Thursday, November 20, 2014

Disheveled and Braless, Fuckin' Superheros

You know what I discovered? Single mom is NOT a good look on me. It looks greasy and disheveled and braless; clad in yoga pants and baby food laden shirts, all while too exhausted to really care. Maybe this is why people get married before breeding: No, sir. You cannot leave. There is this piece of paper that requires you to still call me pretty even though I have poop in my hair!

Two weeks ago I flew to Indiana to help my sister because her husband had been in the hospital all week (with they didn’t know what) and she had no help. She has three children: three year old twins and an 11 month old. Suffice to say, I assumed she would be falling apart and needing family and an extra two hands.

The twins started pre-school early, on account of my niece being special needs spectacular, but being three years old, they only spend three hours in school. So after a weekend with them, I had everyone to myself on Monday. The eldest woke me up at 9:35a and I thanked her for letting me sleep in. My sister’s house is small so I was sleeping in the toddler bed and when the eldest came in (she was sharing a bed with my sister) and woke me, I put on my glasses to discover the 11 month old had been staring at me from her crib for quite some time. When I looked over, she smiled. The younger twin was still fast asleep. This is to say these children are rather ‘easy’, from a child care stand point.

I’ve decided when I have children I’m just going to give them to my sister for two years and then take them back once they’re all properly calm and awesome and just wait in their cribs smiling at me until I’m ready to wake up. That's what us that are 31 and childless like to think it is like anyway. Otherwise no one would ever breed, right?

So my day as a single SATM looked like this: Put the eldest in front of the TV with raisins and milk. Change the 11 month old; feed the 11 month old. My sister took the keys to the backdoor, so I climb over the fence to feed the dogs. Then head back to the kitchen and start breakfast for the twins. Pick out outfits for school. Wake up the younger twin, change her, and position her on the couch to out-groggy herself before breakfast. Finish making breakfast and feed the twins; clean up the babes and their trays. Give the eldest her clothes to get dressed; help her. Dress the other twin. Dress the baby. I am still in yoga pants, no bra and my now greasy hair is dangling from whatever half-assed bun I slept in. I consider taking a shower, but at this point it is five to 12 and I know that the bus comes at 12:30 and the last thing I want is to miss the bus. I put off my shower until just one child is loose. I go to clean the kitchen. I hear a THWAP! The baby got out of her Bumbo chair and fell off the couch onto hardwood. Whoops. I react accordingly, which is to say I didn’t react at all and just picked her up and took her to the kitchen with me, which immediately calmed the surprised terror off her face. 

Whew. Crisis averted.

I tell the older one to go pee. For whatever reason, getting her to pee is an incredible struggle. (Although I still don't condone "so-and-so went on the potty!" facebook posts, I get it. A little. Not enough that I think it should continue to be public knowledge, but a little.) So I turn off the television and entice her that it can be put back on once she goes. She does. I tell her to put on her socks and shoes. She gets the right feet. Go her. I put socks and shoes on the younger twin who is now so full of blueberries, bananas and scrambled pizza eggs (I don't know, it seemed like a good idea at the time) that sitting still is just about the last thing she is interested in doing. Ten hyperbolic minutes later we’ve got shoes on both kids. It's 12:25p. I stare out of the door for the next 15 minutes waiting for my shower -- I mean the bus. It's 10 minutes late, but I feel a bit of success in accomplishing my first real goal of the day which is to just get them on the damn bus. It felt like a huge fucking victory at that point. I encourage the eldest to get on the bus. The younger twin is in her own world and not listening, so – with the baby on my hip – I grab the twin from the porch, put her on the other hip, get her backpack and carry both to the bus. I hand off the child and the pack and explain I’m the aunt when they think I'm the mom. Either I'm doing something right or I'm just looking the part. But, who cares bye now because I’d like a shower. I head back in and, with the baby still on my hip, get a glimpse in the mirror.

Oh, the horror.

Single mother is NOT a good look on me. I look completely disheveled and like I haven’t showered for days. At least, I thought, I had the decency to put on a bra for the bus ladies. I immediately take a shower, but not before putting the baby in a laundry basket to drag into the bathroom with me. I did not want her falling off the couch or something again. Every few minutes I’d poke my head out of the shower I was singing in to make sure she was enjoying the concert fine. After I dress, I head to the kitchen with my laundry basket baby and we do the dishes and clean up as I put on a one woman show. Afterwards, I feed her again, and put her down for a nap. I had time to clean the living room and put on my makeup/dry my hair. I almost looked human again. And then it’s time to pick up the twins from school, so unfortunately I had to wake her up after a short 20 minute nap. She didn’t care.

So into the car we go. When I pick up the twins, I’m two minutes late. The eldest screams my name joyfully. We head out. She then begins to cry and scream for someone to help her when the teacher picks her up because she is refusing to walk through the parking lot. I think, "Oh shit. They're going to think I'm stealing these children!" Everything became fine when she got to grab onto my shoulder as I carried the other two to the car. Aww. She wanted ME?! I melt. Once in the car, she’s still upset so I ask if she’d like a milkshake – mostly because her auntie wanted a burger and shake all day, but hey, two for one – she says yes and by the time I get to Steak and Shake, she’s asleep.

We get back and I put the asleep one on the couch. (Oh, did I forgot to mention her kids also sleep through damn near everything? It’s very convenient.) I feed the younger twin her burger while I put the baby back in her crib to nap. Then the younger twin was super hyperactive in my face – which might have been the milkshake I’d given her – but I figured was her different little way of saying she was tired, so I put her in her bed. She fell asleep. Suddenly I noticed ALL OF THE BABIES WERE ASLEEP! Holy shit this is great. I can take over Netflix! An episode of Parks and Recreation later, my sister came home to a clean house with sleeping babies and when she walked in the door said, “Wow. You’re good.”

THANK YOU! But fuck man, good is really difficult. And it makes me realize that I’m totally okay being childless for quite a while longer. Even the logistics of getting a simple cup of coffee are completely elevated to the level of “fuck it, water wine is fine” when it involves strapping little humans into seats and shit. Our mom was still at my sister's when I called yesterday to talk about my going back this weekend and even she said, “I don't know how [your sister] does it. I have no idea how I did this with you three! And I really have no idea how your grandmother did it with five of us!!”

Me neither mom, but thank you. Holy shit. And thank you.*

*Mothers are fuckin' superheros.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

The Scientific Method

There are a number of things that I do that one might call "experiments". They may also call them any one or combined number of these items: cheap, broke, lazy, absent-minded, clumsy, curious, drunk and/or bored. Stemming from these kinds of experiments are all kinds of little dos and don'ts (mostly don'ts) I've learned throughout the years, such as:

  • Do not stick your thumb in the wheel of a grocery cart because it will rip off your thumb nail and force your mother abandon the Cookie Crisp and run four year old you to the hospital.

  • Do not put your finger in an empty light socket of a lamp while it is plugged because it will shock the shit out of seven year old you. 

  • When your grandmother is trying to get you to eat she will lie and tell you things like 'pork rinds are just pork-flavored potato chips', so do your homework. 

  • Do not go home with a bartender you do not intend to sleep with because he will kick you out and leave you stranded.

  • Do not take off leggings and wear them as a scarf even if your male friends convince you it looks good because it does not look good.

  • Do not sit in the front seat of a cab at 3am chatting with the driver with leggings - previously removed and tried as a failed scarf - in your pocket and in knee high boots and a tiny sweater dress because a cop will accuse you of prostitution. 

  • Popcorn does not absorb alcohol, so don't expect it to. 

  • Do not try to GPS home drunk walking because it will take four hours and two miles to go the three blocks to your house. 

  • Do not decide you're too cheap to cab five miles home (with the logic that you run the five miles sober in tennis shoes without issue), while barefoot and after a pedicure so intense the guy says, "There you sexy now; you get a man with your baby feet.", because it will hurt like hell and take forever.
  • *Although I still drink for free to this day, so maybe that one wasn't so bad.

    So it seems over the years I've learned all these little tid-bits but it hasn't really occurred to me to share them until now. The latest happened this past weekend when I knew what I was doing could go either way, but considered it an experiment. It all started with a pack of turkey hot dogs that I had opened a few weeks ago, but had yet to expire. Although, I completely ignore expiration dates anyway. I don't believe in them: Smell is typically my expiration date. However if there's a vein in an egg, the egg is in the trash immediately, but ironically, (as I learned while making a hot dog mac'n'cheese breakfast on Saturday) if one hot dog in the pack is moldy, I don't trash it immediately. Yea, I realize that's gross.

    Although I don't consider it as gross as the moment in September (while we were battling pantry moths) when I poured my last box of mac'n'cheese (I swear I don't eat that much mac'n'cheese) in the boiling water and immediately noticed the parade of eggs and larvae dancing around the pot and deeply contemplated scooping out the babies and eggs and eating it anyway. (Don't worry. I didn't.)

    However, this does remind me of the time when I was around 10 and my mom made broccoli soup from scratch with broccoli from our garden. My sisters didn't like veggies and I ate eat anything, so just as I was about to dig in alone, I asked my mom what the white things were floating on top and she said, quite curt, "It's just onions! EAT IT!". So I did, until she sat down five minutes later with her bowl of soup - and mine half gone - and told me to stop. Because once she glanced at hers, she realized the onions were actually little worms. Apparently you have to carefully wash these normal broccoli-dwelling worms out of your broccoli before using it. (Life before Internet was hard.)

    • Wait until the cook eats until you do, particularly if there are any questionable items going on with your meal because it could be worms.

    Back to the hot dogs at hand. There were five left in the pack. Not one to waste, I decided that since they didn't feel slimy they were fine aside from the mold. So I pulled out the moldy one, and threw the other four in the pot of boiling water with the macaroni. I hypothesized that it would kill whatever bad things were lurking in the mold. After about a minute in the water, I pulled out three and let the fourth stay boiling until the pasta was finished and then went about making a normal bowl of mac'n'cheese with hot dog - because apparently I'm five. I ate the bowl and immediately my stomach began to gurgle and then I became deeply fascinated with my bathroom for an hour.

    • Do not eat moldy hot dogs even if you boil them because duh.

    I was aware it was an experiment at the time, but now I'm not sure if it went awry or deemed successful. But according to the Scientific Method, it's not science until I share my results, so here we are: Moldy hot dogs are bad and don't eat them. Aren't you glad I do this leg work for you? You're welcome.

    Tuesday, November 4, 2014

    A Large Part of the Human Condition

    Well we might as well follow this soap opera through since we've brought it step-by-step this far...

    So there I was on Friday, I had just been coaxed into going out for Halloween, via text, while out to lunch with coworkers. I had a last minute costume all figured out - since it was last years original until the skirt I bought from Japan was too small and I turned into Sandra Dee instead. I was going as a pin-up. Or something close enough - who cares, I wasn't planning on going out anyway.

    On my drive back to work, I get a text from the Turk. A brief exchange follows:

    So the night begins. He texts me his location around 11p. My girlfriends and I are at a house party on the other side of town, but we want to go dance. The area he is in is my new favorite and my current place to dance since my old roommates E and M went to a Body Language concert in September and then got to this bar/club early enough after the early concert to have the whole floor to ourselves and wriggle like no one else existed. (Those are my favorite kind of nights.)

    I response to his text, I told him I could text when we left the house party if he wanted. When we got to the bar near him, I told him where we had ended up, which was a couple of blocks from where he was. I think he thought I was going to be alone and meeting him, because his only response to the where we were and you can meet us text was, "Us?"

    After an hour and a half, at 2 am, with no further response from him after explaining the 'us', I texted back, "Cool. Thanks." And I was ready to leave since it was way too packed to dance and I was irritated after I had gotten dead air from this dickhead again. My girlfriends, however, were not. So at 3am, the bar was closing and we were being kicked out (thank God) and on our way to pray to the LBJ that we could catch a cab (since the metro closed at 3). Walking down the steps, at 3:04am, I get a call from the Turk who asks where I am and, when I say leaving the bar, he asks which, where, and that he'd be there to pick us up. FANTASTIC! Whew. Free ride and not dealing with the lack of cabs and Ubers on Halloween! 
    "banana for scale!"

    And then, midway through the taxi-bration, my brain went "what the fuck", which was quickly pushed aside while we entertained ourselves on the sidewalk and did things like take pictures with strangers and fruit. 20 minutes later, he pulled up with the same friend that he had made get a hotel the night we met so he could go home with me: Apparently he always drives his friend in his friend's car when they go out clubbing. Getting into the car wasn't quite as bizarre as maybe now I think it should have been. But you know what was bizarre in the moment? That he kept putting his hand behind his seat - I was seated directly behind him - to try to hold my hand; rather get me to hold his hand. I flicked it and high-fived it instead. Very mature. He turned sideways in his seat so he could see me when traffic was crawling or stopped. He looked at me that weird, adoring way again. And all I could think was: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS.

    We drop off my two girlfriends at their place and the two Turks drove me onto mine. The Turk's friend asks if we were going to go to the diner we went to before: The one we at at until 5am the night before the Turk left for Turkey. That place, I later was told, where I was teaching a girl at another table to do yoga and the Turk looked on amused. See, I'm fucking funny.

    Both the Turk and I said we weren't going to the diner. One, I wasn't hungry and two, it was 4am and I wasn't particularly drunk. Tispy for sure, but not drunk enough for waffles at 4am dressed as a pin-up - and especially not with this guy that gave me the shove off a month ago and is now trying to hold my hand like nothing bad happened. As a concession, the other Turk said he wanted coffee so I invited him in for a cup. I made him his coffee then went to my room to change out of my costume. The friend headed to the living room to drink is brew and the Turk followed me into my room.

    He sat on my bed and pulled me toward him. To cuddle. Not to kiss. Not to bang. He wanted to fucking cuddle. WHAT THE BLOOD CURLING SCREAM OF A FUCK.

    To be honest, though, it was nice to be wanted, to feel as though I wasn't crazy enough not to be missed, to have that body and warmth and spoon. Was it him? I wondered, or was it that anyone would have been nice? But that didn't matter, it was him there: It was this guy that jerked me around, who gave me a shit send off. Who I mulled over until I realized he didn't matter in my life and if he drove off that road, good riddance to him. I asked if he missed me and he refused to say anything; he said he wouldn't answer that question. A few moments later I asked, "What are you doing here?" while we lay intertwined on my bed.

    "I wanted to make sure you got home safe."

    "Well, I'm home," I said matter-of-factly, as he looked at me quizzically. "So what are you doing here?"

    "I wanted to see you," he said.

    "Well," I said dryly, "you saw me."

    "Are you kicking me out," he asked.

    "No," I said, "But I want to know what you are doing here." I can't even remember the response, so suffice to say it was nothing worth remembering. More time passed, mostly in silence or general chatter. He smelled me; I could hear and feel him smell me...You smell me?!

    Laying against each other at the edge of the bed, he looked into my eyes and we said nothing. And after about a half an hour alone, I kissed him with hesitance and lustful necessity; smashing my red lipstick all over his mouth, pulling away with a giggle as I saw this man - who wants to always be so in control - painted with a crimson lust. I wiped it from his face as I declared, quite confidently,"You missed me."

    "I'm not going to say anything," was his response - or something like it.

    "Well did you miss me?"

    "What do you think," he said in that way that suggests you're stupid for thinking otherwise.

    "I don't know," I said, because, you know, I didn't know.

    "Did you miss me?" he responded.

    "No," I said, "I hated you." A hyperbole, I realized, but I hated the moments and ridiculous situation(s) he put me in well enough. I hated thinking about him. I hate that he ditched me. I hate that he tried to force something I wasn't ready for. I hated that he was back and I let him be back. And that I didn't hate him. In fact, I almost liked him there.

    To which he retorted, "Well that's good! If you didn't hate, you were indifferent. If you hated me, then you had feelings." Oh yea, good, that's great, Captain Mindfuck! 

    Moments passed as we lay there together - listening to his friend rustle about in the living room while giving us our time alone. It was nearly 5am. I was sitting up when he asked about a trinket he had bought for me and hung on my wall during the first week we were dating. A trinket he couldn't possibly see from the position he had been in for 20 minutes, which means he noted it when he walked into the room. I asked him to repeat himself - one, because facing the opposite way it didn't make sense so I wasn't sure what I heard and two, to gauge the kind of reaction he would have from saying something as vulnerable as 'I noticed you removed me from your life'.

    He wouldn't repeat it. So I went on talking about the trinket and that I took it down - however, I didn't throw it away. (I can never bring myself to throw gifts from exes away. Whoops.) The trinket missing from the wall lead into another discussion about what the fuck he was doing there because "Why the do you care if I got rid of something you gave me". And why he was back and he's the one that actively went away. AND WHY ARE YOU FUCKING WITH MY EMOTIONS I DO NOT DESERVE THIS I JUST GOT OVER YOU AND DIDN'T CARE AT ALL GO AWAY PLEASE NOW WTF, ETC, ETC. Except that last part was just in my head, instead I said, "You're the one that stopped talking to me, remember? And I understand hooking up, but you're clearly not here to hook up, so WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE."

    And, as if my dream was a foreshadow of the nearly the exact events to come the following days, he said, "I don't want to do this. I don't want to talk about this."

    "Neither do I. You're the one that brought it up," I said as I laid back down on his chest - like that was a good fucking idea. Just as good as the the fucking idea I had a few minutes later, that was barely worth the effort, but really was my entire goal the whole night - so I can't kick myself. Although, I got from it a ridiculous story from the tryst -- that I just HAVE to save for the book - as well as the shit realization that the feelings for him I discarded were merely buried just beneath the surface, all while I thought I'd snuffed them out entirely with logic and time.

    Well, that sounds fucking familiar.

    Damn you, heart. Damn you, boys. Damn this shit; these games. I just want to shut the door in his face (which I haven't ruled out yet), but I am reluctant to ever leave something open to ever asking, "what if". They haunt me, the 'what if's', and likely not for my greater good. And they continue trample me in the aftermath of 'I only know its a mistake if I make the mistake'. That sounds like a large part of the human condition. And I suppose we all have to suffer.

    But fuck, man. Enough already.

    Thursday, October 30, 2014

    Episode: I don't understand men.

    Yesterday morning I woke up remembering a very vivid late morning dream. It was about the Turk. A surprise topic since I really hadn't been thinking much about that situation since ya'll watched me process it through two weeks ago. (I never did send that email.) But the dream was hilarious and fantastic and I took it to mean I was feeling quite myself again. It went as such:

    We were apparently living in the same building. He had just returned from Turkey and I saw him enter with his bags while I doing laundry in the common area. He left a partially scratched lotto ticket on my chest freezer - which was behind the washer in the common area. I pretended not to see him as I passed, but bumped into him while heading back to my room so I'd know he saw me; I noticed he had the purple lotto ticket. I went to my room briefly and when I went back to the freezer, the ticket was still there. (The number scratched was 10 and three horizontal lines to the left of it.) So I walked over to him - while he was crouched down riffling through his bags - to give it back and he shut the door in my face. So I put my foot in the door and he was like, "I don't want to do this."  
    I said, "Do what? Here's your ticket you left it on my freezer." He said it wasn't his and I said I saw him with it. He took it and then he went on about how he didn't want to fight. And I was totally calm going, "Um. I don't want to fight with you." He said we weren't going to get back together - and while he said that, his toupee* fell off the back of his head and he just put his hand out in front of himself and caught it and put it back on and didn't acknowledge it happened; just kept talking. Then I just lost it cracking up laughing and said "I definitely don't want to get back together with you, but we live in the same building so we should at least be friendly." 
    *no, he doesn't wear a toupee IRL
    And then this happened yesterday evening:

    ::blinks emphatically:: what?!

    My initial reaction was: what the fuck. And my current reaction is: what the fuck. Like what are you doing and didn't you choose to go away already?

    Here was the awkward 200 year old sea turtle of a conversation that followed:

    But what I really wanted to say was "What do you want?" Like "Um, excuse me, what the fuck are you doing? What is this right here?" as I tap on the screen. Didn't we do this already and you gave me the shove off and we couldn't agree on the fact that I don't commit that quickly and you wanted to force me into exclusivity? And that whole I'm in Turkey and move on without me part. Seriously, what do you want? Because I am not at all prepared to deal with this shit all over again. Let us not play games.

    This happens time and again - and I'm not sure how often it happens to me versus what is considered normal - if there is such thing as normal - but I am the girl that 1. friends fall for and 2. exes come back to. Why?! 1. We're friends; don't ruin that. And 2. we've been there already and it hurt. Granted, this situation as been slightly different than normal completely ridiculous from the start, but I moved past that part of giving a shit and wanting to be with him and why would I want to go through that again. And then, as a total human, I also want that chance for anyone who saw me misrepresented, to see who I really am versus that fucked of version of ovarian cysts and scared and resisting girl. Also - let's be honest here - physical attraction and adult needs...knoamsayin?.

    This is an incredibly shit catch-22, but I suppose that's just following due course of a situation that has been as incredibly fucked up as this since day one. And no, for those playing the home version, he hasn't responded and I'm leaving it at that. I felt as though it ended the game and absolves me from any further thought or action. If he was giving me the heads up that he's back because he thought I cared, I didn't - and that can lie there forever as an end because I don't need upper-hand power and, as far as I'm concerned, my cute, conveniently-timed dreaming, toupee-inventing brain says I have it anyway. And if he was testing the waters to see if I'm still interested in him or if I am dating someone else, I think I answered that question in a pseudo-invitation to invite me to hang out. And bravo to me, I think, for that clever and slightly low hanging fruit of 'let's not play this game' because it is clear to me now that I don't understand men, but here I feel as though perhaps I'm learning to deal with them better.

    So there ya go, guys: the Turk is back from Turkey. Now we know. The end(?).

    Sunday, October 19, 2014

    Less of a Freak

    10/14/14 ...

    Facebook is often an unflattering pain in the ass, but today it's been a wondrous thing - it's made me feel like less of a freak. In between the engagement, wedding and baby photos, was this ["What And Almost Relationship Looks Like"] suggested article (dangling below someone's Thought Catalog post). OMG! I thought reading it: It's not just me and panic and psychics getting inside my head - predicting HG and the Turk to a T. We all do this - and I with the incredible pull of these boys: Like I the light and they the moths - to which I respond with subsequent panic and questions of intention.

    And just after reading that - wondering how I fell in love so easy in my teen and early 20s, then never again since then and what went so wrong with me - I read this ["17 Things to Expect When You Date a Girl Who's Used to Being On Her Own"]. And I really am not alone. We're all doing this: Swinging our arms and guarding our hearts, seeing who ducks and who is left standing. I'm not a god-damned freak; a mutant of love and loss. I am a girl scared of getting hurt. A girl who's comfort zone became single and alone. A girl who tests and guards her heart because, fuck, that shit hurts. We are 30(ish) and single, but we are still trying - even if that means we are weary and testing. That's what matters, I hope: that we try. But fuck, girls, if it doesn't still hurt and at times make us doubt our worth; ignite our buried fears. I just have to tell myself if I drive them away now, it's better than later. But I can't help but think they don't even know me, just the scared girl handing out difficult and weird entrance exams on the way to her heart. And as each fails, I self-doubt - even when I know I've done the right thing. But I am not alone; we are not alone. And good. That feels good.

    Friday, October 17, 2014

    Six Oh Three

    Hours before I even heard back from the Turk last Friday, I sat at the end of a work day - considering driving home to Pennsylvania the next morning for 30 hours just to get my head together again - after hours and hours days weeks of a distracted mind and a dull pain and and and I don't know self pity or something like it, in a moment of revelation I got monetarily sick of my own stupid thoughts and penned the bit below - clearly foreshadowing the douchey this-is-for-you bullshit non break up break up email that was to follow just hours later. (How do you like that run-on?) I did end up going home to find the comfort of family and try to clear my head of it all. But it is still taking time to feel normal again...I'm getting there.

    6:03p, 10/10/14
    click to enlarge.
    oh god. what am i whining about? things didn't work out with this guy i barely knew? been there! i'm 31 and this isn't where i thought i'd be. so what! ask someone 40 and 31 is young. i'm young! whatever, young enough. these are the things i wanted - to fall on my face and make mistakes. and then i do and it gets to me and i bitch and when does it get easier. well i imagine nothing gets easier, just different; circumstances change and one thing you cried over gets resolved only to be presented with something else that sucks. there are good, good things here - this life of mine. yes, fine, i'm impatient and the same relationships and friends that sprinkle the path behind me are different; they've changed - or i've changed. but maybe that just means that life isn't as stagnant as i sit here frustratingly accuse if of being. everything is fine. i have got to calm down. it's a long and winding road. and if something is no longer on it, it wasn't meant to be.

    Wednesday, October 15, 2014

    Turkish Update

    Guys, guys, the Turk came back and everything is great!

    I'm totally joking. Nothing in my life ever works out quite that normal and nice. He never actually replied to my response(s) to his birthday email. "Well how often does he check his email," my mom asked.

    "I don't know. I don't even know what continent he is on!"
    Motherly advice, while lamenting
     about the Turk's latest response

    "Good point." So after sending a follow up email to him on Thursday - after he didn't respond to my reply to his birthday email Tuesday -the Turk finally replied late night last Friday. I literally typed "please reply" at the end after I asked what was going on between us and if I should move on or he was still in Turkey and should I keep on waiting because not knowing was hurting me. He apologized for the late response and responded, in his broken English, with something resembling: that the family related matters in Turkey were more complicated than he had thought and he didn't know when he would be back so maybe I should go on because it would be selfish of him to ask me to wait for him and thank you for understanding.

    Right. Well that didn't exactly tell me how he felt, which was a big question in the email I had sent. And read as though he was trying to take the 'I'm a good guy and this is for you' way out. But I suppose if you think, fuck I could be here for a year, his reply is totally justified. And I feel somewhat vindicated that he was, indeed, dealing with family shit, although my patience leaves something to be desired. But dude, why wouldn't you clue me in as to your whereabouts?! If this shit doesn't tell you just how jacked up our communication over the past what's it now like 2 months? has been, I don't know what does.

    I responded and asked if he would like to keep in contact and maybe see each other when he gets back, which really was what I was going for from the beginning and got all fucking garbled. But, again, he didn't respond. Maybe he's sick of trying to write sentences in English, which I just realized is as difficult for him as reading my stupid emails in English. Would have been a lot easier from the start for him to admit that reading English is perhaps not his strong suit. Pride can certainly be inhibiting. Or maybe he's just a total fucking asshole. Could be.

    So I tried to pen this email back to him, in Turkish this time. To really get my point across. Like, no, feelings - what are your FEEEEEEELINGS and I'd like to see you when you get back. And blah blah blah. But now I'm holding onto it wondering: Really? Is that what I want? Does he even care? Do I care if he cares? Hasn't all this fucked-uppedness encouraged me to just walk away? Like do I want to continue this hostage situation?  I don't know. But whatever it was the universe did a really strange thing to me with this one. And I'm really looking forward to seeing the god damned point. Because this all sucked big fucking Turkish donkey balls. And I hate it. And its incredibly frustrating. Although the weight loss has been at least there's that sliver of size six silver lining.