It's 3:45 am. My patience is thin and my eyelids are heavy. I shall leave you with a topic for discussion - talk amongst yourselves...
Let's say you're dating someone. Perhaps his name is John. You may accept his invitation to go over to his place after a long and late day at work, and you may enjoy his company in a very unbiblical way. No, make that in the biblical way. (Ironic, isn't it?) And John might possibly make a comment as you start falling asleep in his bed along the lines of "If you sleep here, would you be offended if I slept on the couch? It's not that I don't want to be with you, but I slept really badly the last time you stayed over" so you naturally answer without hesitation "Yes. Yes I would" and you subsequently rouse yourself, get up, dress and drive home. Would this be considered a booty call? In the strictest sense of the term.
According to UrbanDictionary.com, a booty call is "A late night summons -- often made via telephone -- to arrange clandestine sexual liaisons on an ad hoc basis."
Mr. Chambers undeniably successfully got himself a booty call tonight. And I, I got the boot.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
When Everything You Touch Turns to Mush
I’m having such a moment of mush.
I was just talking on the phone with texting my guy and started doing the old “Hmm… January Chambers. John and January Chambers. January and John.” and a smile spread across my face. I can’t believe I made it 12 days before dwelling on that one [insert slow, wide grin: here].
“My guy” you might ask? Well, what does one call someone who’s more than a friend but less than a boyfriend? Who feels like a boyfriend taking root? One you’ve been friends with for a while but suddenly is more? For now, for me, I’ll refer to him as my guy. I do sort of see him progressing to full boyfriend status and honestly… it tickles me on the inside. I imagine this is what it looks like to have a little glow about you… this subtle inner smile, permeating through and peeking out the outside… I like it. I like him.
John’s been my friend for somewhere around a year and a half. I met him on set and over time we took our friendship offline, hanging out several times at my place or his place or going to see a band. Nothing ever happened between us. I figured that’s just the way it was going to be and wasn’t sweating it. I mean, we were once at his apartment at one in the morning, just the two of us, and he didn’t so much as brush his arm against mine. So I resumed my seat in the friend zone and moved ahead. 12 days ago – or nights, to be specific – John and I were hanging out at my place when the topic of the friend zone came up and he finally kissed me. (Why didn’t I kiss him myself, you may be wondering? People, I’m 37 years old. I like to think I’ve learned a thing or two over time… like, let the guy make the first move, if you want to be sure he’s into you. At least, that’s my theory this year. Ask me again in 11 months.)
Being happy doesn’t lend itself to being snarky, but I hope to hold on to that edge for amusement’s sake. Anyway, it’s only been 12 days. We’ve got plans already on days 14 and 15 so things look good into the teens. And why wouldn’t they? As he pointed out, this is the way people say you should do it. Be friends with someone first. Me, I’ve always known quickly if I was attracted to someone and if he was to me too, things usually happened rather fast… see any number of my previous posts. But this way feels strangely nice. Kissing him didn’t feel shocking. And if he doesn’t reply to my text right away, I’m not worried thinking that perhaps I shouldn’t have texted – I just figure he didn’t get it. Best of all, I know he likes me, actually likes me a lot. He’s already been exposed to enough to know I’m more than just a cute piece of ass ;)
Oh, Mr. Heatmiser. Mush feels pretty nice.
I was just talking on the phone with texting my guy and started doing the old “Hmm… January Chambers. John and January Chambers. January and John.” and a smile spread across my face. I can’t believe I made it 12 days before dwelling on that one [insert slow, wide grin: here].
“My guy” you might ask? Well, what does one call someone who’s more than a friend but less than a boyfriend? Who feels like a boyfriend taking root? One you’ve been friends with for a while but suddenly is more? For now, for me, I’ll refer to him as my guy. I do sort of see him progressing to full boyfriend status and honestly… it tickles me on the inside. I imagine this is what it looks like to have a little glow about you… this subtle inner smile, permeating through and peeking out the outside… I like it. I like him.
John’s been my friend for somewhere around a year and a half. I met him on set and over time we took our friendship offline, hanging out several times at my place or his place or going to see a band. Nothing ever happened between us. I figured that’s just the way it was going to be and wasn’t sweating it. I mean, we were once at his apartment at one in the morning, just the two of us, and he didn’t so much as brush his arm against mine. So I resumed my seat in the friend zone and moved ahead. 12 days ago – or nights, to be specific – John and I were hanging out at my place when the topic of the friend zone came up and he finally kissed me. (Why didn’t I kiss him myself, you may be wondering? People, I’m 37 years old. I like to think I’ve learned a thing or two over time… like, let the guy make the first move, if you want to be sure he’s into you. At least, that’s my theory this year. Ask me again in 11 months.)
Being happy doesn’t lend itself to being snarky, but I hope to hold on to that edge for amusement’s sake. Anyway, it’s only been 12 days. We’ve got plans already on days 14 and 15 so things look good into the teens. And why wouldn’t they? As he pointed out, this is the way people say you should do it. Be friends with someone first. Me, I’ve always known quickly if I was attracted to someone and if he was to me too, things usually happened rather fast… see any number of my previous posts. But this way feels strangely nice. Kissing him didn’t feel shocking. And if he doesn’t reply to my text right away, I’m not worried thinking that perhaps I shouldn’t have texted – I just figure he didn’t get it. Best of all, I know he likes me, actually likes me a lot. He’s already been exposed to enough to know I’m more than just a cute piece of ass ;)
Oh, Mr. Heatmiser. Mush feels pretty nice.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
If Only It Were
"Denial ain't just a river in Egypt."
- Mark Twain
Funny thing about this quote - I remember it as being something Al Franken said as Stuart Smalley on Saturday Night Live. I looked it up online to make sure I got it right and discovered that it actually belongs to Mark Twain. Clever, very clever, this internet of ours. Instantly elevates me from aged pop-culture referencer to Champion of Classics.
I've been thinking a lot about denial and what changes honesty causes to occur inside me. Self-delusion makes for a messy life. Peel off the lies and you're left with something much simpler. Unfortunately it also is raw upon first being exposed, but new skin always is. I've written before about needing to shed a few pounds but I chose not to write about the bigger issue for me, my eating disorder. Today in the spirit of honesty I've decided to spill it.
I'm a compulsive eater. These days they also call it food addiction and binge eating, but when I first became aware of what my problem was I learned it as that. Food is to me what alcohol is to an alcoholic: friend, mother, lover, confidante, enemy. If I had nothing with me on a desert isle but unlimited supplies of certain foods I could live out my remaining days quite content, albeit well over 400 pounds. So I suppose I wouldn't have too many days to live out. Good thing since I'm not sure I'd have the energy to cut down enough coconuts to cover up a 400 pound body.
The genesis of my disorder doesn't really matter for the purposes of this blog, though I have enough insight to see bits of its birth. I went to a twelve step program (Why do they always say "twelve step program"? Why don't they just call it by name? We already know it's anonymous. Saying its name isn't going to give anything away) the summer after my freshman year of college. In the years since I've seen a few therapists who specialized in eating disorders and have found a great deal of healing. Each one of them brought me to a new level of health. Sadly, I've come to admit that this disease is never fully going away. I have good days/weeks/months and bad ones. On good ones I can eat one cookie and enjoy its taste. I can even keep cookies in the house if I want. But otherwise, it's much better for me not to keep any in my home. I have a weird split personality about food. My first line of defense is usually strong: I won't buy stuff I know I have problems resisting. I know that in a weak state and left alone I won't be able to resist the allure of bliss, sweet bliss as I float away on a cloud of sugar nirvana. It lasts all of 3 minutes or however long until the item is eaten. Make that, 3 minutes minus 15 seconds or so. As I approach the last couple of bites I'm already thinking ahead to what I can next eat. So goes the cycle.
So in this latest round of semi-sobriety, I've come to admit some very hard honesties to myself. One cookie will do nothing for me: I will barely enjoy its taste, and the bliss I seek in eating it won't last long enough to sustain my mood. It will take many cookies for me to experience the physical change, the actual calming of my nerves, the relaxation of my muscles and the slight haze that sets over my brain. You thought I was exaggerating when I compared myself to an alcoholic? To an addict? I'm not. Sugar causes biochemical changes within me; I don't need a medical scan to show me the changes in my brain. I experience them vividly. I know what to eat to give myself that high. And like any addict, the amount required to achieve that high increases with time. So I've admitted to myself now that my method of medicating just doesn't work. As such, I've been avoiding cookies and the like altogether. I've been doing Weight Watchers since January and have successfully dropped about 20 pounds. I know, I know - what happened to the "9 pounds" I was carrying around for months? Ah, yes. Escaping over the holidays and into the new year with all the baked goods I could get my hands on rapidly increased my weight gain. Today I feel and look good, and my clothes are all fitting again. The food plan for WW keeps me constrained so I really don't have the ability to binge, though I still want to every day. EVERY DAY. I am not satisfied on the anxiety front but at least I'm not compounding it on the body-hate front by not fitting into my wardrobe. I imagine my approach these last few months is like an alcoholic sobering up by himself, alone, with no real support. No one who knows exactly what he's going through. No one to lean on when so help him God, that bottle is screaming to be imbibed. What I've done is commendable but highly tentative and not recommended to anyone.
I've already done the hard work, haven't I. Perhaps I should hit a meeting, connect with others battling my same demon. I know it's the right thing to do.
"Always do right - this will gratify some and astonish the rest."
- Mark Twain
Mr. Clemens may be on to something.
- Mark Twain
Funny thing about this quote - I remember it as being something Al Franken said as Stuart Smalley on Saturday Night Live. I looked it up online to make sure I got it right and discovered that it actually belongs to Mark Twain. Clever, very clever, this internet of ours. Instantly elevates me from aged pop-culture referencer to Champion of Classics.
I've been thinking a lot about denial and what changes honesty causes to occur inside me. Self-delusion makes for a messy life. Peel off the lies and you're left with something much simpler. Unfortunately it also is raw upon first being exposed, but new skin always is. I've written before about needing to shed a few pounds but I chose not to write about the bigger issue for me, my eating disorder. Today in the spirit of honesty I've decided to spill it.
I'm a compulsive eater. These days they also call it food addiction and binge eating, but when I first became aware of what my problem was I learned it as that. Food is to me what alcohol is to an alcoholic: friend, mother, lover, confidante, enemy. If I had nothing with me on a desert isle but unlimited supplies of certain foods I could live out my remaining days quite content, albeit well over 400 pounds. So I suppose I wouldn't have too many days to live out. Good thing since I'm not sure I'd have the energy to cut down enough coconuts to cover up a 400 pound body.
The genesis of my disorder doesn't really matter for the purposes of this blog, though I have enough insight to see bits of its birth. I went to a twelve step program (Why do they always say "twelve step program"? Why don't they just call it by name? We already know it's anonymous. Saying its name isn't going to give anything away) the summer after my freshman year of college. In the years since I've seen a few therapists who specialized in eating disorders and have found a great deal of healing. Each one of them brought me to a new level of health. Sadly, I've come to admit that this disease is never fully going away. I have good days/weeks/months and bad ones. On good ones I can eat one cookie and enjoy its taste. I can even keep cookies in the house if I want. But otherwise, it's much better for me not to keep any in my home. I have a weird split personality about food. My first line of defense is usually strong: I won't buy stuff I know I have problems resisting. I know that in a weak state and left alone I won't be able to resist the allure of bliss, sweet bliss as I float away on a cloud of sugar nirvana. It lasts all of 3 minutes or however long until the item is eaten. Make that, 3 minutes minus 15 seconds or so. As I approach the last couple of bites I'm already thinking ahead to what I can next eat. So goes the cycle.
So in this latest round of semi-sobriety, I've come to admit some very hard honesties to myself. One cookie will do nothing for me: I will barely enjoy its taste, and the bliss I seek in eating it won't last long enough to sustain my mood. It will take many cookies for me to experience the physical change, the actual calming of my nerves, the relaxation of my muscles and the slight haze that sets over my brain. You thought I was exaggerating when I compared myself to an alcoholic? To an addict? I'm not. Sugar causes biochemical changes within me; I don't need a medical scan to show me the changes in my brain. I experience them vividly. I know what to eat to give myself that high. And like any addict, the amount required to achieve that high increases with time. So I've admitted to myself now that my method of medicating just doesn't work. As such, I've been avoiding cookies and the like altogether. I've been doing Weight Watchers since January and have successfully dropped about 20 pounds. I know, I know - what happened to the "9 pounds" I was carrying around for months? Ah, yes. Escaping over the holidays and into the new year with all the baked goods I could get my hands on rapidly increased my weight gain. Today I feel and look good, and my clothes are all fitting again. The food plan for WW keeps me constrained so I really don't have the ability to binge, though I still want to every day. EVERY DAY. I am not satisfied on the anxiety front but at least I'm not compounding it on the body-hate front by not fitting into my wardrobe. I imagine my approach these last few months is like an alcoholic sobering up by himself, alone, with no real support. No one who knows exactly what he's going through. No one to lean on when so help him God, that bottle is screaming to be imbibed. What I've done is commendable but highly tentative and not recommended to anyone.
I've already done the hard work, haven't I. Perhaps I should hit a meeting, connect with others battling my same demon. I know it's the right thing to do.
"Always do right - this will gratify some and astonish the rest."
- Mark Twain
Mr. Clemens may be on to something.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Phantom Boyfriend Syndrome
Cassius OUT
Nick IN
This is the state of my brain these days.
Nick kept up his texting all week and we saw each other Saturday night. The encounter was nice, albeit in an inebriated state on my behalf (not really a good idea, right? Right. *sigh*) and here it is, Tuesday... with no word from Nick.
Like an army vet with an amputated right arm who feels the pain of a door catching her missing fingers as it closes, I feel pain where there can be none. My heart is aching with the absence of a boyfriend I don't have. I did once - for a few hours - and then he was gone.
With an actual amputee, the syndrome she's experiencing is well documented. Phantom Limb Syndrome can be painful, last for life, and cause her quite a bit of hurt. Phantom Boyfriend Syndrome is the most annoying of my wacky mental quirks. Why should I care so much if I haven't heard from him? He was, in fact, heading out of town for a few days, and then a good friend of his died unexpectedly. He's got to be busy and probably sad. He has a life independent of mine... why the hell can't I?
I do, in fact, need to chill, y'all.
I may need to meet more guys. Cassius cling-ed himself out of me having any interest in him (Hello, we've just met! Don't act like you can't live without me!) ...which, er... seems kind of familiar...
This crazy chick is outta here. I may go stand naked in front of a mirror. I hear if you hold your remaining limb in front of a mirror it can cause your brain to reset things and cease the phantom pains. It's a plan!
Nick IN
This is the state of my brain these days.
Nick kept up his texting all week and we saw each other Saturday night. The encounter was nice, albeit in an inebriated state on my behalf (not really a good idea, right? Right. *sigh*) and here it is, Tuesday... with no word from Nick.
Like an army vet with an amputated right arm who feels the pain of a door catching her missing fingers as it closes, I feel pain where there can be none. My heart is aching with the absence of a boyfriend I don't have. I did once - for a few hours - and then he was gone.
With an actual amputee, the syndrome she's experiencing is well documented. Phantom Limb Syndrome can be painful, last for life, and cause her quite a bit of hurt. Phantom Boyfriend Syndrome is the most annoying of my wacky mental quirks. Why should I care so much if I haven't heard from him? He was, in fact, heading out of town for a few days, and then a good friend of his died unexpectedly. He's got to be busy and probably sad. He has a life independent of mine... why the hell can't I?
I do, in fact, need to chill, y'all.
I may need to meet more guys. Cassius cling-ed himself out of me having any interest in him (Hello, we've just met! Don't act like you can't live without me!) ...which, er... seems kind of familiar...
This crazy chick is outta here. I may go stand naked in front of a mirror. I hear if you hold your remaining limb in front of a mirror it can cause your brain to reset things and cease the phantom pains. It's a plan!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Nick and Run
Used to be when a woman met a man he would ask for her phone number, call to ask her out and then court her with dates, flowers and other chivalrous actions. These days the getting to know you phase is cut short thanks to Facebook and other networking sites through which someone feels they can scroll through your profile and instantly know you. Up until now, I haven't hesitated if a guy asked if I'm on Facebook (duh!) in order to friend me. What they do from that point forward though more often than not, sadly, falls under something I refer to as a Hit and Run: they friend me and then drop off the face of the earth, leaving me wondering where they went and if the women are really all that much hotter there. Or maybe just easier. There seem to be two types of Hit and Runs - the ones who never post a hello on my wall yet continue to invite me by group email to their art shows, screening, improv showcases, etc., and the ones like Nick, the guy I met the other night - the ones who lurk... text text text... and then disappear. The Quickie Hit and Run.
Nick is a smart and hottie who owns my new local bar (Hello Alex! I'll take Double Jeopardy for $800 please!) A friend and I went over there to catch up over a drink. At one utterly 2010 moment, she and I were both on our iPhones at the same time when he came over and chastised us for being so unsocial. He promptly sat down and never left. Three beers and two sweet lips later we seemed to have arrived at a mutually attracted place. I decided to quit while I was ahead and said goodnight, exchanging numbers with him. [Editor's note: January requests that we mention how proud she is for this action, as saying goodnight to two sweet lips attached to one hot man is not easily done. We wish to express that this opinion is solely that of the author and we have no way to verify her remark.] So the next day, Nick texted me. Yay! And then texted me some more. And then asked how he could find me on Facebook. I told him how. He friended me. And then -- nothing. Nada. No follow-up text. No message via Facebook saying how cute I look in the baby picture with my mom. Nothing. I was left thinking am I too ____ for him? Square? Lame? Normal? Should I edge-up my Facebook page?? I immediately posted a pic and came up with a catchy title for it. Still, nothing. Maybe I shouldn't have used a pic of St. Xavier that I took recently when visiting an old mission church. Maybe I'm too religious for him? What if he doesn't call?! What if he never gets to know that I'm actually a hot tamale! That I'm pious AND dirty - the perfect Catholic schoolgirl combo! What - and - but - if -
And then I slapped myself and got back to a normal status update. ("Two Words: Nathan Fillion. One Gratuitous Sound Effect: Mmmmm") I felt better immediately, like I'd regained control of the road after being struck by a hit and run driver. He might slam into me, but he hasn't got me down!
By the way, interesting little illustration of a hit and run, don't you think? I found the artist's choice of car positioning rather... arresting. I'll say!
This morning I woke up with a text message waiting on my phone. "I'm at the bar if you want to come by." Nick sent it around midnight, when I was fast asleep. I guess he doesn't count as a Hit and Run guy anymore, then. Just a Nick and Run.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The Greatest of All Time
Oh, to have my laptop right now and be sitting in bed, comfy and warm, typing away on my travails. And to have internet – I haven’t got an internet connection here. I moved to a new place a few weeks ago and am still sans web. So in fact I am writing this at 12:50 am on 3/28/10 and Lord knows when I will be able to post it. Fingers crossed someone will have an unlocked wifi connection and I’ll be able to hop on for a few to put this up…
My travails. Oh, how dramatic. What the heck is eating at me? [Sigh] I just came home from a date. Cool guy. Very relaxed, nice, confident, gentlemanly, serious arms from his hobby, boxing… umm, did I mention his arms? And his hot arms. BOTH OF THEM. I’ll call him Cassius. What’s the dilemma? He’s 26. Come on, people!!!! WTF? I specifically decided a few months back that I’m done with dating younger guys. I set a 5 year rule (and that was being generous! Really I’d like to keep them no more than 3 years younger). Last weekend I was out furniture shopping with a friend and this fella and I met, chatting over the furniture store we’d both been perusing. One thing led to another and I gave him my card – and he texted me from the next furniture store – and subsequently asked me out. Smooth operator and very sure of himself. I really wasn’t thinking too much of his age (or lack thereof), kind of figuring I’d play it by ear and could always tell him on the date that he was too young for me, and that’d be the end of it. But not this guy. Oh, no. Cassius likes older women. He told me the last women he dated were between 40 and 47! All I could think was, Cougars!!! But then I realized that would make me in very least, a Puma. So I tried not to think about it. He was so smooth… until his second beer. After that he had to pee three times within 20 minutes (twice during the movie) and was so darn hand-holding cuddly that he rested his head on my shoulder. Again, I ask you: WTF? These little things managed to pull me out of his arms’ gravitational pull long enough that I remembered my rule again and after the movie I was a bit more reserved and less touchy-feely than before. As he walked me to my car I told him the age thing was a problem, not because there’s anything wrong with the years between us but because we’re in different places in our lives. That’s not the same thing, right? He told me I think too much while THEY wrapped around me and his lips settled in on mine. Oh Lord, give me strength. Remind me of what I really want in this life. And extinguish the fire that just lit up down below… oh my, he’s got a great body -
Hey! You, January! Snap out of it!
I am now left with a very persistent young man whose arms knock me out without lifting a fist at my disposal… The question is, will I dispose of him? Or will I go another round??
[Editor's note: January successfully hopped on to some unsuspecting and unsecured neighbor's wireless signal. Editor takes no responsibility for theft of any kind committed by January while in the course of writing this blog.]
My travails. Oh, how dramatic. What the heck is eating at me? [Sigh] I just came home from a date. Cool guy. Very relaxed, nice, confident, gentlemanly, serious arms from his hobby, boxing… umm, did I mention his arms? And his hot arms. BOTH OF THEM. I’ll call him Cassius. What’s the dilemma? He’s 26. Come on, people!!!! WTF? I specifically decided a few months back that I’m done with dating younger guys. I set a 5 year rule (and that was being generous! Really I’d like to keep them no more than 3 years younger). Last weekend I was out furniture shopping with a friend and this fella and I met, chatting over the furniture store we’d both been perusing. One thing led to another and I gave him my card – and he texted me from the next furniture store – and subsequently asked me out. Smooth operator and very sure of himself. I really wasn’t thinking too much of his age (or lack thereof), kind of figuring I’d play it by ear and could always tell him on the date that he was too young for me, and that’d be the end of it. But not this guy. Oh, no. Cassius likes older women. He told me the last women he dated were between 40 and 47! All I could think was, Cougars!!! But then I realized that would make me in very least, a Puma. So I tried not to think about it. He was so smooth… until his second beer. After that he had to pee three times within 20 minutes (twice during the movie) and was so darn hand-holding cuddly that he rested his head on my shoulder. Again, I ask you: WTF? These little things managed to pull me out of his arms’ gravitational pull long enough that I remembered my rule again and after the movie I was a bit more reserved and less touchy-feely than before. As he walked me to my car I told him the age thing was a problem, not because there’s anything wrong with the years between us but because we’re in different places in our lives. That’s not the same thing, right? He told me I think too much while THEY wrapped around me and his lips settled in on mine. Oh Lord, give me strength. Remind me of what I really want in this life. And extinguish the fire that just lit up down below… oh my, he’s got a great body -
Hey! You, January! Snap out of it!
I am now left with a very persistent young man whose arms knock me out without lifting a fist at my disposal… The question is, will I dispose of him? Or will I go another round??
[Editor's note: January successfully hopped on to some unsuspecting and unsecured neighbor's wireless signal. Editor takes no responsibility for theft of any kind committed by January while in the course of writing this blog.]
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