour, but that when we had been together, he had "always felt like the luckiest man in the room."  I treasure his kind words and his acceptance and release.  He marked himself as a gentleman.  However, a letter written to break-up with someone?  A “Dear John, it’s not you, it’s me…” and then all the many reasons why it was not meant to be…?  Oh please!  And telling me that the Dumper has taken extra time and effort to unite pen with paper, is bullshit.  That’s like trying to convince me that all-natural, reduced-fat peanut butter tastes good.  It doesn’t, however you package it, whether it is healthier and took months to organically churn it, it still sucks.

      Email is, I expect, more popular a form of dismissal, but is no more thoughtful.  Less so, because it is more convenient.  At least the Writing Dumper has bought a stamp.

And a Post It?  A written one-sided goodbye, but without the effort of full sentences or monogrammed paper?  It’s all so effortless.  It's so disposal.  It’s the McDonalds break up choice: cheap, full of bloated lips and arseholes, that are swallowed fast, the wrapping balled up and thrown away.  Done.  Forgotten.

A text is almost as bad, but at least Dumpee can decide whether or not to reply.

"The Mother Fucker's concise."  Yes, Samantha, but sometimes, you deserve an explanation.

Slow Fade

Are we children?  Terminating relations simply by not responding leaves so much unresolved.  It is rather gutless not to tell someone it is over, isn't it?  I mean, the Dumper is just trying to avoid dealing with the shituation.  Man up!  I know it's not fun, but at least acknowledge the end.  There doesn't have to be tears and fanfares.  But disappearing without a bye or leave is just not cricket!

I have been the Dumper.  I have been the Dumpee.  Neither is easy.  Hurting someone, unless you are, in fact, Dr Crippin, is never, never nice.  I have cried more tears over hurting someone’s feeling than I have mourning my own.  Watching or hearing someone cry and look into your eyes and ask “why?” is probably the most awful, gut-wrenching, puppy-killing kind of experience. 

So Dumpers, People, be kind!  Don't fling your former flame from the moving vehicle, or push them out like the rubbish, to plummet from a great height.  Release them gently back into the Dating Sea, maybe a little breathless, and gaffed from the insides, but they will recover.  Allow your castaways to swim off like Esther Williams sans plastic swimming cap.  Do them the courtesy of watching them clamber out of the water in their polka dot bikini, bronzed legs slightly wobbly as they get to their feet; have the heart to appreciate them as they suck in their stomach, stick out their chest and sally forth, teeth-clenched into a smile as they wave to you from the other side. 

Don’t slink off like a spineless mutant.  Communicate.  End it with respect.  Do it in person, or pick up the phone.  Read the reply.  Return the call.  Whatever, but SAY GOODBYE!  She/he will think much better of you.   We are sentient beings--most of us--we cry, but we survive.  We are vertebrates—most of us--we are supposed to have a backbone, so show it.   Stand up straight and look people in the eye.  We are mammals, one of two species in the animal kingdom who mate face to face.  So, here’s my thought: if you fuck face to face, the least you can do is say a friendly “fuck off” face to face. OR, as Carrie says:

Now, where's my champagne?

Silver Linings. Or, it's okay, EVERYONE'S a little bit mental!

On New Year’s Day, before the Oscar nominations, before the Golden Globes, before I had realized I had only 7 weeks before hardcore rehearsals for my Oscarpalooza Party Parody, I watched the trailer for Silver Linings Playbook.  Odd title, methought.  Not exactly punchy, and what the cat’s dumplings is a ‘playbook’?  (Rest easy, I know now, sports fans.)  I clicked the icon over ‘play.’

I was stuck to the screen like Martha to her hot glue gun; drawn to it like mercury up a thermometer, iron filings to a magnet, wine to my face.  It was the Lumineers soundtrack, the dialogue, the intensity, and I realized, as the trailer finished and I gulped for air, I had forgotten to breathe.  I made an agreement with Self that, with or without a date, I would see this film.  So, as the snow fell late on Tuesday night, while all the sensible people were tucked up at home, battening down the hatches, polishing their shovels and weighing their pounds of Miracle Melt, I thought, fuck it! I’m going to the movies!

I’m not going to review it, for movie-going is subjective, and I don’t want to be responsible for awkward date nights booked on my advice; neither am I going to blow it for you and reveal the intricacies of the plot, but I am going to share how it made me feel: hopeful. 

You’ll remember, I was not thrilled with the 2011 hit Crazy Stupid Love (if you don’t—tsk!—here it is: http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2011/08/crazy-sexyoh-dear-god-just-tell-her.html).  I just hated the fact Steve Carrell’s character did not fight for his beautiful wife.  (Well, not until the end.)  In SLPB, Pat Solitano, Bradley Cooper, is released from Baltimore Nuthouse and will not stop fighting.

He’s the underdog who refuses to take his meds; who endures Farewell to Arms, Lord of the Flies etc., to improve himself and impress his English teacher wife; who works out fanatically in a rubbish bin bag to get in shape and be a better version of himself.  Okay, it’s Hollywood, this version is already pretty good—I certainly wouldn’t nudge him out of bed for a cup of tea and a buttered crumpet—Cooper portrays a character so hurt, so vulnerable, so unstable, so riddled with shortcomings, but he tries, and THAT, THAT is utterly endearing.  (And the fact he eats cereal.  Bless ‘im!)

He is an unusually flawed hero with heart.  And I think that is why this odd, confrontationally charming rom com written and directed by David O. Russell actually got a nod for Best Picture.  It doesn’t have CGI, or 3-D effects, or malnourished actors shaving their heads, or almighty flesh-ripping shoot outs; it has emotion, a visible beating heart.  Best Picture Nominees, if the titles were honest!

De Niro—who I am used to seeing as some mean badass mofo—weeps, actually weeps!  In the scene where he wakes his sleeping son and stokes his hair, telling him how he should have been a better father…  his chin gets wobbly and his lips tremble and—Holy Carumba—droplets quiver in his saggy eye skin (Bob, I have tube of eye renewal with your name on it).  It was a really touching quiet moment.  But the movie is made up of them, each scene someone’s heart is served up on a platter to be held, squished or stamped on.  Each scene is driven by dimensional characters, nuance, by deft acting, not effects.
 

You can read every emotion, every jolt of surprise, bright gleam of delight, moony haze of remembrance, flicker of rage, every sad halo of disappointment as it passes through Cooper’s eyes.  He is the exuberant puppy who gets kicked, and goes a little psycho, but really I get that.

For all his violent kray-kray, wacko mood swings he has really good intentions.  I mean, I feel pissed off when I read Hemingway!  I do get a bit WOO WEE *colourful explosion of expletives* when I have lost something I cannot find.  For instance, when searching for my AWOL passport at 4am, hours before my flight, that sort of thing.  I certainly think—you know, just a hypothetical, I’m not giving the plot away AT ALL—but if I came home to find my husband chowing down on lady bits in our shower, yup, I might throw a few things.  Probably stilettos.  At Miss Lunchables head.  It’s a natural reaction.  It’s human.  Pat’s human, he just lacks a fuse.  He has an instant ignition, and no filter, like a small child without artifice, or pretense, just genuinely reacting, albeit in a socially unacceptable way.
   

Pat, his passionate father and enabling mother, try to cope with his bipolar behaviour, assisted by the pleasant staccato of Dr. Patel.  I hope this is not too un-P.C.—you know how that would bother me deeply—but it was really lovely to hear a clipped Indian accent—are my British roots showing?  Really, it’s true.  It’s a big, old country is India, I know because I’ve been there, and I listened in Geography, yet I don’t hear the unique strains of the Indian melodious chirp in many Hollywood films.  I digress.  Pat’s therapist recommends he find a strategy.  Pat focuses like an Olympian on being positive and is able to overlook the bathroom buffet, except when Stevie Wonder’s Cherie Amour is playing.  He puts all his energy on the one thing that means everything to him, his wife; or the memory of her.  The problem with looking ahead and seeing the goal posts in the distance, means you are not watching the man about to tackle you, or perhaps the wing woman team player that is there by your side all along.

When he meets Tiffany, played by Jennifer Lawrence, he is challenged in the crazy stakes.  She is an equally imperfect heroine.  Though not bipolar, she is a recovering sex addict and depressed widow, so it’s not her brain lacking a fuse or filter, she just doesn’t give a shit about convention, so does what she wants (or who she wants) and says what she means.  I have to admire that kind of ballsy woman.  She is not afraid of asking for the things she wants.

They are friends, with a capital ‘F’, because, he is—don’t forget—completely obsessed with getting back with his wife, but she challenges the crazy in his eye, and together, they make sense.  He helps her, she helps him; tit for tat; quid pro quo.  But platonic relationships are never really that even, are they Steven?  Nope.  And in Lawrence’s iced gaze, which most times could freeze kittens, you see a reflection of affection forming and warming her cold front.

He reluctantly agrees to learn a dance routine with Tiffany, in exchange for her contacting his wife—the restraining order preventing him from doing so.  To push them closer into “hold” his book making father wagers to win all his money in a parlay based on the success of the Eagles and… Pat and Tiffany’s dance scores.

Yes dancing.  The activity that brings men and women together like no other.   (Well, not including sex.)  It is where flesh and sweat and touch meet, sizzling like fine filet on a hot hibachi stone.  It is Pat, in the end, for whom the dance becomes more important.  And they are lovely together, not like Johnny and Baby, it’s more natural than that: no professional polish, no stiffness, fake tan or plastic smile—and he still hasn’t found a razor—it’s just unadulterated fun they have together, and, crazy or not, shouldn’t that be what relationships are all about?  Two people who are better versions of themselves together than apart?  Who are a team?  Who laugh and can be naked and ridiculous and FUN together?

So, I said that this film made me hopeful.  I don’t mean to wrap mental illness, addictions or afflictions in a cutesy chocolate box.  Approximately 5.7 million American adults are currently affected by bipolar disorder.  Approximately 40 million American adults suffer from anxiety disorder which can include one or many of the following: panic disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, social phobia, agoraphobia, etc.

Approximately 17.6 million American adults are alcoholics.  Apparently, though I am not overly sure how they projected this figure, but, according to the American Association for Marriage and Family Therapy, nearly 12 million American’s are sex addicts.

Clearly, everyone is fucking nuts, so maybe we should be fucking Nuts.  But let’s get back to the hope bit.  It is this: that with all these disorders, phobias, addictions, the human spirit is mighty and it can fight, and when you fight and you try, and you don’t stop trying, that’s when you find those who are important, cheering you along.

Never give up, dear Reader.  Never.  Give.  Up.

'E' is for Effort. The Cautionary Tale of Smidgen and her Yo-yo Man.

Oh, we got trouble.

Right here in Datin’ City.

It starts ‘T’ and it ends in ‘E’ and that stands for … TERRIFICALLY-EN-noying YO-YO MEN!

Yes, Dear Reader, my hackles have been raised like rabid wolf mother, caught in the midday sun, kicked in the ribs and stung by a wasp.  Not on account of my own misadventures—well, not that I can disclose here—but on behalf of my great friend, Smidgen. 

It is worse than Samantha’s “Friday Night Soup-making-Date-with Mother.” Not So Souper!  Far worse.  In fact, think of an awful date.  Let’s say… being stood up.  Imagine, if you will, the painful scenario: there you are, sitting all gussied-up, your uncomfortable knickers jammed up your crack, your boobs launched skyward, and he still hasn’t arrived.  The restaurant is bustling and the couples beside you giggle, and paw, and order.  You ask for water and play solitaire on your 'I' phone.   Appetizers grace other tables, but you try not to notice; you try to pretend you are not bothered that he hasn’t arrived because you are sure, absolutely positive, that he must be caught in traffic, or off saving the world, or something.  The entrees are served beside you and you regret that all you have had to eat today was a Luna bar.  You’ve been sitting alone for an hour now.  You realize, with an ache, you have told all your friends, nay, the entire Facebook World that you are going on said date.  Shit!  You even told the mouthy hairdresser who spent three hours getting the new shade, cut, blow and curl just right for this evening!  And then, as the table beside you clears and is reset, in walks your Ex, as smiles, as is his way, parading some little bit of Non-English Muffin, who wears the same dress you do, only better.  He waves at you on your own and immediately starts laughing, ordering with largesse, including a drink for you—oh how noble--and they start kissing, nauseatingly, sharing their appetizers as well as their saliva. 

That didn’t happen.  I’m just painting a picture.  But you have to admit, that would be a pretty darn shitty date.  My heart goes out to anyone who has gone to dinner with expectations, has been left dangling, neglected, forgotten, emotionally and mentally crushed.  But that kind of mean neglect is short-lived.  It ends at that non-date.  What happened, no, what  IS HAPPENING to poor Smidgen is worse. 

*Gasp*

*Intake of breath*

I KNOW!

What in this vast Universe could be a worse slap-in-the-face-with-a-smelly-week-dead-fish than that?  (If you had a worse dating disaster, I’m sorry.  *Head tilt* *Pout* Do share it below so Smidge can feel better.)

Well, Dear Reader, I’ll explain.  You see, Smidgen is being emotionally stood up EVERYDAY.  She is dating a… Yo-yo Man.  He is not a rapper, or a chap who is addicted to mint chocolate biscuits from the UK, or even a fellow talented in the arts of string and spool dexterity, but he is a classic yo yo…wind her in, let her drop, wind her in, let her drop.

Hard hats ON!  Hard hearts? Woof,
Smidge will never have that.

She adores him, she won’t say a bad word about him, but Yo-yo Man is starting to really piss me off on her behalf.  Smidgen is a darling.  It’s an apt name because she is just a sweetie!  She is cute and little, and you just want to give her a hug.  There’s no side to Smidge, everyone loves her.  (She is also: clever, funny, she smells great, she blows at time management and is a sucker for small animals—namely cats.)  She makes her own way, independent is Smidge, and any man would be lucky to have her.

Yo-yo Man seems … okay.  He is not drop-my-knickers-have-my-lovechild funny or handsome, but he is rather nice.  I can see why she might date him to start with, but now?  Now, I am rather at a loss.

You see, he makes no effort.  She is on a string, dangling, waiting for him to roll on in, dazzle her with the charisma she says he possesses, wrap her up in his mighty grip and then, just as things are getting friendly, propel away again, leaving her reeling, feeling inadequate that she can’t keep him for longer; discouraged that he doesn’t want to stay; heart-heavy that he would rather sleep alone than nestled into the soft, clean sheets beside her and her new Victoria’s Secrets purchases. 

We met at our favourite Sunday brunch spot, State St: Smidge, The Empress, The Goddess, The Nymph and me.  It had been a wee while since the five of us had met and news came flurrying from all angles, excited rapid fire of tales of love, of work, of cats, of life.  All angles except for Smidge’s. She was unusually reticent.  It wasn’t until I had finished my eggs benedict, and she had pushed away most of her house salad, that she spilled her sorry state of relations and admitted things were not going as well as she had hoped.  Largely, that her chap had indeed, become a Yo-yo.  A day would go by without even a “hello” text; whole weeks would pass without seeing his face; things that would not seem so bad if he had been aloof from the start, but he hadn’t.

“Think of your relationship as a pie chart.”  I said, trying to present the emotional shituation logically.  “Divide the pie into the slices of time he makes you deliciously, soaringly, climatically happy, and the slices of time he makes you look as sad and forlorn as you do now.  Because I have to say, you look about as pale and puffy-lidded as a Halibut.”   (We are close.  I can say things like that.)

“It’s not that easy.”  Smidge wailed, stabbing her fork futilely at an escapee leaf of argula.  “Because this is a new thing.  He didn’t do this at first.  He made an effort and I felt special, but now… it’s not a happy pie chart.  It’s a shitty poo chart!”

The Empress, the Goddess, the Nymph and I collectively sighed.  Our friend had regressed to high school and he was the cause.  You see, we know what she is worth, we know what she deserves, but Smidge is so distracted by the rose-tinted memories of their romance initially, she cannot make a logical, dispassionate decision.  She will not give up, she will not let go of this man who clearly only wants her at his own convenience, because she’s a naïve trier.  And good for her.  I’d rather be a trier than a wimp, a fighter than a flee-er, an optimist rather than a pessimist; but, if she is making all the effort, if this is all one-way traffic, if he has lost interest after just a month, it doesn’t exactly bode well for a future happy harmonious relationship, does it?

She should be with someone who actively wants to be with her; who wants to do things with her and for her, EVEN if he doesn’t particularly like those things.  He should be so friggin’ blinded by Almighty Cupid that he would do them anyway, and would human torpedo himself to her side at the slightest suggestion of ripping her clothes off and getting her naked. 

To make Yo-yo Man’s distance even more alarming, was the stark contrast to the Empress’s new beau, a sterling chap who is the very opposite of Yo-yo Man; he’s a No-Don’t-Go Man.  Their nascent relationship is already years old in couple comfort; they look and act as if they have been together for decades.  They know each others’ flaws and love them anyway.  They shop together—looking rather like a prima donna and her Body Guard; when she dances, he will, without eye-rolling, hold her purse; he will—on occasion—dance with her; he will cook meatless meals for her, although he is a committed carnivore; he makes an effort.

And I think that is what shocked everyone around the brunch table, especially Smidgen.  As we listened to these contrasting tales of togetherness and separation, I saw Smidge’s eyes well with tears (or dust and allergies), and I knew that she got it too.  It’s about trying, about effort, and Yo-yo Man just didn’t care enough for her to make an effort. 

Maybe she’ll give up soon, cry a little more, hold her head up and get on with things.  We did converse just yesterday, as cities away we both lay on our respective couches watching Jerry Maguire, text-commentating on when Tom Cruise got weird and about Renee Zellwegger’s character’s lack of fashion sense, and she texted with many exclamation marks that she had completed assembling a flat-pack desk thingy from Target.  “I did it all myself!!!!!!!! I did it without *****.  I don’t need him to complete me.  I complete me.”  That’s the spirit, thought I.  But my Romantic Self spasmed with sadness, I don’t want Me to be the greatest love of my life, and I know Smidge doesn't either.

I know she’ll be fine, but it is an interesting concept, don’t you think?  Being constantly left dangling, without plan or agenda, is far more hurtful than being stood up as one’s Ex and his Muffin exchange bodily fluids an arm’s reach away; it’s mentally more demoralizing than a couple’s Christmas squabble; it’s there, chipping away at her confidence with every hour of every day he doesn’t bother.

So remember Datin’ City Folk, if you truly like this one, make the effort.  Go out of your way to bring her/him a coffee; text her to ask how her day is going/text him to ask if he has eaten; make plans; do things that you wouldn’t normally do; meet her/his friends.  It shouldn’t be hard, it’s easy, because you will want to.  That drive, the desire, that pounding in the depth of your stomach that scares and delights and fires you to make someone happy, makes even difficult tasks a pleasure.

Post Script: In researching whether to spell yo-yo with or without a hyphen, I stumbled upon the Urban Dictionary's version of Yo-yo: abbreviation of "You're Own Your Own."  How apt.  Poor Smidgen.

Slammin': Things are about to get "Orated."

When the delightful Pam Hill asked if I would compete in the third ever Scranton Story Slam, my initial reaction was one of surprise, nausea and overwhelmingly reluctance.  A bit like oral sex.  In what universe does that sound at all appealing?  But, I am ever swayed by peer pressure; I knew others who had done it, friends who I am sure wouldn't lie to me, who told me I would be "awesome at it and have a damn good time!"  And so, I donned my best underwear, sprayed twice, and took a deep breath.

I give you my oral all:




I won't give you the running commentary.  But let's say, if you ever catch me flicking my hair nervously like that again, please give me a Chinese burn.  Thanks muchly.

The seven minutes or more--probably more--flashed by in a blur.  I was nervous, not just the flutter of small lepidopteran wings in my colon, but like, oh God almighty, Sigourney Weaver Alien Baby about to breach, and Lord knows there was not enough room in that dress for any kind of stomach issue!

Now, dear Reader, I know what you are thinking, "But Eleanor, you were an actress, this talking in front of people mullarkey should be a cake walk!"  Well, no.  No, acting is quite different.  Acting you can be someone else.  Acting, you are regurgitating lines from someone else's mind.  You can blame them.  Story Slamming, is all you.  It is YOU under the lights, strapped to an imaginary chair, a chainsaw whirring through your cranium to cut a slice of brain for microscopic inspection.  You are judged: for delivery, for eloquence, sometimes boob retention, but mostly for content.  It's one thing to be thought talentless, quite another to be considered dumb.

There were several times I tried something new--I was spontaneous--and it didn't quite hit the spot, but the peel of laughter from the Thespos at the back, implied I was, at least, going in the right direction.  Then I got to the broccoli bit--the physical flailing where I am in danger of losing my mind as well as my boob, apparently--and the adrenalin was hitting hard.  I just wanted to get to the end, reach the climax of the story and roll off the stage for a glass of pinot noir and tuna bite.  I writhed, shrieking like a banshee and as I dropped to my knees, I looked up, eyes wide, took a breath and it was the best feeling in the world; my vision sparkled with the glint of white teeth, the reflection of eyes, spectacles, pints of beer, glasses of wine; the glisten of sweat, and gums, tongues and tonsils; people were listening to me.

I didn't win, but it was okay, I'd had my own personal victory.  I had made it through my oral!  I had found my voice, "Yes!  Yes!"  People had listened and laughed!  And I had done it all without a wardrobe malfunction.

My Lowes Point. In which I learn I cannot find studs alone!

I am a fish out of water in home improvement stores.  I walk through the automatic sliding doors, crossing the portal into—Gloria Steinheim, forgive me—Mandom, and I have landed on the moon, or in a swamp, or Nanticoke; somewhere that is clearly, clearly uninhabitable.  The air, it’s heady mix of wood, and oil and GRRR power tools has a chemical composition that is impossible for me to breathe.  That’s it, dear reader, it’s a chemical thing: I drown in home improvement air.

It shouldn’t be foreign to me.  It should be air I can suck on like Michael Phelps does a hookah—I mean, like he does oxygen… when breaking through the surface… when swimming and winning gold—oh what?  Wait.  Nevermind.  The point is, I should not be out of my element here.  Home Improvement is not rocket science.  I’m a woman, that means I actually READ instructions.  I should have this DOWN!

I remember visiting frequently enough as a child and more recently, Friday or Saturday date nights with the ex-Beloved.  Pre- or post- dinner often involved a stop to trawl the aisles of Lowes for some mind-numbing screw, flange or whirligig.  (Perhaps this is why we are ex-?)  

Dating tip #354: when your date is all dressed up and excited to spend time with you, do not add in a “quick trip” to do a chore on the way or return journey.  Firstly, it’s never quick.  Secondly, do you want all the bearded people in Lowes to stare at your sequined and sparkly date like she’s the freak show?  Thirdly, she doesn’t care if you need to spackle your sheetrock.  Spackle can wait.  There are more important sheets to rock.

Since home-owning, not to be confused with ho-moaning, I have counted Self quite lucky.  So sure, I had a run in with the furnace and the local fire department http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2012/11/i-am-invincible-in-which-i-learn-pride.html ; I had to change my internal bath tub plug thingy doodah; and I almost decapitated Self when trying to take down an unexpectedly heavy light/fan, but really, I am blessed.  My Lady Lit friend who recently bought her first house had a calamity and schooled me that home-owning was not all it was cracked up to be.  Her sewer pipe backed up and she had to wade through a sea of poo in her basement.  Really, that makes one reframe, doesn’t it?  Everyday I don’t have to be calf-deep in cesspit of piss and shit, must be a good day! 

However, although I grasp a challenge with two manicured, yet determined hands, although I can read, there are things I just don’t know; there are items I just cannot lift; there are heights I just cannot reach.

Take the TV.  Simple enough, you may say.  Nope.  Incorrect, Sir.  Not easy.  It’s a project.  I bought this wangle-dangle TV.  I gave in.  After the torrent of outrage following last week’s blog (http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2012_12_01_archive.html ) that I did not have a screen to place Papa Smurf in front of, I folded and decided, maybe it was time to join 2012 before it ran out.  Sadly, Papa Smurf flew to Blighty the day I bought it, so he has yet to enjoy the technology dans la maison.  Also, I have been doing much entertaining of late and gathering a friend or group of friends to cluster around your much-smudged laptop to watch fuzzy, interrupted youtube clips and re-runs of Dancing with the Stars, does not an equipped host make.  I capitulated.  I surprised Self.  I really did.  I went to a certain grey goods store (it was almost as hard for me to breathe in there as Lowes, but I held my breath and smiled broadly), and I became educated on the difference between plasma, LED and LCD.  Oh yes, people, I know shit now.

 

After the general spiel, I opted for the Smart LED TV.  Bill explained I could do lots of wangle dangle things with it.  Oh goody.  I did explain to him that I don’t really watch TV, and that I also have an ‘I’ phone that I don’t really use to it’s full capability, but still, it sounded like maybe, if I read the instructions, I could do this!  I could enter the modern age.

After the deal was done I decided a bracket was what I needed.  No clutter or table to dust, I wanted it on the wall, preferably behind a secret sliding panel, a la James Bond, but failing that, definitely mounted!  I bought the mount.  Then began my endless visits to Lowes.

. 

I walked up and down each aisle, squinting at the labels, looking high, crouching low, scouring for dry wall anchors like some crime scene investigator in glorious, impractical Technicolor.  I spent twenty fruitless minutes combing the area and regretting the sequin mini skirt that made bending over relatively precarious.  A bearded chap—I see Home Improvement Junkies all have beards—approached me and asked if he could help me.  Of course, the little purple pack was right under my nose. 

During his weeks here, Papa Smurf had equipped me with a drill and a spirit level.  Of course I told him I would never use them and ungraciously asked him why ever he would bother getting me those useless items—though the level did, I notice, have a nifty ruler on it.  Yet, he was right!  Now was the time, the time for TOOLS!  I tip-toed down to the basement and retrieved the new drill, the level and the plugs and laid them next to the TV.  I felt very accomplished; a bit like a chef, with all the ingredients chopped and minced neatly in little white bowls all ready to start creating!

But, GAH!  There was one ingredient missing.  A vital one.  I couldn't just nail it to the wall.  I needed... a Stud Finder.  I put a message out, certain that my handiest dandiest friend would respond.  He didn't.  Instead a number of kind offers to lend me their Stud Finder.  

Side note: I have never been very good at learning the right song lyrics.  I have always preferred to make up my own--it masked errors through originality.  I'm telling you this, because just hearing the words Stud Finder, regressed me to 1980's Grease 2 and I was a Michelle Pfeifffffffffer’s singing: “I need a Stuuuuuuuuuud Finder!  A Stuuuuuuuuud Finder!”  If you are a Chap Reader, that will mean nothing to you, so here's the video.  (No need to thank me.)  If you are a lady reader, I hope you find this as irresistible to sing along with as I do.  I digress.  But one last thing, don't you love how she is supposed to be 17 years old?  Yeah.  17 plus 7 years. 

Despite these studly offers, the logistics proved more complicated.  And so I thought, Fuck it!  I'll buy my own and do it myself.  You never know when a stud finder might come in handy.

So I returned, breathed deep and with the help of the bearded people, found the Finder of the Studs.  What a great little tool!  If only I could take it out in public and hold it up to every likely lad.  It could save much wasted time.  I found my studs, lying inert under the surface, like a diamond, or gold, or a decaying corpse.  

I imagine I looked a bit like this.
 (And that's shadow in my armpit.  I am British, not German.)

Now, you know this is not my thing.  I write, I teach people about their skin, I do not roll up my sleeves and transform into Tim Allen.  I am lanky, gawky and ungainly.  I make drunks look elegant even when I’m sober.  So picture me now, trying to hold up this large TV above my head—like Atlas—with a pencil in my mouth and the spirit level clenched under my arm, trying to get an idea of where the TV should go.  How do men do this?  Don’t they have the same two hands I have?  How do they hold all these things?  Does a penis naturally endow a chap with an extra hand?  Does it have elephant trunk like skills?  

I juggled the awkward screen in my hands, propping it up with my head, the lightweight television becoming lead-weight with every passing minute.  What didn’t help was the telephone which persisted on ringing, and the slippery hardwood that I had mistakenly spray polished when dusting the dining room table.  I juggled and slipped, dropped the spirit level on my toe, and in the end, slid to the floor, holding the prized screen up like some chalice I must save from the swamp of defeat.

I felt pretty demoralized.  I am sure Papa Smurf could have done it on his own.  Yet, I had failed.  I just couldn’t do it alone.  Sorry womankind.  So, I lit the bat signal, shone it over Scranton, and the cavalry arrived, in the form of my dearest friend's boyfriend: big capable hands, strength and oodles of patience.  The screen that I had sweated under, juggled, death-gripped, he held in his hands like it were cardboard.  He explained the mechanism of the mount and tossed the TV up on the wall with the effort I take to place a fridge magnet.  I was about as useful to him as a scuba diving tank to a fish.

I like to think I am pretty capable.  I like to think I am not a damsel in distress, but a dame with power tools and a dress; yet, sometimes there are tasks one woman cannot do alone; she needs a broader arm span and bigger hands.  Now I just need Mankind to need me for a task that requires smaller hands, a loud voice and bad ass limbo skillz.  No, I can't think of anything other than cat burglary either.  Don't ask me to do that, but  if you need these able digits to twiddle the hard-to-reach wires in the light fixture, I'm your gal!  Or snake to reach the pipes at the back of the dishwasher, I can do it!  Or sit back and watch her new smart TV, ah yeah, I'm on it!

Thank you, Batman.  

FUCSSUE. In which I read something I shouldn't have.

I read something that was not meant for me today.  I didn’t mean to, but I did.  It wasn’t like I picked the lock on someone’s diary—I am not twelve—or that I scrolled through their text messages—I am not jealous soul--but it was just... there and I just… oh whoops, read it. 

Of course you can’t “accidentally” read something, can you?  It reminds me of the Sandi Toksvig novel Flying under Bridges: "How do you get accidentally pregnant?  You don’t just fall off a stool and accidentally land on a penis, do you?"

Reading takes intention.  You have to focus your eyes and string the words together, your brain makes a choice to do that.  You could, at any moment, stop yourself after that first “oopsie” word; realizing it’s not for you, you could close your eyes, turn off the computer, throw your hands in the air and wave ‘em like you just don’t care.  You could.  But would you?

You see, Facebook chats being left visible; texts popping up, readable under the nose of someone they are not meant for; texts sent to the wrong person, it happens every day.   I have heard many of the Closests lament to me that they have sent or received or left messages visible for an Unintended.  And then they have laughed, or cried, or both.  Ah Technology!  You can be a cunning little fucker when you want to be. 

There’s a term for this Reader, it’s a Communicatory Fucssue: a fucking issue, that literally, “fucks you.”  I have never really been exposed to this kind of exposee.  Well, not in adult life.  As an annoying little sister it was only my duty to steal into my brother’s bedroom and try to read anything that was specifically not meant for me.  An invasion of privacy, certainly, but don’t worry, I was always on the receiving end of a sound beating after every reconnaissance mission.  How did he always know when I had been in his den?  How?  I was always so bloody careful!   I was like a seven year old pink ninja, in a leotard, ballet shoes and gloves.  That scene in Entrapment with Sean—GRRR—Connery and Catherine—Queen of Wales-It should have been me-Spartacus-Zeta-Douglas-Jones, sliding and crouching and planking through the security net of laser beams?  That was me!  Yet, every bloody time:  “ELEANORRRRRR!”  I would hear yelled with obvious I’m-going-to-beat-the-ever-living-shit-out-of-you-you-little-turd tone and I’d be up like a character in the Hunger Games listening for the direction and speed of his footfalls and sprinting in the opposite way as fast as my little pink legs would carry me—never fast enough—and I would always be apprehended, upended and tackled to the ground, my legs kicking uselessly in the air and screaming for Mum.  Yeah, ninja.  Completely.

Perhaps it was this early, painful punishment of childish curiosity that made me resolutely, vehemently fanatical about others’ privacy.  I have never read anyone else’s mail, email, texts or FB messages without their approval, or rather insistence, that I should for some reason.  In fact, I like to think that I veer the other way; when the Pavlovian conditioning, that makes me look to the cell display on the table as it illuminates and vibrates, is finally overridden by the realization “Oh shit!  That’s not my phone,” my neck almost snaps to look away in the opposite direction.  Messages are only supposed to be seen by the sender and recipient, right?  Right.

But this, this bait and lure left visible on my own computer was just too much. 

Let me set the scene.  Papa Smurf, known to some as Michael Caine, has been visiting his favourite daughter.  Well, his only daughter.  Oh we’ve been bonding (by that I mean eating and drinking) and aside from the pressures that a visit around my busiest work time of the year, multiplied by the aggravation of uncooperative household projects, we’ve been having a jolly good time, I think. 

But it’s hard, when you have lived independently from your P.U. (Parental Unit,) not to get a wee bit claustrophobic.  The '1's On The Ridge is hardly Wayne Manor; I can't send him to the east wing, the billiard room or the library.  I don't have a TV to plop him down in front of and distract him while I get on with things, so it's a smidgen awkward.  Writing this has been the most constantly-interrupted piece of all time.  I can only look at the screen for so long while he is talking at me before politeness kicks in and I have to break away again.  I have, however, put specific days and evenings aside to see my Papa—I was feeling very Good-Daughter-Cordelia-Smugface about this.

Dad has become reacquainted with the area and has been enjoying the company of my friends.  I threw a dinner party—okay, he cooked, but he likes that, and it was my idea; I threw another party, complete with St. Germain and champagne, and a veritable fromagerie of cheese—I may be crap at throwing balls, but boy do I like throwing parties; we’ve been to jazz at Bazil, Blues at the Back Yard Ale House, I took him to Gannon’s for beers and wings, what more could a darling daught do?  I did shit, People! 

And I was obviously doing a bang up job, because..."recalculating"... Papa Smurf 180-ed and decided that instead of buying a home and a boat in North Carolina, he will buy a home in NEPA!   I was rather surprised by this idea and the sudden geographical “U” turn.  Long have I thought about how nice it would be just to call my parents in the morning and say, “Let’s go for a trot around Lake Scranton and then out to lunch at State St!”  Many are the times that I have wished I was able to include them in a Bond Party, or Oscar Doodah, or seasonal shindig.  There are so many places I want to take them; so many people I want them to meet.  And yes, there’s always been that little silent speech bubble in my brain: where will you be if I have a baby?

But then the idea of North Carolina appealed too.  Oh, somewhere new to visit!  Somewhere warm!  Somewhere in the same time zone!

This new turn of events, therefore, made me quite discombobulated.  Did Papa Smurf really want to be here with the welcoming community I had fallen for; what about his boat, sunshine and retirement idyll?  Surely, thought I, both are mutually exclusive.

Yet, he is gung ho!  He has been salivating all over the property websites like I salivate over the cheese section at Wegmans.  He has been in cahoots with my darling friend Kathy Casarin from Coldwell and they have set up property viewings (without me)!  So, it's fair to say, Papa Smurf is serious.

It’s as we were discussing this around the kitchen island that he said, 

“Well, you mother has written me a long email about it.  She thinks I am giving up my dream of having another boat…” 

“Oh.  Well, round here it’s not really boating weather 9 months of the year.  And the local lakes aren't really, you know, the Atlantic Ocean.”

And that was that.  Papa Smurf went to the bathroom to continue the endless and soul-destroying many-layered wall paper stripping, and I clicked closed my lap top and toddled off to work.

Then it happened.  In my studio in Wilkes-Barre.  I opened my laptop, restored my Google Chrome and there it was: the email on MY Google Chrome.  Papa Smurf never uses my Google Chrome.  Papa Smurf always used the regular blue Windows Explorer internet dooberry.  But this time, he had logged in, and the tab was there, restored in front of my eyes.

I should have closed the tab.  It would have been easy enough.  But I didn’t.  After all, I was interested to know what dearest Mama had said.  I wanted to read her opinions on this sudden life changing decision.  And it was from Ma!  The person I know best in the whole wide world.  So, Dear Reader, Mum, Dad, I read it.

I won’t go into detail.  (I’m trying to make a point it was private after all.)  But, to read one's mother's carefully thought out opinions, including the concern that their daughter never has time for them and she probably will never have children anyway, made me realize five things:

• I must make more time for my parents.
• I really hope they move whenever they will be most happy, and if that is near me, I will be pleased.  We can always vacation somewhere warm with beaches and lighthouses.
• My eggs protest and heart fibrillates at such a death sentence.
• 2013 is going to be interesting.
• You should never use someone else's computer and leave your messages open.