I'm Sorry, Lizzy

I was just reading an article that brought back some old, less than savory memories. A college freshman who had accused a Notre Dame football player of sexually assaulting her has killed herself. She told her friends that she wasn't raped; the attack had been interrupted by a knock at the door (http://aol.it/hqHf4n). It seems she suffered from depression and this event may have pushed her over the edge.

My freshman year of college I attended a large school known more for its partying and football team than its educational merits. I was a wide-eyed freshman girl who wasn't used to the attention I got from the opposite sex there. I mean, it's not like I didn't date before then. But freshman girls got labeled "fresh meat" and boy, did the boys treat us that way. I was also too insecure to know the difference between good attention and the dangerous kind. One night at a frat party my friend and I went upstairs with a couple of the brothers to see their room and have (more) to drink. I got separated from my friend - I can't remember how, but do remember that separating from her hadn't been my plan. Yet there I suddenly was, alone with this upper-classman in his barely-lit bedroom. He was sitting on his computer chair and I was standing a couple of feet away from him. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor - he had literally leapt out of the chair and lunged at my waist, wrapping his arms around me as we landed on the floor. His hands and mouth were instantly all over me. I remember feeling like I couldn't protest because after all, he was older and what did I know? Wouldn't it be really uncool for me to tell him I didn't like what he had just done, and was doing? Wouldn't I seem like a baby if I disagreed with anything he said (or did)? God, the dangerousness of those insecurities...

Then an angel appeared. Or as it appeared at the time, came a knock at the door. One of the other frat brothers opened the door, saw us and said "Oh, sorry. I thought no one was in here." As he started to back out of the room I said "NO, no, you didn't interrupt anything. I was just leaving." And with that, I swiftly picked myself up and stumbled drunkenly out the door. I found my friend and told her we had to leave and I was going to be sick.

That night I was was endlessly thankful for the clean toilet bowl in my dorm bathroom. Tonight as I read about Lizzy Seeberg, I am endlessly thankful to God for the near-miss of my own those many years ago. College guys in groups like sports teams and fraternities can lose all sense of individual responsibility and in some cases make the wrong choices based on false entitlement.

I wonder if that asshole in the frat house ever thinks about that night. I doubt it.

Where Is the Life That Late I Lead

My brain is fried, my eyes are heavy and my breathing is slow and steady. I already almost fell asleep once tonight, at the kitchen table. Now I'm happily in bed and fighting off the moment when my lids start shutting on their own and I lose the battle to fatigue. Welcome to "Life, 2010 Edition." A Fall that showed promise of so many good things has turned into one over-committed exhausting week after another. I barely see my friends anymore and I haven't had eight straight hours of sleep in longer than I can recall. I don't like this... my life has run away without me. I see it ahead of me somewhere, probably about a half mile down the road. I'm running as fast as I can to catch up with it. But it keeps running.

I miss my life. I'm going to figure out how to get it back, starting now.

Starting tomorrow morning. My eye lids just won the fight.

Just in Time for Carnival

I am happy to report that relations between the US and Brazil are positive and all signs point to continued diplomatic exchanges. The State Department has even passed a resolution requiring that all Ambassadors in Brazil enroll immediately in samba school.

This week coming holds much promise, little of it sleep. I am booked, double booked, and waiting to hear when I will be booked for more. In the last few months I've made some shifts in my professional life with the intent of moving upward and consequently have ceased working on set full-time so I can have the freedom to nurture my career as needed. I found a new day job that has flexibility... fell into an additional job that really appealed to me, though it is very part-time... enrolled in a class joined a drama group started up again with my choir ohmygodwheredidthetime go??? Suddenly my season of building my career has turned into juggling day jobs and sleeping very little and that socializing thing that I like to do sometimes? That went out the window. And don't get me started on the political crap I now deal with working in a very small office consisting of me and three other women. That is another post entirely.

So now I'm working on paring down some of the less important things that I have going on; pruning my tree of life, if you will. I will let you know how it goes. As of now I have 3 scratches and one mystery bruise from racing past that tree of life and getting tangled in the branches. Well, the scratches are from that. The bruise may be from rolling around on the forest floor. OK, I may have been doing the samba. Horizontally. Whatever.

Tall and Tan and Dark and Lovely

"Mmm."

What does one normally associate with Brazilian men? Something about a beach and very little clothing. And I am happy to report that this generalization holds true. This evening I find myself at the apartment of a very sweet and very lovely [Editor's note: "lovely" has been substituted for a vulgar word deemed inappropriate given January's very recent return to the blogosphere] Brazilian guy, someone I met through a mutual friend some time ago. He's an actor, not the least bit shy about his body, and has readily shown me pictures and footage of himself in various states of undress. He helped me with some video editing today and our conversation has rolled quite comfortably all afternoon. I find myself so comfortable, in fact, that I showed him this blog. And after reading many of my posts he promptly challenged me to write another one right now. This despite my recent extended absence. So does this mean, per the post directly preceding this one, that I'm now feeling inspired?

Umm, there is a hot Brazilian man lying on a bed not four feet away from me. What do you think?

Hi, Old Friend

Hi. It's been a while. As someone suggested to me, perhaps I should explain my occasional extended periods of absence with "I needed some time off to find new inspiration."

Yeah. What he said.

Disharmony

*sigh*

Purely in the interest of research I have joined a dating website which I've made reference to in the title of this blog, and the current state of things is, well... see said title.

Initially I joined for free; they're having a free trial period right now and I figured, hey. Why not? Free to check out the merchandise, so to speak. The caveats are that you can't view their picture and you can't go past a certain point in the process - just when you're ready to email directly with them, you are required to join. eDisharmony gets a big big YOU SUCK for this. So I searched online for a discount code and found one eventually that would enable me to continue my pleasant exchange with a couple of guys. I paid and headed straight for their profiles...

What the heck? Am I really that much better looking than any guy my age??! Why do men only a couple of years older than me look like Harley Davidson's ad campaign for the AARP? It's difficult for me to see much older looking men and realize this is my dating pool. Women have been driven to convents over less.

The most disappointing one dresses like the grandfather on Everybody Loves Raymond. His tube socks were up to his waist.

The 48 hours of photograph-less ignorance was indeed bliss... it was a time of endless possibilities. Intelligent, attractive, faithful men! Spiritually matched! Equally yoked! Funny, sporty and smooth in their skin.

*sigh*

Maybe I should have reconsidered those offers I got in the mail to join AARP. They're cheaper than the dating site I joined and I hear there are a lot of single guys in that pool. So what if the pool's in the Physical Therapy wing of Happy Sunsets Retirement Village.

35 Special

My back's been pretty jacked up the last few days. One month my bed felt amazing, the next month it felt like a 15 year old replica of a medieval torture device. Memory Foam Mattress Topper Spiked With Nails or something like that. So this afternoon I did something almost entirely unprecedented; I got myself a massage. I can count on one hand how many times in my life I've had a professional massage and I don't remember the last time I did. It falls under the category of personal extravagance to me (oh, how I wish it rested under holistic health maintenance instead) so I rarely do it. That'll tell you how bad my back feels.

Granted, a chiropractor might be the more successful treatment route, but I can't afford to see one. I have driven by the sign for "$35 Hour Thai Massage (early bird special)" several times and went for it. For that price, it was worth trying.

Did you know Thai massage means they're going to walk on your back? I didn't. My first tip on this was when I walked into the private massage area and the mattress was on the floor. The parallel bars suspended from high on near and far walls confirmed it. Fortunately my masseuse, Wendy (or was it Windy? It was impossible to tell!) was a rather petite Thai woman.

I got pushed, poked, prodded, rolled, stretched and yes, stepped all over. I have yet to receive a professional massage that didn't hurt at some point, and I've come to learn that it's always worth it in the end. Today though, I'm not sure... My back is still killing me in the same spot. And once I did wince as she poked God knows what pressure point on the bottom of my foot. Windy Wendy had me wondering why it weally, weally hurt. Later she did something I'm certain a more skittish person who happened to peek at just the right moment would have screamed from; she had me on my back, legs folded in a fetal position, and I'm pretty sure she was straddling me, pressing down on my hamstrings with her body. I can't be certain as I refused to open my eyes.

A sign on the wall in the massage area said "None Sexual".

I really hope Wendy meant her and not me. Me, I hold out hope.