"I'd have me a place down around Flatrock..."

Todd can use very poor grammar. It's not like he does it all the time, but when he does slip into the bad habit, he does it really bad (even worse than mere adjective/adverb confusion--yes, my badly.)

Most of the time, I guess I don't notice. After all, we didn't just start living together yesterday. How could someone as easily perturbed by sloppy grammar end up hitched to a gross offender? Good question.

In college, I went through the typical idealistic rebellion. I could have been snooty. Struggling through school, without a label in which to coddle my dyslexia and A.D.D., I had to work hard to catch up and keep up. In spite of being one of the youngest kids in my class, I managed to graduate from high school a year early. And in spite of my unidentified disabilities, I was invited into my university's elite honors program. The first day of honors philosophy, I was appalled by the smug attitudes of many of my classmates. They seemed incapable of opening their mouths without boasting. It was quite the pretentious show! Before the first week was over, I petitioned to switch to 'regular' classes, which offered a greater variety of choice and classmates who weren't so fake.

So, when I first met Todd, was it a case of me overlooking his poor grammar because I was digging for something deeper? Perhaps. Or was he exercising extreme control over his language usage in order to impress me? Equally likely. Since lust and horniness are blind, I'm not sure I'll ever know the answer to that question.

What I do know is it's been bugging me lately. More and more. Driving me batty, even. I think it's getting worse, and I think it may be purposeful. Yesterday, I overheard him talking on the phone with his mom. "I'd have me a place down around Flatrock..." he said. Now, perhaps my mind zeroed in on the language issue in order to ignore the disturbing content (moving back to hillbilly land--a subject that, as Todd has been informed on more than one occasion, is so troubling to my heart that he'd better not even joke about it.)

Some might say that he was slipping into the language of his Podunk homeland simply because he was speaking with one of its inhabitants. I wouldn't mind so much if that was the only time he did so, but it's not. [And his mother being a school teacher, who likes to flaunt her educational credentials, you'd think he'd watch his language with her.]

Todd's grammatical faux pas bother me the most when he is speaking to the children. I cringe at the thought of them picking up similar speech patterns--not because I'm some sort of a grammar expert, but rather because I know that the way a person speaks can make a lasting impression. I don't want my children to suffer needlessly--to appear stupid or uneducated when they're applying for scholarships and jobs.

You may think I'm being overly critical of Todd. "The poor thing can't help talking the way he was raised, and you're being a snobby, evil woman to make such an issue of this."

The thing is: I don't think it's for want of education that he talks the way he does. He worked in radio for a while (albeit small town radio), and he aspired to be a journalism major. Because of that, he consciously made the decision to shed the southern drawl that was the trademark of his community, and shed it he did. Where there's a will there's a way. That's why I think that he does not have the will to improve his grammar. In his moral system, uneducated people are better people because they aren't snobbishly looking down their noses at those who are "academically inferior" to them. Although I am keenly aware of the presence of snobbery in the world, I think that this attitude has more to do with his own feelings of inadequacy than anything he actually has evidence of others thinking about him.

I think we all make grammatical slip ups. When that happens, some of us laugh and correct ourselves. Some cringe and hope nobody noticed. Some are tired and just don't notice. Others, however, seem to revel in such ill usage, wearing it proudly as a badge of identity.

"This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,-- "

The words of Emily Dickinson echo my sentiments at the moment. This blog has been such a good release. That was the main reason to make it in the first place--to have a place for such release, a journal that cannot be found by those in my household for whom I would feel the need to edit my true thoughts and feelings.

Even though I don't want those who know me personally to read this online diary, I'm finding that I do long for an audience... someone to hear my heart, to read my words, to offer feedback that might help me to clarify the jumbled stuff pouring out of my crippled heart... someone to seek after me when I "disappear" (as I have the tendency to do in real life, and now I have also done so here.)

Yes, I've been hiding, even from this secret place. I've been nowhere. Hiding from hiding. Hands over my eyes, refusing to even peek at the world. Too numb to attempt engagement with a world that "doesn't write to me." Something happened, but it's not really the something that happened that sent me deeper into hiding. That something is closer to being an excuse than a true driving force. What happened?

A friend, not close--but friend nonetheless--
was taken from the world a couple weeks ago.
Suddenly.
They call it an accident, but that doesn't make sense to me.
Even though it's inexplicable, it cries out meaning...
Meaning beyond my understanding is meaning still.
I am so overwhelmed by the immensity of the gorge
between my understanding and all there is.
My words, so insignificant,
Trickle like rogue dribbles from cracks in a hose.

All I can say is:
"This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,-- "
Would you write?
to me?
.

journal upon wallpaper

In my last post, I mentioned talking to walls. It reminded me of some drivel I wrote back in 2003, during a time of writer's angst--a pretty powerful case of the pity partying.

Anyway, since I don't have it saved digitally anywhere, and I'm trying to cut down on paper clutter, here it is:



"journal upon wallpaper"


I don't write anymore, don't even want to. Not my novel, screenplay, poetry, not even letters or cards. You may say, "What is this here, then?" It is merely forced scratching from a dead soul. I probably won't even share it. [There have been previous attempts aborted...]


I read a quote from Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet:

Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you to write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write.

I am numb. Yes, I believe I felt that way once, long ago. Perhaps I was deluded. I am not a writer.


Then a strip of paper printed with dull red ink turns up in the scraps as I sweep my floor. A "fortune" -- words of wisdom:

"Nothing in the world is accomplished without passion."

...and what is that to me? I think as I breathe in only enough air to keep on "existing."


There was a time when I was boiling over with passion -- when I believed my words could change the world. It was like a calling. Like Rilke, a compulsion -- that which was as necessary as breathing.


But I'm learning that one can exist on small breaths -- the shallowest of breathing still sustains that pulse which defines life. I don't have to care to go on -- I only have to do the minimum requirements: Throw some food in the oven, slap it on the table, wash the dishes, sweep the crumbs from the floor -- maybe there will be some wisdom in the scraps and leftovers, something I can nod my head at and pretend to digest before moving on to the next menial task.


That's it. No more. Too forced/contrived.


The point of writing is communication. I will show this to no one. I will publish nothing. Even those closest to me don't care to listen. Todd came in and headed straight for the TV: I tried to talk over the sounds of the game and even the well-written commercials. Guess which he chose to tune into?


My dad found an old story I wrote in junior high. He told me about it, but then added something about how many people have written the same thing and, "I guess you wrote it too." There had been a split second when I thought he was proud of me. Maybe my little story made it onto the refrigerator door. But no... he found it and immediately lost it. Maybe it's hidden under a copy of the magazine my brother edits... Kudos, big bro ~ you're a real writer.


I began this letter with salutations to no one in particular, and thus I end it: "To whom it may concern" (ie. no one)


I am not a writer. I am a housewife. I am married to a house. That is my closest relationship. It speaks to me of all I must do and do again, and listens when I talk to its walls. I should write my journal upon wallpaper.
.

"Dear Todd"

You just said it again.

“I don’t have time for a story” ... exactly. You never have. Yet you have time for T.V. (practically anything there: sports, news, science programs, history, even those riveting commercials...), you have time for your work out to promote your health for your long life... that kind of stuff is interesting/rewarding enough to make time for it...

But if I have something to share and it might inconvenience you by more than 30-seconds, I have to waste MY time listening to that demeaning line. “I don’t have time for a story.” Thank you very much—I don’t have time for that statement, or the truth it carries.

I’m sorry now that I expended any time at all in this conversation with a pompous, self-interest-serving ass. I don’t have time to throw my pearls before swine. If what I think and value is of so little consequence and value to you, I pray that I can learn to keep my mouth shut instead of pretending that we actually have a decent relationship.

Thank you for bringing me back to reality. If I completely gave up hope I probably would feel a lot better because I’d not have to go through this roller-coaster of hope, hope deflated, hope, hope deflated, hope, hope deflated... It would be better to just resign myself fully to silence, talk to the walls and my journal, not expect anything from you.

Your statement of “I don’t have time for a story” could just as well be translated to “I don’t have time for a wife” or "I don’t have time for you.” I AM my stories, and I am sparse enough so as not to be a high-maintenance drain like some wives I know are. It would just be nice if on those occasions when I do have something I want to share with you, not to have it trampled upon... but I guess that’s hope. A better response would be: Whatever.

By the way, thank you for all the times you interrupt and turn the “conversation” into a lecture because you already know it all. I now understand why you have so few friends. (Do you have any?) I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to believe that you’ll be perfectly happy with yourself and thus just keep my mouth shut when you’re around. Oh yes, it’s the sex. I’m supposed to give it and it sickens me to give it to someone I don’t have a good relationship with. So I continue to try to connect intellectually... It would be easier for everyone if I could just disconnect the act from relationship and get it over with and let you get back to whatever is more precious to you than our relationship... after all, to guys, the act is all there is to relationship, right?

The reason the words “I don’t have time for a story” flow so easily off your tongue is that talk is just something you put up with in order to get what you really want.

Whatever.

The Secret - part three

This is a continuation. If you haven't read the previous post(s), you really should go back and get caught up.


So, years have gone by. A few friends know my deep dark secret (or at least a portion of it.) I can count them on one hand and still have room for the extended family who know. You might say my secret is safe... but not really. You see, there are those who are neither family nor friends who saw it as their business to spread the word. They wouldn't call what they did "gossip" because they are "Christians," but rather they baptize that insatiable drive to jaw-flappin' voyeurism under the umbrella of "sharing prayer requests."

I don't say any of this to bash Christianity. True Christian faith is firmly founded on the principle that "all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:23.) A true, redeemed Christian knows that he is redeemed only by the grace of God. A true, redeemed Christian is ever vigilant to keep from slipping into the trap of pride and shifting focus to the sins of others to make himself "look better." True Christianity is beautiful and humble.

What I experienced from my church, did not fit into any of the above definitions. Understandably, when Todd learned that the child I was carrying was potentially not his, he went to the pastor for counseling. What happened as a result was almost enough to drive me, in my already emotionally distraught state, to gather the "courage" to go through with the suicidal impulses that were plaguing me. Perhaps the pastor was just trying to "help" in his own misguided human way, but it came off very differently. It felt more like he was enjoying our predicament for it's entertainment value... and he was so entertained, he couldn't help but pass it on.

My parents were visiting from out of state at the time, and the pastor insisted on having a meeting with not only me, but he demanded that my parents join us. If I would not tell my parents, he said he would do so himself. (Now mind you, I was not a little girl still living with my family of origin--I had been married for almost ten years and had been away from their home longer than that.) I have very little recollection of the meeting other than my mind wandering to all the ways I could end my life to appease the demands for atonement that this pastor would not leave for Jesus and me to work out on our own. The pastor didn't counsel me; he drilled me.

It wasn't long before I learned from a lady at church that she had heard what had happened from her husband, who had heard it from the pastor as he had presented our "situation" to the church board for "prayer." The thing is, after that, the whispering and finger-pointing seemed to squeeze out any evidence of prayer. I couldn't attend a service there without wondering who was in on the "prayer requesting" (notice, I didn't say "praying"--that's because, once the "request" for prayer has been shared, the sinful itch to gossip has been relieved, and it's much easier to move on with one's mundane life until the next entertainment-seeking itch rears it's ugly head.)

The one helpful thing that the church did offer came only when I refused counseling from the pastor. I can't remember if I told him he was giving me courage to kill myself or not, but I really hope I did. He decided to refer us to a Christian therapist outside our church. We went for a short time (and the church did pay for it at first). Among other things, this counselor advised us to find a new church home where we would be free just to attend (we had been quite involved in our church--to the point that we allowed ourselves to be taken advantage of--which she pointed out as one of the things that had served to get in between us.) This counselor encouraged us to just focus on our family for a season. I wish we could have afforded to continue our therapy. Perhaps we would have worked through some of the problems that still persist all these years later.

As I look back on this season, I have mixed feelings. The pastor did say at one point that "sometimes separation is the best thing for a couple at a time like this..." and something about working out our individual problems on our own. But the thing was, as unhealthy as our relationship was, keeping it intact was keeping it from spinning out of control at a time that I was incredibly fragile (physically, emotionally, spiritually, hormonally...)

I was driven by the fear I mentioned before--the primary thing that kept me from leaving after we had children: the fear that I would loose full custody and wouldn't be there to protect them. A relative had alleged that Todd's father had molested her as a child, and Todd was in denial that that the allegations were worthy of consideration. He had no problem with the idea of leaving the kids alone with his dad. I didn't even like them being alone with both grandparents because Todd's mother was too deep in denial herself to serve as a protector. That's another story which I'll share later.

The Secret - part two

This is a continuation. If you haven't read the previous post(s), you really should go back and get caught up.



We left off with Charlie going back to his hotel alone and me climbing in bed with Todd, my husband of almost ten years. The voyeur coyote had saved me from going too far (at least by Bill Clinton's standards. There had been some major face-sucking and Charlie had discovered that my bra was a front closure, but then the glowing eyes had spooked us before we went any further.)


The next day was work day. We needed to make some serious progress on the project. With toddlers underfoot, it was decided that my place wouldn't be the most productive meeting place. I left Todd in charge of the kids and hiked over to Charlies hotel (it was that close). We would decide where to go from there: a cafe, a coffee shop, or... We decided on "or" -- his room was quiet and had a small table we could work at.


We tried to be good for awhile, but in such a private hide-away, we couldn't help but continue where we had left off the previous night... and with no coyotes in the hotel room, we ended up consummating our passion for each other. It was magical. I had never been with anyone but Todd. What was so purely physical and mechanical with Todd seemed to take on deeper significance, growing out of what I thought to be an intensely intellectual, emotional, and creative connection. I wanted Charlie more than I'd ever wanted anyone, and he brought me more physical pleasure than I'd ever experienced. I didn't want to leave. We kept on working and taking breaks and working and taking breaks all day and into the night.


At home, Todd was used to me working late nights, even all nighters. I called him before it was terribly late to let him know that we were "on a roll" and that he shouldn't wait up for me. Charlie and I kept rolling (one way or the other) all night long. In the morning, he drove me home and said good-bye. During the process of the project, Charlie ended up coming back to that hotel again and I went down to meet him closer to where he lived several times, too.


Like love-struck idiots, we didn't use protection. I got a yeast infection, and used that as an excuse to not have sex with Todd. It wasn't long before I suspected that I was pregnant, and with that suspicion, it became even more important to refrain from unprotected marital relations (if I was pregnant, I didn't want the paternity to be a mystery). When I told Charlie about it, he freaked out. He encouraged me to sleep with Todd so he wouldn't suspect anything. He suggested that I just pretend that it wasn't Todd--that it would be like in The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, and even as I saw Todd's head, it would be Charlie's body I was entwined with. Completely messed up by now, I did what he said, and the result was that Todd said "it was better than ever." If only he had known. He would soon find out.


The rabbit died...


...in a manner of speaking.


Yes, I was indeed knocked up, with child, bakin' another bun in the oven... I hid it from Todd while trying to figure out what to do. Hormones gave way to incredibly insane fantasies of being able to have it all.


Charlie told me that if I weren't already married, he'd be shopping for rings and would marry me in a minute. He'd say things like, "Why couldn't we have met eleven years ago?" But when it all came down to it, I wasn't able to leave Todd because, if we were ordered to share custody, I didn't trust him to protect my children from their alleged child-molesting grandfather (have I mentioned that part?) And I suspect that Charlie wasn't the prince charming type anyway: even though he nobly said that he didn't want to be responsible for breaking up a home, I think he also wasn't prepared to potentially take on the responsibility for four young children and a wife all at once. I told him how I fantasized about having two houses next door to one another--one to house one of my families and one for the other. In one I would only be a mommy and in the other I would be both mother and lover. Needless to say, that wasn't going to happen. Men can be so territorial!


The day Charlie and I decided to break it off, I practically wrecked the car driving home--my eyesight was so blurred from crying and emotional fatigue turned into physical exhaustion.


Charlie wanted me to just go ahead and pretend the baby was Todd's. He said since our fling was over, Todd didn't have to know what had happened. It would be better that way. I probably should have listened to him, but I had this idea that a relationship couldn't be good without honesty. Several years later, I heard a radio therapist offer to someone in a similar situation the sage advice to keep her yapper shut. She said that the only reason for "honesty" in such a situation would be to alleviate guilt, but that in alleviating guilt, the confessor would also be inflicting unnecessary pain on the betrayed partner. If the affair was truly over, she concluded, it would ultimately be kinder and more beneficial to all involved to suck up the guilt and bear the pain alone. Well, that advice came too late, and I have wished over and over that I could go back in time and take back my confession.


It's not possible to tell if doing so would have salvaged my relationship with Todd--if I could have learned to bring out a better side of him, but now there is always that dark shadow in our midst. Todd's insecurity and personal "impotence" that turned me off in the first place have only been magnified. And now, I may have even stayed with him longer than I would have otherwise, simply because I know he has this awful ammunition to use against me if I ever were to leave him (and his parents are so cut-throat that I know they would finance him through any legal battle he wanted to pursue--I couldn't bear my children being without protection from the threat of molestation, so I stayed.)



Ah, the tangled web I spun,
Now spider's ready to begin,
Slowly she injects the venom,
I am she and my own victim.

The Secret

"The last time my yearning meter was this high, I made a really big mistake that almost destroyed a lot of people, a mistake that still looms over me with threatening posture. Perhaps I'll work up the nerve to write about that soon."


Maybe it's not "nerve" I need as much as release. Here comes the painful honesty:

Living a lie is like being in prison. Life just cannot go on as it does for those outside the bars. Like the old saying goes, "Oh the tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive." I'm so tangled up in this mess, that I sometimes wonder if we've moved on to the stage in which the spider wraps up the prey and sucks the life out of it.

You already know how it started: The deception of playing a role that turned into a commitment that never should have been. Temporary insanity turned into vows before God to "forsake all others" and bind myself forever to Todd.

There were so many warnings and chances to get out along the way leading up to our wedding. Why I didn't end it is a good question. Low self-esteem, fear of being alone forever, and a warped theology--belief that since I had already consummated the physical relationship, marrying Todd would somehow justify my sin and make things right with God. I wish I had better understood God's mercy--that He would have allowed me to start over--that what I was doing was totally crazy... but, you see, I even deceived myself.

Early in marriage (before children), given how crippling our relationship was becoming, I probably should have left, rather than continuing to enable Todd in his many selfish and emotionally abusive behaviors. But I played the martyr... figuring that if I toughed it out, everything would work out in the long run. Then came kids.

When he learned that I was pregnant with our first child, Todd was so stunned and fearful that instead of providing support, he elevated my worries over finances and basic survival. I knew an older couple (with solid jobs, a nice home, and an already decorated nursery) who had suffered miscarriage after miscarriage, year after year... and here I was: pregnant, poor, and (as Todd kept reminding me) in a hopeless situation. I actually got so low that I prayed God would take the baby from me and put it in my friend's womb. Sobbing, I plead for it.

As we learned about the availability of public assistance, Todd came around and got excited about the baby. Starting a family was the traditional, idealistic "next step" in our playing house (and Todd likes his traditional ideals), so we went with it and worked on trimming our budget and tucking away as much of my income as possible so that I'd be able to take time away from work to care for the baby. The baby arrived and I was able to stay home with her in our little studio apartment for a couple months. Then Todd needed my help.

We found a self-storage facility that was looking for a couple to work as a resident management team. We would get a nice apartment and a decent salary in exchange for both of us running the office during business hours and being on-call most of the time. That worked well for us because I was able to keep the baby with me in the office.

Baby number one was extremely colicky and didn't allow me much sleep, so I was incredibly exhausted most of the time, running the office (because Todd didn't "get" how to do the computer and paperwork), keeping up with home and laundry, and caring for a fussy baby. I was busy all the time. Todd, on the other hand--because he didn't do the paperwork or much of the baby care--grew tired of sitting around doing nothing. We were supposed to both be there so that one could show lockers while the other manned the office, but Todd soon decided that he wouldn't be missed much if he ducked out in the middle of the day to play golf.

I found myself frequently stranded alone in the office trying to juggle phone calls, paperwork, diaper changes, feedings and crying (both the baby's and my own)... AND if a potential renter showed up while Todd was out playing, I'd have to pack up the baby and lock the office (which we weren't supposed to do & would get in trouble for doing if the boss called or came by while we were out). I'd have to walk down the deserted hallways with strange men who made me nervous because (as the boss had said) it really would be better to have a man showing the lockers--lest some pervert (which transients who rent lockers are more likely than the general population to be) decide to take advantage of me. So, along with being over-worked and over-tired, I was scared--scared of rapists and robbers, and of homelessness if the boss learned Todd was not keeping the office hours we had agreed to and thus decided to fire us. That job lasted a year, and then we moved to an apartment that we got for free in exchange for managing a small apartment building.

Since the apartment managing job did not pay beyond the free rent, Todd took an outside job in retail. We were hired for the apartment managing job as a couple, and when I had problems in my second pregnancy and was unable to do all the physical work around the apartment complex, Todd didn't do much to pick up the slack, and before we had even been there a full year, we ended up getting fired (incrementally). First, the owner hired a groundskeeper to pick up the slack and started charging us partial rent. This might have worked out if I had been able to collect disability pay; however, since the job we had been hired for was intended for a couple, the doctor said, "You can't do the work, but your husband can, so I can't sign for you getting disability pay." Before baby number two arrived, we got to the point that we simply couldn't afford the rent anymore, so we moved on to yet another job that hired us as a couple and provided housing. This time the work involved was not as physical, so I was able to do more of it (and again, Todd pushed all of the paperwork off on me).

I'm not going to continue with all the details about the next job, but suffice to say, a pattern was forming... and through it all, Todd managed to preserve his own leisure time activities like golfing and watching sports, and even when he wasn't working anywhere near to full-time hours, he'd complain about being over-worked, taken advantage of, and he'd remind me constantly what a burden the children and I were--how good his life was when he was single. During this time, we had a third child.

The burden of maintaining a disproportionate portion of our shared jobs, doing most of the housework and childcare (because he just didn't "identify with" babies and young children) might not have been so bad if Todd hadn't been indulging himself in leisure and complaining as if he weren't. I was the one who would field the calls from our employers when he would slack off on his work or disappear without telling anyone where he was going. I hated being put in that position. I covered for him so much, all the while admitting to myself that if I were the boss, even I would fire Todd.

With our shared jobs and his ability to sneak off and do things for himself, this would have been the ideal time for him to have pursued some of his dreams (like acting)--dreams that he complained weren't happening (even though he did nothing to make them happen... because he "didn't know how to start.")

Did I mention that when we were dating, Todd had told me that he was going to be a writer and that he would make a role for me in every play or film he wrote? Well, even though I didn't marry him for that, I was naive enough to believe that it might be possible (and to think that he was actually going to pursue his ambitions instead of sitting around and waiting for things to magically "happen.") [Looking back, I sometimes think that if "misrepresentation" is grounds for annulment, I should be able to annul the marriage based on the writer story... however, I suspect there must be some sort of a statute of limitations on annulment.]

During this time, I myself still dreamed of being involved in creative endeavors (and even though it was daunting with three small children, part-time work, and not a lot of spousal support, I did little things to keep my feet in it.) Then one day, an opportunity came knocking on our door. I had pretty much given up on acting, since we couldn't afford babysitting so that I could go on auditions, but I did like writing. I had been studying by correspondence, working on writing short stories for children and had even printed up a business card with "writer" on it.

When trying to plan a play date for the kids, I gave one of these "writer" cards to another mother from our church so she would have our phone number. A few months later, after they had moved away, her husband happened to be looking for writers. She remembered my card and told her husband that I was a writer. He contacted me to see if I'd like to be considered for a job. He knew Todd, too, and said that they were looking to hire a writing team and if we could work together it would increase my chance of being hired.

I sent samples of my writing and reluctantly included the one and only skit Todd had written (even though I knew it wasn't very good). Ultimately the partner who had the final say in hiring, liked my style and said we had the job based on that (indicating that he wanted me to basically be the lead writer because he didn't find Todd's work professional enough.) And so, in that manner, we entered into yet another job as a "team."

Since a pattern had already been established, I shouldn't have been surprised that Todd didn't do much on this project. When we met to brainstorm with the new boss (the one who the story idea belonged to), Todd didn't say much of anything... but even worse, he didn't seem to even listen. He'd excuse himself and go take a walk, or a nap, or just sit there looking at newspapers and magazines. It was embarrassing.

Creative energies would flow when the guy with the story idea (let's call him Charlie) and I worked together. He liked my ideas and we worked well together. Charlie was ambitious and didn't shy away from putting in long hours. Todd didn't "get it" and since he didn't participate, he didn't feel needed. He decided it best that he pick up the kids from the sitter and go home. Just a couple days into a job that was slated to last 10 weeks, Todd bailed, saying that he would help "if we needed him."

This job had come along at a time when we were trying to get out of debt. I was excited that the salary was good, because that meant I'd finally be able to pay off my student loans and we might be able to put a little bit away in savings for those little surprises that always come up--especially with kids. Knowing we might be able to finally get ahead a little made it worth working long hours and being away from my babies--to me it was assurance that I'd be more secure in being able to stay home with them in the future. What happened to our finances while I was working almost shocked me. Almost. Todd had opened a new credit card that he didn't tell me about, and since we had this great new income, he didn't hold back on his spending. And to think that the stereotype is of WIVES being the spendthrifts! By the time we received our last paycheck on this project, the money had all already been spent and we were further in debt than when we started.

I should have been furious, but I had no room to be judgmental, or hurt, or anything... I had no room, because I had an onerous secret.

During the hours of working on birthing a story together, Charlie and I had become close. Too close. It was wonderful having someone who seemed to be smitten with my mind. We connected like Todd and I never had.

With Todd, as I've already said, our relationship started out (and pretty much stayed) purely physical. That can be fun and exciting for a while, but without the connection of minds, it begins to feel very empty. You know all those times when I said Todd would tell me to be quiet so he could "enjoy" something? There were way too many times when the only-child/loner in Todd would push me away. Too seldom was it a "good time for this"--this being conversation, connection. It seemed that all Todd wanted me for was sex--that he would be perfectly happy if I were nothing but a couple of boobs and a crotch. An inflatable doll, in fact, would be better than me because it wouldn't have a voice.

Charlie, on the other hand, liked to play with words. We could talk and talk. His work ethic was so refreshing and impressive after what I'd been living with for almost 10 years... It was a real turn-on to be appreciated by a guy who wasn't afraid to go after his dreams full-throttle, a guy who didn't whine about things not happening, but rather took the bull by the horns and made things happen... a guy who loved my ideas and would spend hours conversing about everything under the sun.

One evening, we had just reached a milestone (I think it was a solid first draft or something like that) and Charlie suggested we go out to celebrate. The company had a generous per diam, so we ate well. We also drank well. I had too much. To be honest, I had too much on purpose. We had been shamelessly flirting as we worked together for some time. It's easier to flirt when you know that it's not going anywhere, and it obviously wasn't going anywhere because I was married... right? So, when he offered me wine, I accepted. When he offered more, I took more. I knew I was a light-weight when it comes to alcohol and yet I celebrated, and celebrated, until Charlie had to hold me up to keep me from melting into the ground.

I was so joyfully wasted, I think he even had to carry me up to my hotel room... and there he stayed... most of the night. We just talked... he may have held me a bit while I was still tipsy, but I don't think anything else happened. He apologized the next day for getting me drunk--but I didn't accept him taking the blame because I knew what I was doing--and he told me it was hard, but he just couldn't let himself take advantage of me. Before that day was over, however, we kissed--really kissed--ravenously kissed (like we knew we would never allow ourselves to do more than that, so we had to pour every bit of passion we had for each other into that kiss.) Then, probably no more than an hour later, Todd came with the kids to pick me up.

Before returning home, we were invited for dinner to the home of the guy from our church who had gotten us the job. He and his wife decided it would be nice to invite Charlie, too. It's a fuzzy memory that plays like an awkward slow-motion scene straining toward an ending on an empty tank of gas, but somehow Charlie and I managed our way through that meal at the table with my family and his co-worker's family, our kiss and our desire still lingering in the air, almost palpable to us, and hopefully invisible to them.

The rest of the job would be carried out mostly by e-mail and telephone... or at least that was the plan. We would arrange future meetings as they were needed for the progress of the project. By the next weekend, the project (?) "needed" another meeting. This time Charlie stayed at a hotel near where Todd and I lived. Charlie was still at our place when Todd went to bed, so we decided to take our conversation (about the project, of course) outside. We went for a walk in the moonlight, and as soon as we were out of eye-shot, we became ravenous animals. We might have made love right at the edge of the trail in the woods had we not looked up and seen a coyote watching us. Saved by the coyote, we decided to call it a night. Charlie went back to his hotel, and I quietly slipped into bed next to Todd, careful not to wake him because I really didn't want to have sex with him while thinking of someone else.

Yearning

"Yearning is not only a good way to go crazy, but also a pretty good place to hide out from hard truth." (Jay Cocks, screenwriter, De-Lovely)


It's easy to be overcome by yearning. We live in a society that encourages it, advertising all the things we could have if only... (if only we had that job or that spouse or that degree from that school)... all the things they have (and look how happy they are!) Yearning sets us to work toward goals that, while seemingly good, put so much emphasis on the future we are saving for that we don't live well in the present. Then, we look back and say, "What was that all about?" (at which point it can become an equally "present-killing" distraction to live in the past, mulling over romanticized versions of the way things were along with stewing over regrets and "what if?"s.)

In this blog, I realize that I tread on shaky ground: wanting to sort out my past so I don't repeat its mistakes in the future. It's easy to neglect the present. Yearning is such a directional thing, always reaching forward or backward, out of the present. Treading water may seem like a waste of time. I mean, I'm drowning, for crying out loud! Shouldn't I be a-reachin' for something? It's in those still moments of treading water, however, that we are able to look around (to the past, to the future, to the options that we might never notice if not for the moments of stagnancy).

I'm going to continue the memoir aspect of this blog, but I'm going to also try to bring myself occasionally to the harbor of Now, because "now" is yesterday's future and tomorrow's past.


I am filled with yearning--so much so that it's almost a palpable presence, an entity that follows me, standing between me and the people in my life, blocking my view, casting shadows. I'm lonely, even though I am not alone. I'm bored, even though I have too much that needs to be done. I think it's because I'm disconnected. I need to find those connections that are real and truthful, rather than "hiding out" in the shadows of yearning.

Even my "therapist" can't help me with this. The more I connect with him the more I fear him. He makes the slightest little comment on something I wasn't saying to him... and I feel threatened, even stalked. He wants to be my friend, and I'm pushing him away because I feel the need to keep him neutral, objective, uninvolved... (and possibly also because I fear that if he takes too much interest in my life, I'll go weak at the knees and find myself yearning for more than just his advice.)

The last time my yearning meter was this high, I made a really big mistake that almost destroyed a lot of people, a mistake that still looms over me with threatening posture. Perhaps I'll work up the nerve to write about that soon.

I do want the hard truth, and I don't want to go crazy... so, I'd better tread some water, pay attention to the yearning meter, and try to get my bearings before panic causes me to drown.

Mommy, Can I Keep Him?

Those stories about kids who bring home stray animals are so romantically charming to me. I used to fantasize about being like that, but in reality I was always a bit of a fraidy-cat.

In junior high, however (having wasted away my childhood years when such behavior would have been more understandable), I found a baby field mouse in the middle of the street, and rescued the little darling. I named it "Tucker," bathed it in a Dixie-cup, and held a funeral in the backyard the next day when my dear personal pet passed away. Yes, I was aware that it was not normal for a girl my age to even think about touching a mouse, let alone bring one home, swaddle and sing lullabies to it... but that was all the more reason to do it. I delighted in being a bit odd.

So, even though I never had the guts to be a St. Francis of Assisi (and in reality, I don't like having to deal with the messes animals make), I've still managed to do a bit of collecting that fulfills that romanticized ideal.

My most recent collectible is my "therapist." Why the quotation marks? you may ask, thinking it fairly logical that a nutcase like me would have a therapist. Well, perhaps I should, but I can't afford one, and I'm too lazy to go out and get one, and I could go on and on with excuses. But even if I don't have a therapist, that doesn't mean I can't have a "therapist." Let me explain what difference the quotation marks make:

myspace. It's a virtual world where I suspect an awful lot'a people do an awful lot'a things they wouldn't necessarily do in the real world. It's also a wonderful place to become intimate "friends" with people we don't even know. I don't accept friend requests from people I haven't actually met or had "some" connection with in the real world, but sometimes the definition of connection gets a bit warped. I've accepted a lot of requests from old classmates simply because we have friends in common and I don't want to be a snob, but some of them I really don't remember.

One particular request came from Dirk. I didn't remember him, so I looked him up in the yearbook. Okay, the face was familiar. I'm not sure I EVER spoke with him in college. He was cute, cool, talented... and I was shy. But he was requesting me now, so maybe he really did remember me (or maybe he was just requesting all the fellow alumni he could find.) Either way, I saw no harm in adding him to the collection of distant acquaintances (most who just remain silent and weirdly "there" on my friends list). In that manner, Dirk and I became "friends."

It wasn't long before I learned (from his frequent myspace posts) that he was a psychologist. Cool. He posts a lot of self-help, reflection type stuff. I'd read, but I didn't comment on it because I figured we didn't really know each other... but then one day, he posted a comment on an old photo of me, indicating that he found it... um, attractive, I guess... and wondered why we didn't know each other better then. That conversation kind of broke the ice, and I started reading and commenting occasionally on his reflections.

He also posted music videos and through some of the things he posted I learned that we had a little bit of a rebellious streak in common. He took note of some of the poetry I posted and through all of this, I learned that he had an understanding about relationships that has actually helped me sort through some of the struggles I have in my marriage. His self-help was helping me mainly by letting me know that I'm not alone in the struggles. He's had quite a few of his own (being a divorcee) and had even more of others (his clients) to observe and learn from. I made a joke once about "using" random encounters with him on myspace to elicit free therapy. He chided me for that, yet has continued to dialogue with me.

myspace is weird though... things aren't always as private as a person might think, and one day, Todd noticed a comment I had made on one of Dirk's posts, and since Dirk's profile is public, Todd saw it there and HE posted a comment on it, too. Then Dirk friend-requested Todd (Dirk's a bit of a friend-collector.) Not that I was doing anything wrong, but it was a little weird--like a line of etiquette had been crossed that left me uncomfortable. My husband and my therapist (I mean, "therapist") -- isn't there a conflict of interest there? I guess there wouldn't be if we were "in therapy" together (couple's counseling--which I know we probably need, but Todd's clueless and I'm too non-confrontational to suggest it.) So, did I feel like my "client confidentiality" was in jeopardy? or did I feel like Todd might interpret some of my banter with Dirk as flirting? I mentioned it to a friend, and she said, "Maybe you need to find a new therapist."

"No!" I thought, "I want to keep this one!" And suddenly I felt like that silly girl bringing home a field mouse, just because it remotely resembled something she romanticized about (like I often think I *should* be in therapy), and because it was a slightly weirder version of the normal ideal (like Dirk is a little too much the "bad boy" I would be tempted to flirt with to really be a 100% trust-worthy counselor.)

So, I'm thinking, I guess I just like playing with fire (or mice?) I should probably just take Dirk to the side of a wide open field and say, "Run, Tucker, run!" But, I want to keep him. I like having my pet "therapist" and I fantasize that he's actually helping me, when in reality, he's probably just entertaining me.

Delusions and Contraditions

I vaguely remember, in a college acting class, performing the overdone Carla monologue from Robert Patrick's classic play, Kennedy's Children: "I wanted to be a sex goddess..."

Guess it makes sense that I'd choose such a monologue, especially given the meaning of my name: a snare.

"...I wanted to be the unattainable luring love that drives men on..."

All the time in college, not being asked out, was taking a toll on my self-esteem. With each passing banquet that I wasn't invited to, I felt more and more unwanted. Then along came my Hollywood agent and the discovery that I could, in fact, manipulate men... at least some men (but rarely the ones I wanted).

As the character said in the monologue, I still wanted to be that poetic "angle of light" in the eyes of Jared or Glenn (if I couldn't have Doug)... but they all seemed to be unmoved.

They were unmoved, but that wasn't the case with all men. As time wore on, I discovered that physical attraction was not the only thing I had control over when it came to manipulating men. I learned a sensual tension that could even be sparked with the right clever words delivered in the right manner. As much as I loved (and still love) words, it delighted me to discover that there were men who found mental intrigue sexy. Unfortunately, I didn't learn this until after I was married.

I know I'm not nearly as physically attractive now as I used to be. I often feel invisible to the men who pass by me these days; however, there are still times when I feel that I have to pull back on some invisible force, some "lure" that is so deeply a part of me that it sneaks to the surface when I least expect it. That may be delusional.

This past week, I've been away on business--in a different environment, miles and miles away from home and family, and husband. I've met a lot of new people, most of them men, and I've felt some of their eyes wandering enough that my friend and I joked about getting t-shirts with bold letters across the chest that read: "These are not my eyes." It's been rather annoying, but the one thing that hasn't been annoying is the one gentleman, who has seemed rather intrigued with me, conversing with me on a deeper level and seeming to appreciate my mind and talent. Once again, I may be totally reading things into his interaction with me, but I must say the attention (even if it's purely in my imagination) has been nice. Like the Kennedy's Children monologue said, Marilyn Monroe claimed that she didn't want to be a sex goddesses--she wanted to be a human being. So often, I feel like all my husband really wants me for is for my body, and that is so empty to me.

At an after-party tonight, I had enough to drink to get a little loopy and let down my guard a bit more than I probably should have. You could say that I was a little flirty with this guy. It certainly wasn't blatant, and nothing "bad" happened, but I did find myself wishing that I weren't married, knowing that if I weren't I definitely would have upped the flirtation level and possibly even been open to a little fling. It's hard to be yearning so deeply for a mental connection that seems impossible with my mate. This fellow probably wouldn't be a Mr. Right either, but to me he served as a reminder that there might be men out there with whom I could have such a deeper connection, and that even if there are, I can't have them.

Sigh. Heavy sigh.

Don't Go Breaking My Heart (Part 6) "My Best 'Just Friend'"

Although the details are all fuzzed up in my memory, probably warped by all the tears, I'll never forget the feeling of the day Doug broke my heart. One ordinary day, I joined him at a table in the student union and, with no warning at all, he proceeded to tell me everything that was wrong with me--in one sitting. I can't remember all of the specifics, but I do remember that he didn't want to spend time with me any more.

Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, a semester earlier, he had talked me into transferring colleges half way across the country. I had done it to be with him. He and I had eaten every meal together since I had arrived at this school where I knew nobody but him. We had spent the majority of every weekend together, and carpooled home together over holidays. Not only was he my best friend, having spent almost all of my time with him, he was basically my only close friend. All of a sudden, in a matter of a few minutes that seemed like a prolonged tortuous eternity, I was all alone, miles from home, and I had lost the love of my life. I still had two more years at that school, and enough of that time was spent in a heart-broken stupor that I didn't make very many friends there.

There were a few guys who asked me out after I stopped hanging around with Doug, they would say things like, "Now that you're not dating Doug anymore..." To which I'd say we never were dating. Nobody believed me. Unfortunately, I did. Looking back it is so sad to me that I may have been "dating" the most wonderful young man ever and I didn't even realize it--didn't realize that we were dating, that is... I knew he was wonderful. Even with the occasional date, there was no one after that, no one who had that staying power in my heart. I often complained that I never got asked out, but looking back I realize that was partially because I didn't have room in my heart for anyone else.

Eventually, loneliness took over. I was trained as an actress, and I learned how to bring that skill to play in my everyday life. At a college theatre festival, I was "discovered" by a Hollywood agent. It was so cool, because my style was different, more subtle than some of the stage prima-donas from my college theatre department. So, these girls who always beat me out for roles on stage didn't even get a second look and I was the only one from my school who got a call back. I remember one of them saying, "Something must be wrong!" hehe

Anyway, in one of the acting sessions led by this agent, I met a super-gorgeous guy who looked like a young Christopher Reeves. My agent thought I looked a lot like another celebrity and so he called us by our look-alike's names. As we were directed in a steamy soap opera scene, I felt sexy for the first time. There was almost enough physical chemistry to get me a PhD! I recognized the power of acting. Even though I didn't know this guy well enough to love him, I realized that I could make him want me, which was quite the adrenaline rush after being "un-wanted" by the one I wanted.

From then on I practiced my acting in everyday life. I learned to pretend that I liked things I couldn't care less about. I mentally put costumes on the guys around me too, imagining them to be what I wanted them to be. At a College Theatre Festival Afterglow party, "Christopher" and I were (as I was later told by my husband who first saw me there) "all over each other." We made out on the dance floor, making no effort to conceal how into each other we were. It was 100% physical, and it was a show, too. I was entering my if I can't get the guys I like, I'd better learn to like the guys I can get phase, and I knew I needed practice "getting" so I became less discriminant about who I flirted with... after all, it was just practice.

It was during this time that I met Todd. He says it was love at first sight for him. I was cast in my first paying acting job at a theatre over 30 miles away from where I was going to college. Being a poor college student, I readily jumped at the invitation to carpool to rehearsals. A classmate of mine who had also been cast in the play said he thought the guy he was carpooling with wouldn't mind if I joined them. That guy was Todd. He said the minute he saw me walking down the hall with my classmate to meet him, he thought, I'm going to marry her.

In other words, he liked what he saw, vaguely remembered watching me make out with another guy on the dance floor, and wanted some himself. Um, in my opinion that's not love, it's another four letter word beginning with "L," surrounding "us" and ending up all mes"T" up. But, it was another opportunity to practice. I knew this guy was so far away from my type that I'd never marry him, but he could serve as a rehearsal partner. The problem is, when you get into acting in life, playing a role 'round the clock, you can start believing the things you are saying. In no time, Todd had managed to un-invite my classmate from our carpool so he could be alone with me. It felt so good to be wanted, and I knew that there was no hope to ever have the one I wanted, so I settled and two months after we met, Todd and I were engaged.

Our engagement was not an easy time. We were forcing something that probably never should have been, and trying to play the roles of two compatible persons. We couldn't agree on religion. He was in some freaky old Catholic cult that believed they were the only chosen ones. They did their services in Latin, the women wore head-coverings, and the priest told him that unless I converted from my pagan protestant past, renouncing everything I had ever believed as heresy, we would not be able to be fully blessed by the church... and him marrying in my church was an out-of-the-question abomination! The priest even said that my mother's long-sleeved 1950's wedding gown was too risque for their level of holiness, because the sleeves were lace and the skin on my arms might show through.

The hypocrisy of Todd's living in sin with me and then marching off to this judgmental, hyper-legalistic sect for confession just to climb back in bed with me was too much--especially given the fact that the church refused to marry us unless I also committed the sin of lying. It seemed we were going nowhere, so I ran away.

One of my best friends worked for her dad's company several states away. She said she thought I needed to get away from Todd and offered me a place to stay with her and a job working for her father. I was going to give the engagement ring back to Todd, but he insisted that I keep it, saying he wasn't giving up on us yet. So I packed all my belongings in a single footlocker and left on a jet plane with no intention of ever going back again. I wore the ring, still playing a role... engaged, but disengaged.

Funny how the other "lunatic" stories I told yesterday fit into this one. Over Christmas, the phone sex just wasn't cutting it, and I knew I had to find a way back to my fiancee. That's when I hitched a ride with the total stranger, who could so easily have made a move on me while we were traveling an empty, snowy freeway in the middle of nowhere. He took me safely to Todd, and I spent that Christmas wallowing in mistletoe and holiday sin. That was enough to hook Todd. I had practiced well. A couple frustrating months later, Todd came after me, compromised his religion, and we started planning the wedding. It was during those tumultuous, but insistent, months that we encountered Ms. "Have you ever been in love?" and ample other warning signs, all which we ignored in the mad rush to beat the triteness of a June wedding by marrying in May.

One day, after I had been married for at least five or six years and had a couple kids, my parents called me and said, "Hey, guess where we were yesterday?"

"Um, I don't know... Where?"

Their answer blew me away. "We were just passing through Doug's home town and recognized that house where we used to pick you up when you'd carpool home from college."

Oh no, I thought.

"Well, we decided to stop by and see if anybody was home... and GUESS WHAT?"

Oh dear, I thought. "What?"

"Doug was home visiting his folks."

It was surreal.

"I had some of our pictures from your wedding and of the kids in a little brag book in my purse..."

NO!

"... it was so nice to have had them handy like that."

Sigh. Contact had been made. He knew where I was and had seen into the life I didn't want him to know I had. In the back of my mind, I wanted him to be left wondering... Is Bridgett still single? What if I hadn't said those cruel things, and instead told her that I was in love with her? I wanted him to pine -- to remain single and miserable in a false hope, just as I was married and miserable with no hope.

I had a sweatshirt that Doug had once joked about stealing from me. I couldn't wear it without thinking of him and it was painful to think of him. Yet I continued to wear it occasionally because it was better to have the pain and feel that there was still some thread of his existence left in my world. Suddenly I felt the need to be rid of it. I could have donated it to Goodwill or thrown it out, but somehow I wanted to make a statement along with purging myself of the pain. Packaging the sweatshirt, along with a pair of earrings Doug hadn't bought for me, but had helped me pick out, I mailed them to him care of his parents house, promising myself that I would never contact him again.

As the years wore on in a marriage that was far from happy, I would think of Doug, and I feel a bit ashamed to say that I didn't wish him happiness. I tried to push him out of my mind, but he would always come back. Hurt and even anger were the primary feelings I would have when he came to mind during that time, but one day I had a spiritual turning point... I was convicted in my heart that the anger was sin. I asked for help forgiving him, and my heart broke all over again, but this time in a positive way. It had been hardened, not letting anything in or out, but when it broke this time, what poured out was forgiveness and something else... I was compelled to pray for Doug. Day-after-day, I would be reminded to pray for him.

Several years later, I learned there was a reason for those prayers. Doug had suffered a couple of tragedies back-to-back. He had eloped and married a young woman whom he thought he knew, only to have her serve him an annulment a few days later and attempt to turn all of their mutual friends against him. Then he battled cancer--at the same time I had no contact with him to know about the cancer, but was compelled to pray for him constantly. I found out about the cancer when I finally broke down and wrote him a letter in which I told him that he had hurt me deeply, that I didn't fully understand what had happened between us, but that I forgave him and hoped he could also forgive me for any hurt I may have caused him, and I told him that I had been feeling led to pray for him a lot and hoped he was okay.

What followed has been a gradual restoration of our friendship. Being married, I work hard to keep it platonic (which we've had plenty of practice at since we were never physically involved.) After years and years, I'd say Doug is still my best 'just friend.' I still love him and sometimes ache, knowing that because of my impatience and inability to communicate truthfully, something deeper that might have been will never be.

Doug broke my heart twice. The first time it was by his rejection and I hardened my heart as a result. The second time was when he let me know that he still cared. That "break" has become more of a melting. And even though I can't express it as deeply as I'd like, and must hide under pseudonyms to say it... "I love you, Doug. I know I always will."

Don't Go Breaking My Heart - Part 5 (Watch out for the Loonies - Part 2)

Ooops, did I leave you hanging? Who is "you" anyway? I doubt anyone's even reading this, but if you are, you may recall I said I was going to list some of the lunatic things I've done when it comes to men & relationships. Here goes:

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I once replied to a newspaper ad placed by a strange man looking for someone to carpool with him over several state lines -- just to save a few bucks over the price of a bus ticket.

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I used to go out dancing with my roommate while we were both engaged. We would wear gloves because we were cool and fashionable that way, and when guys would try to pick us up we'd tell them we were engaged. They'd look at our hands ready to say, "I don't see any ring," and the gloves would throw them off. "How do I know you have a ring on with those gloves?"

"You don't know."

"Are you trying to cover it up and just don't like ME?"

"Hmm."

It drove them batty. Apparently one night some of these boys we liked to toy with like cats play with mice watched us go out to my roommate's truck and memorized the look or the plate number.

A day or so later, we found a note on the windshield that said, "We drove all over the city looking for you two. Please go out with me and my friend."

Hey, I just realized that we weren't total lunatics in this story because we never did call the number they left. In fact, it did kind of freak us out that they knew where our neighborhood was. Luckily nothing ever came of it.

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In college, I was fearful of so many things. One was appearing like one of those ditsy girls who "likes" everything a particular guy likes just because he likes it and she wants him to like her. I couldn't see how any intelligent guy (the only kind I liked) would not see right through that facade. I used to go to the mall with the guy I was head-over-heels in love with (we were "just friends"). I remember walking through the home goods section of a department store and [let's call him] Doug pointed out a set of glass bowls that he liked. I think I got a lump in my throat when he asked me if I liked them. I adored them. They were exactly what I would pick out if I had my choice. In fact they were better than I had even known existed. Did I tell him? Oh, no, that might appear shallow or pandering, so I just swallowed and said as blankly as I could, "they're nice." Things like this happened frequently with Doug.

I wasn't so shy about our differences. When we were going to the house of some married friends off campus, to cook a meal, we stopped at the grocery store on the way. As we tried to decide what to cook, I readily voiced my distaste for certain foods he suggested. I guess I was so bold about letting my contrary opinion be known that he finally stopped in the middle of the aisle, looked me straight in the face and said, "I could never marry you, Bridgett Monroe! You are too picky." There went every last bit of air out of my lungs. The 'just friend' I was in love with, who I wanted to be with for the rest of my life, had just told me what? How should a girl reply to that kind of a blow? Well, since somewhere in my sadly shaped mind I had come to believe that letting a guy know you like him was like chasing him and chasing him would only lead to him running away, I had to play it cool.

"Well then don't," I replied.

Another time we were sitting together in the library, studying, and out of the blue, Doug said, "What would you think of being married to a journalist?" [hint: guess what Doug's major was.] There was that lump in the throat again. What did I say?

Short and not so sweet was my answer to the young man I dreamed of being married to: "I guess it would depend on who the journalist was."

He went on to clarify the question, saying, "In my journalism class we were talking about dangerous assignments that many journalists have to take in order to further their careers and how such things can be hard on their families."

I went home that evening and called my mom. I asked her what she thought about that question Doug had asked--was he talking about what girls in general thought or was he interested specifically in what I thought about it? I think my mom was fearful, too. She knew how much I liked Doug, and she didn't want to get my hopes up only to be crushed, so she said she thought he was probably just curious about what females in general thought of that career choice. I bought her safe explanation hook, line, and sinker... and it shaped the way I continued to interact with my best 'just friend.'

The results were tragic. More about that next time.