A Man Called Peter

I was telling someone not too long ago that I don't really have "a type". Meaning, there is not one "type" of guy that I tend to latch myself onto. I've probably mentioned this in many conversations because it has been true of me for a long time. I could produce a list of preferences describing what I think is my ideal match...we've all done it either mentally or literally...but I don't really buy into the list thing anymore. I used to hunt for the list, but anytime I've met someone who actually aligned with it, he's turned out to be FAR from what I thought I wanted. The characteristics of human beings are too complicated to be checked off like grocery items on a Post-It. ketchup...check. luncheon meat...check. tampons...check. nice sense of humor and interest in gardening...check/check. It just doesn't work.

Many authors of fiction will create characters by combining interesting tidbits from various people they've known in real life. I thought it might be fun to do this. Because almost every guy I've been ivolved with has been so very different from all the others (execpt for two that I dated about 2 years apart from each other who, eerily, were identical in almost every way.....a revelation that somehow didn't occur to me until way after the fact), it would take too long to describe them all. Not that anyone would be interested in reading that crap, anyway. Instead, I've pulled out some facts and a few opinions about these people and skillfully weaved them together to present to you a man I'll call "Peter". (I choose this name not only for it's obvious maleness, but because it's the only tolerable name I can come up with that I can't in any way associate with someone I know.)

Peter wasn't as attractive as some of the guys who had been in my life. I was attracted to him, of course, but it certainly wasn't his appearance that initially drew me to him. He stood (and still does, I imagine) about 6 feet, 8 inches tall. Curly blonde hair. His mother was Mexican, his father Philipino. Brown eyes. Actually, only one of his eyes was real. The other one was prosthetic due to an incident in his early childhood. He and his twin brother were jumping on bunk beds sometime in the early 70's when he fell and gashed his eye on the corner of the dresser. You couldn't tell that one of the eyes was a fake unless he told you so. Must have been some mighty esspensive fiberglass.

He was 12 years older than me at the time, which would make him 38 now. (Which also makes me much older than I care to be.) In those extra years of experience, he had done quite a bit on the way to careerdom. In his early 20's, he had been the lead singer of a heavy metal band. I can't recall the name of the band now, but I remember looking at their website. Somewhere along the way he grew a distaste for heavy metal and decided he rolled more comfortably with the likes of The Ramones and The Clash. He now has a small recording studio in Dallas where he mostly records his own music; none of which sounds anything like the aforementioned bands. (He once wrote a song about me and sung it in front of a large group of people. ) He worked as an orderly in a nursing home at some point long before I knew him, and it struck me as a redeeming quality that he would be willing to work in such conditions. Now I mostly think it kinda creepy. After that he went on to case work with the Department of Child Welfare, selling shoes, bank management, teaching math, advertising for pharmacueticals, and finally, real estate. Real Estate proved itself to be most lucrative, so that's where he stayed.

Peter had been married for a short while until his wifey flipped out, left him and their two kids, and fled to Canada. He has sole custody of their little boy and seemed to be one of the most amazing fathers I had ever met. I wasn't ready for motherhood, though....

Aside from his musical talents, Peter had a Jackassonian interest in "stunt work". He owned several cars...one of them being a 20 year old piece of crap he referred to as a "jeep". He and his friends would film themselves flipping this thing down enbankments and over fallen trees. He would climb on top of rooves just to jump off of them. Many bones were broken in many asinine ways. He almost killed himself in a motorcycle accident...twice. None of these activities would or could blow my skirt up (so to speak), by the way. They all occurred prior to me.

Peter's not a bad guy. In fact, he's what most people would refer to as "a good guy". He's friendly. He likes kids to the degree that he would actually address them in public when most people are only acknowledging parents. I always like that about people. He wasn't particularly intrested in getting to know my friends, though. I would always go out with his buddies, but he never put forth the same effort. He was selfish that way. He was selfish in lots of ways.

I've often compared Peter to The Fonz. He had an almost celebrity status at our small college. Everyone knew who he was. All the girls thought he was superdreamy and all the guys pretended to not think he was the cat's pajamas, even though they all knew he was. Unlike The Fonze, however, he didn't attain his Cool Status because of his way with the ladies or even through an elitist arrogance. He was just cool because he was....well, cool. If someone was cool by popular vote, I tended to ignore them just on principle. But we ended up sitting next to each other on a plane to Boston and spend the following week in Loopyville (...near Boston...) keeping each other warm and shopping for vintage clothing. We found several pairs of polyester pajamas...all of which we believed to have been previously owned by cats.

The first conversation we ever had was preceeded by a belching contest after eating pizza. We spent a great deal of our time together for the next 4 months in pants-wetting laughter. Eventually we ran out of things to laugh about, I guess. Or maybe we just got tired of doing so much laundry. Either way, it was a shame that things fizzled out because he was one of the few guys I've known that really tried to GET me. He dug deep; got knee deep into my soul. Peter remembered everything I ever told him, and he used all of those intricities to paint a more accurate picture of myself than even I could have painted.

On the other hand, I always felt that he used me. He used all the things I told him to label me as something I wasn't. He never let ME in and kept me away with the barriers he set. He had tiny feet. He was immature. He had no ambition. He smoked. He embarassed me in public. He didn't respect me. He had many aggressive opinions about things he knew nothing about. He had a skanky female roomate that he was probably banging during our relationship since he ended up with her soon after we split. He was unreliable. His unintelligence made him boring as Hell. He cried when I left. His hygeine could have been better. He was a borderline stalker. He belittled me. He was unimaginative. Even though we laughed together, he wasn't the slightest bit funny. And worst of all.....he hated kitties. I could've just listed that one first and been done with it.

In Route to Alberquerque

9:50 am- I have been on many flights...all over the world. Never have I experienced turbulence like this. This is more jarring...and much less fun...than The Titan. We are descending...will land soon. And thank God for that, because a woman 3 rows in front of me has just vomited. I wouldn't be able to smell it any better had she deposited it in my lap. I'm starting to dry-heave.

10:35 am- Now in the Dallas airport...layover. I was listening to tribal dance music for a while on the headphones. It was fun to watch people rush around to music like that. Everyone seemed peppy and exhilarated and full of life. I got bored with it a few minutes ago and switched to another CD. Beck's "Sea Change". Immediately, everyone around me changed. The attitude of movements that I witnessed previously are suddenly depressed and deliberate. Individuals who had once been headed to joyful reunions with lovers and anticipated vacations are now on their way to funerals and mundane business meetings. I feel dangerously powerful. Through the soundtrack of life that I have access to...I control everyone in this airport...Their destinies are in my hands. If I had a handlebar mustache, I'd be curling its ends between my fingertips at this very moment. I wonder what would happen if I could get my hands on some K.C. and the Sunshine Band.

10:57 am- A guy has just taken a seat across from me. He isn't all that attractive, really; but I find myself fighting the urge to stare at him. He's wearing tassled loafers and a SonicYouth tshirt. His long hair is pulled back in a ponytail and looks like it hasn't been washed in quite some time. I don't notice his wrinkled clothing and 8 o'clock shadow as much as I do his bright blue eyes. They look sad. Funny how certain people transfix me. It isn't always the way someone is dressed or the way they look. It isn't always their gestures or tone of voice, either. There's really no consistency to what grabs my attention. Sometimes there's just something about a person that makes me want to know their story.

11:06 am- An older man sat down behind and to the left of me a while ago on the row of seats that is connected to mine. He put on headphones right after he sat down and then closed his eyes. I think he was asleep for a while, but now (with his eyes still closed), he's doing leg lifts in his seat. With hands gripping the arm rests on either side of him, both legs are being extended and then lowered simultaneously in rapid succession. This entire section of seats is rocking and squeaking to the rhythm of his exercise, and the sound is like the cliche' noise of sex in an unsturdy bed. I suppose he's oblivious to the sound and the rocking since he is lost in whatever music is blaring through his headphones. I've been trying to ignore the movement of my seat, but this is almost as unsettling as the turbulence I experienced on the plane. I'm moving now.

11:42 am- The plane has just taken off. I'm in the aisle seat...and the little guy sitting next to me by the window is slightly peculiar. He has needed to get up several times, and instead of allowing me time to move aside for his exit, he stradles my legs with his ass about an inch from my nose. He's very thin, and is not in any way short on room on his side of the armrest, but he continues to lean his shoulder into mine way more than is necessary. Dude...I don't wanna cuddle.

12:21 pm- Okay...now he's singing what can only be some version of a show tune. He's been doing it for about 20 minutes now. He isn't singing at the top of his lungs, but everyone is this vicinity is definitely getting an earfull. There's one line that contains a high note that he can't quite reach. (something about lovin' the moonlight) So, he's been repeating that one line over and over. Doesn't sound to me like he's getting any closer to getting it right. In all honesty, he doesn't sound that bad. There's no amount of money in the world that could convince me to tell him so, however. I've put my headphones on to try to drown him out...it's not working as well as I would have hoped. People keep giving me glances to suggest that I should do something about this situation...that I should shut-up my seat mate. In response, I widen my eyes to say "I'm not with him! Really."

12:55 pm- I'm reading a book that a friend of mine lent me. It's mostly humorous commentary on pop culture. At some point, I realized that singing boy had been not-so- subtly reading over my shoulder for an entire chapter. Right around the time the flight attendant was nearing us with the beverage cart, he instrusively lifted the front cover of the book to read the title. "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs". He said it aloud and then asked in an inappropriately loud voice, "Is this a self help book?" His question actually would have been quite funny had he been trying to be ironic, but he was entirely serious.

Annoyed, I sharply answered, "No. No, it's not a self help book."

The flight attendant, now beside me, overhears and wants to know what it is that I'm reading. I tell her, and she gives me a disapproving look. "Ohhhh. (drawn out and judgmental) That sounds nice."

Mr. No Personal Space goes on to tell me that he really liked the part about the such-and-such on the previous page. I brushed him off as politely as possible, and now I'm trying to enjoy my book while shielding it from him. I'm not sure what is socially correct thing to do here. Is it okay for me to shift my body away from him every time I feel his eyes on the pages? Because that's what I've been doing. Maybe I could build a little tent with my Trapper Keeper like I used to do in elementary school too keep the other kids from copying. Oh, the hell with it. I'll just let him read along.

So, apparently, the new XBox 360 was released this week. I do know what an XBox is, of course, but the "360" part means absolutely nothing to me. Not that it meant anything to me without the "360", either. Anyway...thousands of teenaged boys and young men all over the country camped out for up to 3 days in front of various locations of Best Buy, Tweeter's, and Target stores just to get their hands of the first shipments of this computer game miracle. For 3 days? Their girlfriends really must have missed them while they were gone. Oh, wait. What was I thinking?


On a sidenote....I must issue a clarification of something I mentioned in my last entry. When I referred to the hair tragedy of 2001, I didn't mean that looking "like a Hispanic" was a bad thing! And, obviously, I'm not so at ease with stereotyping that I would imply that
Black Hair = Hispanic. It was simply the sharing of a memory...and one of the irrational exclaimations I recalled making at the time. Besides, all of my Hispanic pals are freakin gorgeous. If black hair could, in any way, make me look like all of them...I'd dye it back in a second.

A Few Good Things

I love that when we laugh in someone's presence, we look around us to see that others are laughing, too. A funny movie is on, or your waiter farts, or the kid next door that you can't stand falls off his skateboard. Whether we're in the room with one other person or 50, we need to acknowledge a mutual interpretation of humor and goodwill in order to really feel it completely. And when someone you care about is sharing in something that you think is funny, there's a brief, miraculous charge of energy that rushes through your veins. There's something beautiful and calming about simultaneous joy.

(Funny how I had never thought about this until this week....or maybe I've thought of it often, I just didn't remember thinking it. No; I really don't think I thought it....)


Sometimes things suck. The world around us gets stressful and confrontational and hard to navigate. What you thought was a smooth edge gets roughened by your shortcomings and inperfections and it presses into your stomach every time you turn. But then you stop twisting long enough to make eye contact with someone who knows you. And you feel known. And knowing that you can be known like that, and that someone with all that knowledge still wants to look you in the eyes......THAT makes everything else seem manageable.


There is someone out there who cares that you've had a migrane all day and that you might need to vomit at any moment. There is someone who will give you a manicure just because...even when you've referred to him as an explictative to his face. There is someone who recognizes how hard you work; and they respect you for it. There is someone who reminds you of all the dirty places you've been...and that you've come out clean every time. There is someone who knows where you're coming from when nobody else does. There is someone who doesn't scoff at your fondness for your kitty. There is someone who keeps trying when you don't return his calls right away. There is someone who calls you long distance for advice during hair tragedies...because she remembers when you cried over your accidental black hair that made you look "like a hispanic". There is someone who assures you that you deserve great things.

And it feels GOOD, doesn't it?

Take my picture by the pool...


...cuz I'm the next big thing.

Violence on the Homefront

Bridget often wakes me up in the middle of the night with things that aren’t worth waking up for. She’s usually meowing at the mattress or chasing a bug on the window sill or tapping me repeatedly on the shoulder just to whine about being thirsty. I’ve grown accustomed to these slumbertime interruptions, and most of the time I just throw something at her and fall back asleep. A couple of weeks ago, she seemed to be indulging in an extra amount of running around in the dark, but I was drunk on good dreamin’ and couldn’t make myself wake up enough to care.

As I was getting ready for work the next morning, I noticed that Bridget was particularly interested in my closet. I was about to chastise her adorable feline stupidity when I heard it: a faint “scratch scratch/rustle rustle” from behind some shoe boxes. I was mortified. The noises continued, and I while I should have dug through my closet to find the mystery creature, I chose to be girly about it. I left for work promptly, and for Texas right after work; and all weekend long I kept my fingers crossed that the problem would be gone by the time I returned home.

Until 2 days ago, I had seen nor heard any more evidence of rodent residents in my house. (I woke up from a dead sleep at 4:00 one morning when I SWORE I could feel tiny claws on my feet. I practically fell out of bed in blind terror, but found nothing other than my pissed off and confused kitty tangled in the comforter.) Monday morning, I walked into the kitchen and was greeted by a tiny lil’ bitty ol’ mouse. Bridget (like the savage she is) snatched it up between her teeth and attempted to carry it into my room. I blocked her way and shooed her in the other direction. I could see the determined, ravenous panic in her eyes as she tried to decide where to haul her prey. In moment’s flash I pictured my cute baby ripping the little animal to shreds, and the repulsive imagery caused me to take action before a Discovery channel special unfolded in my kitchen. I couldn’t tolerate the thought of her button-nosed innocence being spoiled by a germ ridden Stuart lookalike. Without hesitating, I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck until she dropped the mouse and it ran under our ancient unused dishwasher. Slow with disappointment, Bridget turned and gave me a “thanks a lot, fool” look.

I must say I was a bit ashamed of myself. I’m overprotective of a damn cat. What kind of mother will I be one day? I really don’t want to be overly strict and paranoid. We all know the kind….”If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times….wear your safety goggles when you practice your machete juggling!”…”Honey, wait until you get OUT of the pool to blow dry your hair!”…. ”Jimmy, you better clean that gun before ya fire it!” What a drag. If I ever have kids, they’re gonna hate me, aren’t they?

I'd Be a Willow Tree

I was with my aunt at an outdoor nursery recently. We had spent the past (mind-numbing) hour looking at an assortment of ready-to-plant trees. Palm trees, magnolia trees, pine trees, bonsai trees….you name it. As we were leaving, I asked my aunt in a loud, excited voice, “If you were a tree, what tree would you be?” I thought it would be funny. A man just happened to be getting out of his truck next to me and overheard my question. Apparently, he broke into stifled giggles behind my back (my aunt could see him even though I couldn’t). Had I realized this, I would have promptly turned and asked him if he considered himself closer to a daffodil or a petunia. I was sorry I missed the chance to experience such intimacy with a stranger. Anyway, the exchange embarrassed my aunt to extremes. She went on and on about how humiliated she was, but all I could do was laugh.

This from a woman who moons her teenaged sons’ friends with no hesitation.