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Movie Moments

1 Jan

spatula

New Year’s day, and here I am. Still uncertain, still shaky, still on hold. What the hell am I doing? I know what I have to do, it’s just that I haven’t been feeling very courageous lately.

A year ago I was beginning to get a grip on things. Everything fell apart in October 2012. But in January 2013 I was beginning to put the pieces of my life back together. Slowly, one piece at a time, I learned that my life was a puzzle that could be put together in more ways than one. I waited for three months for BD to turn around. And then came the SCREW IT stage, no pun intended, well, maybe semi-intended. I discovered that life was magic. I was astounded by the revelation that I could live my life any way I wanted to, that I was free to do whatever I wanted.

Life is magic. People watch movies and read books and hear stories, and they say: things like this never happen in real life. Bullshit. Everything happens in real life, if you let it. Movie moments are all around us, waiting to be discovered by the power of one bold move, a small act of bravery.

Dinner today. Scrambled eggs. Tomato. Cucumber. Olives (Baby loves olives!) A spoon. And then BAM, Baby leans over and grabs a giant yellow spatula with a smiley face on it from the kitchen counter. Now he’s using it as a giant spoon, picking bits of tomato with it and stuffing them into his mouth, laughing his head off. Too young to have reservations. So open minded, that he would never ask if it was appropriate. Who the hell cares? It makes him happy.

It’s harder for us. We’re so aware, so worrisome. It’s harder for me. So uncertain, so afraid of making a mistake. So afraid to be brave that I prefer this impossible status quo. I prefer to let life guide me and spoon-feed tasteless mashed carrots. Instead, I should just grab me a giant yellow smiley-faced spatula, pull life by its reigns and fill it with movie moments and passion and happiness and me.

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Butterflies and Dirty Habits

6 Feb

butterflies

Allowing myself to feel again is not easy. On Sunday, Skating Guy and I went to a movie. We saw Hitchcock, which was eerie and terrific, with Anthony Hopkins outdoing himself, and Scarlet Johansson being her regular admirable self.

That morning had been so rough on me, that I was very close to cancelling the date altogether. It seemed wrong, suddenly, or rather – wronger – to be out with another man, while I was still technically married, in the process of separation. But as we sat in the darkness of the theater, absorbed in the film, though slightly distracted by each other’s presence, my hand was in his and our fingers were playing around, holding, touching, tickling one another, like each of our hands had a life of its own, a background story and a personality, and together they completed one another. And I felt happier than I’d been in a while. I felt optimistic.

It was a rush. It was butterflies and sparks and all that stuff you yearn for when you’re 16, and sober up from when you grow up and realize that a serious relationship is much more stable and predictable than all of that. I’d truly forgotten about the butterflies. How comforting it is to know that they exist!

So here we are. And what do we have before us? A thing. This is definitely becoming a thing. I’m not quite sure what kind of thing exactly. But it’s a thing, an easy thing, a thrilling thing, a thing which brings some good old fashioned light hearted fun into my complicated present.

Unfortunately however, along with the light-hearted uncomplicatedness, comes also my dirty habit of overanalyzing everything, and constantly searching for clues that can account for my insecurities, proof that all of this wonderfulness is somehow faulty, that I’m not worthy of it, or that he’s an asshole like all men apparently are. A text message lacking punctuation and emoticons, becomes a sign that he is tired and has had enough of me. The same goes for a message that is not instantly answered. And it makes me realize how shitty text messages are, and how I hate that I obsess over them, how bad it is for my mental health to be as attached to my phone as I am, to check my messages and emails and refresh my Facebook page more often than I smile, or glance out the window, or take a deep breath.

But I’m optimistic still. I think there is a learning curve for everything, and I am a diligent student. I’m learning what it is to let go of the past and to welcome the future. Scratch that. I’m learning to welcome the present. And this is, perhaps, another lesson. I’m learning to enjoy the present, which I’ve always tended to discredit.

Skating Guy is here now. He wants to take me to the opera, and cook for me, and tell me that I’m special. And I’m going to let him. Even if it ends tomorrow, even if he disappoints me, or I disappoint myself, it’s not all about tomorrow. Today counts for something, doesn’t it?

Mayans, Bite Me.

20 Dec

toysDon’t laugh but I was seriously troubled today by the fact that it’s supposed to be the end of the world tomorrow, and it’s BD’s night with Baby. I mean, if all ends tomorrow morning, I’m not even going to be able to give my boy one last hug. And even though it’s a ridiculous thought, it made me sad. Have I mentioned that I’ve been hyper sensitive lately? So to forget about stuff, I walked to the mall with my friend B in the blithering cold, with a pineapple Breezer in my hand, to watch a dumb chick flick, not before downing two whiskey-diet cokes, and demolishing a hamburger with a ton of fries. At least there was a green salad on the side.

So… Bachelorette. One of those movies that really makes you think, right? Yes. It makes you think – good thing I’m drunk or this movie would seriously suck. Poor Britney Murphy, she had the role of Gena perfectly cut out for her, only she’s dead, so they had to make due with Lizzy Caplan, who was actually quite good, to be fair. B fell asleep about 20 minutes into the movie, and despite my nudging and kicking remained asleep until the last 10 minutes of the movie, when she opened her eyes and mumbled sleepily: Too bad I fell asleep, looks like it was a good one. The main theme of this movie is that women hate themselves and sabotage their lives, despite being drop dead gorgeous, smart, and helping kids with cancer. But the fat girl whose only real characteristic trait in the movie is that she likes to eat, has it right, because she’s not bulimic or high on coke, she just accepts who she is and finds the perfect guy who wants to marry her, even in a torn stained wedding dress.

Alright, movie over, candy eaten (there just were not enough calories in that burger, sorry) and we head out of the theater. It’s midnight, oooooh, the end of the world is coming. All at once it starts to poor, I’m talking cats and dogs, and none of the traffic lights are working, that’s creepy, and tipsy B and I have stupidly decided to walk back home.

When I finally make it home I rush to turn on the heat, strip of my wet sticky jeans and crawl into my pajamas, and then cannot help myself and text BD to see if Baby’s doing alright, which he is. I’m head over heels over this little guy, I have to tell you. He can keep me up all he wants, I’d take any night staying up shush-patting him over being apart. Well, maybe one night a week to catch up on my sleep is not a terrible idea.

Tomorrow is a new day, isn’t it? And it most definitely will not be the end of the world. Let me tell you why: This story, my story, is just not over yet. The heroine has only just begun her development. The plot has only just started to thicken. And what kind of a crappy novel would it be if somewhere around chapter 3, everyone in the story died and that was the end? Well, it wouldn’t be a novel at all, it would be a very poorly written short story.

So Mayans, bite me.