#love2011: gathering week 8 thoughts

reframing rejection ... this week 8 love project assignment on reframing rejection is giving me a little nudge to continue rolling over old blog posts (from 2006-2009) into girlnutkin.

as mentioned in yesterday's post about the week 8 assignment -

"... from rejection, i have found i experience moments of writing emerge. little epiphanies pop-up, and reminders of lessons learned peek around the corner. the main thing is that i MUST acknowledge these moments. so that means i write, acknowledge mini-epiphanies, and learn a few lessons."

(pic of my friend todd, because he will cut you!)

flashback rejections result in writing ... dating - a common topic of rejection. and so the story goes -

• in early 2007 ... i dated a man for a couple of months, for which we spent at least 4 days a week with each other amidst home-cooked meals 2-3 nights a week and a full weekend day of personal projects, errands, and date night to cap it off. then we broke up, and i was VERY SAD. then i wrote about it.
  
• in the spring of 2008 ... my ex-boyfriend emailed me; we reconnected and started dating again - on and off throughout the rest of the year. then in early 2009, we broke up, and i was VERY SAD. then i wrote about it.
  
• in winter 2009 ... my ex and i agreed to be just friends. we saw imogen heap at the fillmore. fun. i was clear on the "just friends" after the concert; he was not. he later poo-poo'd my not hanging out with him after the concert, however, we remained friendly. several weeks later, after wishing him (via telephone) happy holidays/new years, he divulged that even before he and i met and dated, he was in a long distance relationship and the woman he was seeing was staying with him.
  
• it's 2011 ... we will not reconnect. it's mutual.

writing to express my feelings ... for each of the little milestone break-ups, i have discovered my go-to of writing to express my feelings. and

• in 2007 ... i wrote my foreigner. this short little story actually started off as an email. i don't remember at what point i decided to throw it into a story. i think it was after i got tired of listening to myself, burdening my friends, crying, and just spending way too much time on a treadmill of sadness. the result? - self-discovery, as shared in the story.
  
• in 2009 ... i wrote let me believe. like my foreigner, this story started off as an email. and when i spoke to a few friends about this "round 2", i kept saying that i could not believe what happened - again. well, as my friend, reggie, shared during one of my "i'm-sad-for-myself and i-want-to-talk-about-it-more-than-i-should and maybe-i'll-heal-but-for-now and blah-blah-blah pity-party" ... reggie said, "girlfriend, believe it!" and then poof - let me believe was written. i read this outloud for nearly 3 weeks straight.
  

lessons and transitions ... in reframing rejection, i believe i did learn more about myself and relationships through the break-ups -

• from my foreigner, as shared in the story, i learned about ignorance. my thoughts were shared in a may 2007 post (reposted over here). and this has since resulted in my being very interested and exploring race, ignorance, knowledge as shared over here.
  
  
• from let me believe, when i read it now, i have learned the importance of communications - spoken and unspoken, and although it all may sound like a cliche, i have a choice ... i have choices - how to react, how to transition, how to heal, etc.
  

friend shares support ... i do remember my sadness, shock, anger, and confusion back in 2007. and i am reminded of a quote sent to me in april 2007 from my friend tracy ...

Confronting our feelings and giving them appropriate expression always takes strength, not weakness. It takes strength to acknowledge our anger, and sometimes more strength yet to curb the aggressive urges anger may bring and to channel them into nonviolent outlets. It takes strength to face our sadness and to grieve and to let our grief and our anger flow in tears when they need to. It takes strength to talk about our feelings and to reach out for help and comfort when we need it.

- Fred Rogers
from "The World According to Mr. Rogers"

thanks, love project,
for my moments of flashback.
awesome lessons learned and learning!

my foreigner

(repost from a 05/03/2007 post)

a saddening moment late one evening back when i had been dating someone for about 2 months. however, it was a turning point - in fact, a bit of a mini-epiphany that has led me to an on-going growing interest in ignorance (mine, others, ...) on a variety of levels. here's a little slice of that late night moment ...

my foreigner

"... and maybe it's their culture ... but they are here now ... don't they ... these foreigners ... oh. uh ... no offense. you know. and ..."

i was less than 7 feet away from him in his less then 500 sq ft studio apartment. it was midnight. he slowly paced back and forth in front of me, justifying why he asked his neighbor to refrain from talking loudly. i agreed. it was disrespectful of his neighbor. a nightly event, his neighbor was outside talking on the telephone. i was inside sitting on one of three chairs - four chairs, if i counted the ottoman. he stood between his doorway and me. this would be the first and last time i visited his apartment.

i was certain i heard him say "... oh. uh ... no offense. ..." who might he have offended? his door was closed. his neighbor did not hear him.

"... oh. uh ... no offense. ..." he waved with what i later understood to be a preemptive, pacifying, left hand gesture toward me, while he paced back and forth and continued to talk. when he exclaimed about the need for foreigners to adapt and assimilate to the american culture, on occasion, he looked over his shoulder at me.

he really did say "... oh. uh ... no offense. you know. and ..." was I not to take offense? and his hand gesture? i knew i was american - filipino-american. he knew i was born in florida. certainly there was no reason for me to take offense. i knew i was not a foreigner. would a foreigner, however he defined one, be offended by his statements? it's simply bad manners to be disruptive at midnight.

he qualified his statements about adapting and assimilating. his context seemed credible, to explain the reasons behind his statements, to assure some rational thought. he was clear and specific. in fact, i believed he had valid perspectives. at least, for several minutes, he sounded educated and informed.

"uh, wait. what the hell? do you think i'm a foreigner? you know, don't you, that i'm not a foreigner? right? i'm not a foreigner."

born in the united states with a father who always extolled the virtues and opportunities of being an american citizen - i voted. my parents raised their family as bi-cultural, with the american slant more prominent. he? he was a european mix. he was american. he, too, was not a foreigner.

"oh? right. uhm..." with an awkward silence, his pacing stopped. then he faced me, shoulders squared-off, about 5 feet away from me. "well ..."

i interrupted him, "you understand that i'm not a foreigner. right?" more awkward silence as he stood still.

"well, you know what i mean? ... " he stepped back a few feet - resuming his pacing, rationalizing, and explaining. and that was when i realized i knew what ignorant meant.

i interrupted his explanations, for the last time. "i hear what you think you mean. i hear. i understand. ... " i began to explain what i understood. i believed i would convince him of what he did not understand. then with my voice trailing off, suddenly, i realized my disappointment. i knew i was not a foreigner. he did not. i no longer commented. he had his stage. it was his home. this was his soliloquy. i was his audience, very eager to leave his chair for the first and last time.

while he spoke again, i began to realize that i was someone else in his eyes, in his mind, and perhaps in his heart. my "looking different" and "being different" from him, which he often expressed as part of his strong attraction to me, afforded something else.

often he would say, "your eyes are different. you're cute. your skin is different. you have a different look than me, which i find sensual. you grew up differently. look how small you are. i know you are more than asian. i like that your dad raised you american." what i had understood to be observations and compliments began to have different meanings.

foreigner.

i might simply be that someone to adapt and assimilate to standards he held, and until then, he might consider my actions, my convictions, my values, and my beliefs as foreign to him - not to be shared with him. i - not someone to be understood by him, not someone of equal value to him. he - not someone who respected me, not the someone i believed i knew. that night, he became my foreigner. no offense.

[by Shirley © 2007]

let me believe

(repost from feb 03, 2009 post)

let me believe that it is different
something is different
we are different

it is nearly two years since the last time you chose not to call
even though i believed you because you said you would call,
since i left you a message you chose not to return
even though i believed friendship would prevail,
since a painful moment i brought upon us
even though we have never spoken about it.
i do not have to believe
because i know
that two years ago, we experienced our own grief
when i asked you to remove you - your passion - from my home.
the sadness in my heart went unnoticed
as it was overshadowed by your quiet anger.

let me believe my feelings are different
something is different
you are different

it is less than one year since you chose to e-mail me.
your note? i believed it was a simple, benevolent gesture
even though only you knew your intentions.
i do not have to believe
because i know
that the moment i watched you walk toward my doorstep
was the moment i realized i chose well.
my acceptance of your gesture went unnoticed
as i chose to forgo my healing for your companionship.

let me believe that i can heal
something is different
i am different

it is tonight, more than one week since you chose not to call
even though i believed you - just because.
it is tonight, not more than one day since i chose to call you,
as i have done so since, daily.
on this night, i chose to leave you a message,
not reminiscent of two years ago,
because something is different,
we are different.
tonight i asked that we talk, that we share, that we listen.
and on this night, as i recount my sadness, your anger,
my acceptance, your touch,
i remember that i have a choice,
that you have a choice.
even though we may never talk about this,
i accept that you may not call
because tomorrow,
something will be different.

let me believe that i will choose
that i have chosen
that i am different
i do not have to believe
because i know

story time (or "it's just a meal")

(from a creative writing course i took in 2003)

"It's Just a Numbers Game!"

“Honey – finding Prince Charming, your Soul Mate, or whatever you wanna to call him, requires emotional and spiritual capital. At least that’s what Oprah and Dr. Phil say. But in my opinion, it’s a lot simpler than that – it’s just a numbers game. You gotta start somewhere, somehow, with a first date. And now that you’re free from corporate America, it’s all about the NEW you! Focus on yourself and your love life.” I looked at him, fidgeted and pulled back my shoulders. “That’s better, Sweetie. And unbutton your sweater a l’il bit if you decide that you like him. All men appreciate cleavage! Even I do. See you later!”

At 3:30 PM, these were the parting words of Todd, my gay friend, spoken before I would drive Downtown at 6 PM to meet my first It’s Just a Meal blind date for drinks.By 7 PM, my date with Aaron, “the 42-year old, 6 foot 2, athletic guy, the artist, the really nice guy,” would end. With my sweater still buttoned after meeting Aaron, I asked myself, “How many more dates would be followed by “The Drive of Shame” to Todd’s restaurant? How would I explain to Todd that the nine planets aligned to play a twisted joke on me? What was I going to tell It’s Just a Meal?

Just a week ago, Tiffany, the Executive Director of It’s Just a Meal, escorted me to her ocean view office. The room was littered with red and white pom-poms. I was barely seated before she picked up a pair of pom-poms, pranced in front of her office desk, and deafeningly cheered, “When We Jam, You Jam. It’s all about IJAM! Goooo Team!” Suddenly, she tossed ME a pair of pom-poms and cheered two more times. In a Jekyll and Hyde moment, Tiffany straightened her very fashionable suit, snatched my pom-poms, and said, “Now then, let’s totally get down to business.”

After completing IJAM’s six page questionnaire, I confided in Tiffany about the man I wanted to date. “Shit!” I thought. “The fate of my dating life rests in the hands of this cutesy, 20-something, hip-hugger wearing, valley-girl talking, cotton-candy smelling chick whose hair has been highlighted to the point of incandescence.” In between her “oh m’gawds” and “totallys”, Tiffany’s sales pitch of IJAM’s blind date, matchmaking service for professionals was surprisingly compelling. Of course, she never said “blind date”, and she never said “matchmaking,” but she did make it a point to repeat “professionals”. “Oh m’gawd! I’m sooo excited! I have four guys in mind who are awesome! IJAM is sooo for you!” Without even asking if I was interested, Tiffany lunged at me with a pen and their contract. I was stunned by the five-tier membership options. But despite their fee structure, I decided to go the distance, became a Platinum Member and promised never to look back after signing my check over to IJAM. Wrong. One week later, I would sit in my car, breaking my promise.

While warming up my car a before meeting Aaron, the artist, I thought, “Wow! There are professional artists? Maybe he’s a famous painter, a musician in a rock band, or a soprano in the opera?” Whatever he was, the artist would get to see the new me – contact lenses, red lipstick, foundation to mask the emerging zit on my cheek, and a cleavage-promoting top. I grabbed my calculator out of my purse. Before punching the calculator keys, I checked my armpits – still dry. “Just one last time before my date,” I obsessed. “Must do the math, again. Just one last time.”

I barely heard the click of the keys over the hum of my car engine. 93 75 for each date (for 16 dates) or 125 a month for 12 months. But when I subtracted the 200 dollar interview fee with Tiffany and her pom-poms, it was 81 25 a date or 108 dollars and 33 cents a month. I convinced myself about the need to account for the interview fee. With my “new math”, it made the whole endeavor sound just a little cheaper. Less the 200 dollar interview fee, I already saved 12 50 for each date. Sure the logic was whacked, but the math was correct. Because no matter how often I punched my calculator, no matter how I approached this first date, I was faced with the dizzying reality that the only number that really mattered was fifteen hundred dollars – the price of a Platinum Membership with It’s Just a Meal.

I arrived Downtown; the hostess pointed to my date. Aaron was seated at the trendy bar, sipping a white zinfandel, and admiring himself in the wall mirror behind the bar. As the hostess escorted me to a vacant barstool next to him, he turned around. His eyes immediately locked onto mine with an intense, searching gaze. After a few seconds, during which he apparently decided he was satisfied with the view, he silently presented me with a single white rose and gently kissed my hand.

When he looked up, I began my own nonchalant perusal of his appearance. His salt-and-pepper mullet-hairstyle created a perfect frame for his Elvis Costello glasses, tan leathery skin, and straight white teeth. He wore a large quartz crystal hanging from a black leather strap and was quietly bouncing on his barstool, grinning and patting the empty stool next to him. I sat down to his right. In the air, I could taste his heavy-handed application of Old Spice cologne. I sneezed and then I ordered a martini and a double shot of vodka. Aaron coyly smiled. When the bartender served our drinks, Aaron grabbed the martini glass, swirled and sniffed its contents, nodded approvingly, and handed the glass to me. As he ran his finger through his hair, the first words out of his mouth were, “Wonderfully fragrant, M’Lady.” I sucked down half of my martini.

“Okay! He’s a professional artist.” The words spun in my head. “Now THAT whole swirl thing was a little strange, but it’s not a deal killer.” Under my breath, I repeated the mantra, “… numbers game. It’s just a numbers game. It’s just … ” Down went the vodka double shot.

Tiffany was right; Aaron was definitely 6-2. Athletic? Sure, I could see that. But she neglected to say one thing – once he got started, he couldn’t stop. Aaron was a chatterbox – sports, weather, politics, business – never anything personal, never anything engaging. He was like an audio U.S.A. Today newspaper. Not only that, his gestures gracefully complemented every word he spoke. Then, on the rare occasions when I was able to get a word in edge-wise, he invaded my personal space, stroked my left wrist, and eagerly nodded at every other syllable I uttered.

“Oh my god! It’s only 15 minutes into the date!” Did IJAM require a minimum amount of time for each date? Regardless, I decided that ending a date before 30 minutes would surely be frowned upon. “31 minutes and I’m outta here!” Suddenly, as if Aaron heard my thoughts, there was an awkward silence. He fidgeted on his barstool. He stared into the mirror and stroked the quartz crystal lying atop his Adam’s apple. Then, his eyes nervously darted around the restaurant as if he needed to find the nearest exits.

“Oh no you don’t!” The words blared in my head. “Don’t even think about it, Artsy-Fartsy Man! I just got here! 93 75 or 81 25, Dammit! I’m getting my money’s worth.”

Suddenly, he swiveled on his stool and invaded my space, “So, what do you do for a living?” I was flustered. He wanted to converse. I sipped what was left of my martini and said, “I recently left a small energy consulting company to start my own business. I consult with power plants on environmental issues.” To that, he interrupted, “Oh! Do you work with peakers?” My eyes bugged-out; if I was a cartoon character, I’m sure they would’ve been the size of Jupiter while hanging off their sockets! Then I realized that we might have something in common! “What the hell, Aaron!? IJAM told me you were an artist. Only power industry people say peakers!”

Proudly he said, “Oh, you’ll find that I’m a man of many hats. For almost 5 years, I used to work with wind energy. I got sick of seeing piles of dead birds, so I cashed in my stock options right before the dot-com crash. Then my guardian angel helped me find my true calling. I quit my job and became a street artist. I’m a mime.”

Dazed and almost choking on my words, I mumbled, “True calling? Mime? Wind energy? Uh, the company I just left, Green Energy Elements, is in Pleasantland. I worked there for … ” Before I could finish, he talked over my words, “Oh! Bob and Larry? I know them.” His soliloquy began again – yack, yack, yack, yack, yack – another speech about nothing, arms waving like that of a symphony conductor.

Holy shit! I’ve payed 93 75 or 81 25 – whatever the hell the amount - for a random mime to remind me that we lived in a small world. My first IJAM date is reciting the names of my former employers – “former” as of only twelve days ago. Bob and Larry - their names rang in my head. I downed my martini with lightning speed. Then I looked up at Aaron for sympathy; but he had no clue about the flashback turmoil I was experiencing the moment he said their names. He was too busy impressing himself with his own stories. Bob and Larry – Larry and Bob. After a year, I got a severance package and took my lawyer’s advice to remain calm and not go postal as they disingenuously wished me “good luck in all your future endeavors.”

Oh my God, now it’s only 25-minutes into my date with the Bay-City-Roller-Wanna-Be. After he reminisced about the “the good ole days” with Bob and Larry, he was exploring new, uninteresting tangents. Why was Aaron still talking while I obviously had a plastered smile poised atop my bobble head acknowledgment of his empty words? By 7PM, I knew this would be our only date. His being really nice had some benefits, but his being really boring did not. I shook his hand and got my parking stub validated.

81 25, plus drinks, plus a Mime. Priceless.

When I waved at Todd through his restaurant’s window, it was 8 PM. He efficiently seated a table of eight, and acknowledged me with his signature beauty-pageant hand wave. He had his sassy hair highlighted and gelled, and he wore yet another one of his to-die-for outfits. The waiting area was packed, the bar was crowded, but regardless, he quickly rushed outside. He gave me a huge bear hug, kissed me on both cheeks, and pulled at one of my sweater buttons. “Snatch-Basket! You look great! But where’s the cleavage? Is he a painter? Do tell all, but make it quick. We’re totally slammed.”

I took a deep breath. “He’s not a painter. He’s a new-agey-mullet-wearing-mime that used to work for Bob and Larry. What a small-fucking-world?” Todd gave me a comforting hug and said, “Ah, Sweetie! That sucks. He sounds like a poor bastard. Dump him.”

[by Shirley © 2003]