...And Then Everything Went Horribly, Horribly Wrong

Because I need to meet him, snog him, and then go for a nice dinner with him. Maybe Indian food.

So, if you have the Liev digits they would be really helpful.

Thanks - you're a lamb.

Back to reality (it bites, by the way), the EH has my blog url. He recently read my insane ramblings and was, well, less than appreciative. "But," I babbled, "I said the nookie was incredible!" Still, feelings were hurt, even though much of this is just a cathartic flush. And I don't want to cause hurt - not at all.

I know, I know - why give your Est-Hub the address in the first place, moron? I have an excuse...it was at the very beginning of my blogging adventure - the first day, in fact. I was excited. I wanted to share. He seemed disinterested - and rightfully so - what man in his position wants to read what his ridiculous estranged wife has to say? So thinking he would not be reading, I let it all hang out. Ouch. Again - I'm so sorry.

So I'm learning a few things the hard way. Seems to be a specialty of mine. When I was six years old I refused to ride a bicycle - my mom tried again and again to get my stubborn little body on one, to no avail. She gave up, only to find me about a month later, happily circling the driveway on a neighbor's bike, kicking back on the banana seat, handlebar streamers flying, an Andy Gibb 8-track warbling in the background...

In other news, I'm quickly learning why divorce leaves people with such bad credit: It's because you have to buy everything you own all over again. In six short months I've purchased a bed, a computer, a sofa, and about $800 worth of shoes and accessories. (Very, very necessary for mental health. Natch.) I think this separation would be so much less expensive if I had just turned to booze!

Well, maybe not.

Another thing I've learned: to trust myself. I like my instincts. For instance, as much as I knew it was the right thing to do, I was afraid to live on my own (I've always had a roommate; not necessarily a good thing). So despite the fear (and the sense of "unnaturalness"), I landed myself a funktastic 60s-era mid-town apartment with huge rooms and 15-foot ceilings. It's so natty in a Christopher-Walken-as-The-Continental sort of way. I adore it. So what if my neighbor hosts his own personal Sunday Boom-Boom Bass Party that makes my ears bleed. So what if the toilet mysteriously flushes itself every 5 minutes. So what if, like last night, I came home from work and encountered a slightly sinister-looking beat-up old Mercedes with a giant "metal rules" sticker across the windshield and bald "black-wall" tires parked menacingly in my space. That's just city living!

Does all of this sound horribly selfish? Like I am some conceited beast who left a sweet, trusting man in the dust because he didn't do the dishes? ...and what if that's true? ... Yikes. Don't get me wrong - despite my acerbic voice I'm a sappy, mushy bundle of sweetness. I value fealty and honesty, and I give as good as i get. I like being affectionate, and I like that the EH is a sensitive guy. I also like his sense of morality and his sense of humor (mainly b/c he thinks I'm funny - occasionally). And I loved doing things for him - those warmly satisfying little things that say "I love you." But I've come to realize that what I really enjoy - at least for now - is doing things for myself. And I don't want to feel guilty about it anymore.

When the EH and I spend time together it's very low-key and gentle, but I often feel like I'm running him over with my personality. That's me in a nutshell, I guess: Steamroller Bride. I love you, but I'm going to squash you.

Maybe it's just too darn easy to think about what you want when you've already got something. When I was single, I was always of the mind that I couldn't predict what kind of man would turn me on. (When I got married, I thought it was right to go with "safety" and forfeit "possibilities." We were best friends, and in love, and we were living together, and I even told him once that if we weren't going to "move forward" then we should think about splitting up. That's so me, right? Never satisfied! What a jerk.) But now I see clearly what I need from a partner to keep me within my comfort level: it has to be someone driven, passionate and fairly fearless. Someone who enjoys making decisions. Someone with a big, big laugh. (EH...if - god forbid - you're reading this, you know that you're a "silent laugher." How many times have I asked you to "let it out"? It's so Seinfeld of you, and perhaps indicative of the other things you keep inside...?)

It's also quite obvious that I need someone who has just as much to say as I do.

Also: It’s seriously weird how my attractions have changed in only a few years. I now look at men in their 40s with a lust that only a new pair of pumps can rival. My "new" ideal is a 38-year-old guy with a wacked-out sense of humor, shelves full of books, an appreciation for cashmere pull-overs, a stocked pantry, a yen for travel and live music, a bit of his wild child still intact and functioning, and a deep appreciation for kooky girls. Which – ha ha? - is the only thing that would attract said man to me. I definitely need a man who appreciates a woman with a sense of humor.

On that "new man-flesh" note, NYC D told me today that New York Magazine just ran a huge article about how many Americans have herpes - one in four, they say. Is that even possible? I can't wrap my brain around it - that is a fuckload of contamination! D exclaimed, "I'm not having sex with anyone ever again - not even my wife!" (I advised him to keep his hands off himself, as well, since he obviously has no idea where he's been.) And then he told me that even if (ha - "if") I divorce, I should not have sex with anyone other than the EH.

Oh no...I just turned around to the tv and saw Hulk Hogan's daughter - um, who the hell is this person and why does the world care? She was behind a keyboard, heavily made-up, hair bleached to a shade that borders on "clear," dressed like an 85-year-old Appalachian stripper, and she was singing. Thankfully, there was a narrative voice-over so I didn't have to hear her song. And based on the way she looked...I'd say she likely can't sing, but she's definitely got the herp.