Michelle's House of Horrors

In a clear sign that I think too much about everything, and I do mean everything, here is a little story. A story which someone with better judgement might keep to herself, but the blog must be fed.

People who read me have probably figured out that I love words. I love reading them and writing them. Sometimes when I am under duress I will even speak them aloud.

It would probably not surprise anyone that the one game I play on a regular basis is “Words With Friends.” I am pretty good at it. Not great, but good. For those of you who don’t play, it’s a clone of Scrabble that you play online.

When it’s my turn, my phone very helpfully pops up a notification that says:
“Your move with xxxxx”

The other morning getting ready for work I saw this notification, and for some reason I didn’t immediately interpret it in the context of the actual game. For some reason, my thought was “no, I already made a move, and you can make the next one, buddy!”

Yes, for a second I thought I was getting romantic back talk from an App notification. I talked myself down immediately.

Sometimes I also react to the words people play against me. Does anyone else sometimes take the words a little too personally?
Mean, thaw, hard, twit, pissy, dick

I mean, those are just words for points…right? Words With Friends doesn’t really hate me. I know this. If someone plays the word “dumb” they aren’t talking about me. It’s just a way to get a U off the board so no one with a Q can use it, and bonus for using a couple of 4 point letters. Right? Right!

I knew that.

Then of course I started thinking about games and dating and all of that horrific crap that makes me an insane person, because (over)thinking is what I do. No, I do NOT think the overthinking and insanity are related, and shut up. There are a lot of games that go into this whole social interaction thing, and it strikes me as silly. It’s a biological imperative, it shouldn’t be that difficult. It’s mating. Animals with brains the size of peas manage it.

Don’t answer a text right away…
Don’t admit you don’t have plans..
If he doesn’t text you, don’t text him..
Let them know you’re interested…
Play hard to get…
Don’t seem like you are too interested…

Social role playing.

The younger women might have an easier time of it–they certainly seem more bold about communicating than I ever was.

Girls with selfies just throw it right out there..but is that right?

Bold or reticent?

Here is what Frances McDormand has to say about meeting her husband:

I’d only brought one book to read to Austin, Texas, where we were filming, and I asked him if there was anything he’d recommend. He brought me a box of James M. Cain and Raymond Chandler paperbacks, and I said, “Which one should I start with?” And he said, “The Postman Always Rings Twice.” I read it, and it was one of the sexiest fuckin’ books I’ve ever read. A couple of nights later, I said, “Would you like to come over and discuss the book?” That did it. He seduced me with literature. And then we discussed books and drank hot chocolate for several evenings. It was fuckin’ hot. Keep it across the room for as long as you can—that’s a very important element.

And the idea of keeping it across the room does have a certain appeal…but so does the idea of grabbing a guy and dragging him into a corner cave woman style.

It’s not either of those things that I object to, it’s the idea of an expectation that I have to act a certain way or I won’t get a man.

I am not so sure that being myself is the answer. For one thing, if the other person isn’t also being himself, it gets all weird. If the other person isn’t showing their game cards, you don’t even know if you’re in the same game at all.

So.

For the next several weeks, I am just going to go to some football games and hang out on Tequila Hill, drink wine and keep laughing.

If you need me, I’ll be over here arguing with Words With Friends.
Let me know if you need me, burro.

On my way to work, a song lyric hooked into me. I got an idea for something to write, and I reached for my phone to take a picture of my stereo so I would remember the song in case I wanted to write something later.

I do this very frequently. I listen to music and think when I drive. Then I have ideas. If I don’t capture an idea immediately, it disappears. I think of my compulsion to stop what I am doing and make notes as a charming quirk. I also do it during random conversations, at football games, in meetings at work and in bars. If I do it when I am out with you, then be flattered because you probably said something that made me think. Or made me happy. Or maybe it pissed me off, or made me sad. Either way, you may end up seeing it here.

You may have noticed that it gets personal around the blog sometimes.

Anyway, as I reached for my phone, I remembered that Paddy yelled at me the other day for using electronic devices while driving, and I told myself I would be safe for once, and NOT try to take a picture or write a note while driving through the Terwilliger Curves. I would make sure to remember what the song was and write it down as soon as I got to work.

Then a P!nk song came on, so I had to sing. I did not remember to remember whatever it was that has been noteworthy a few seconds before.

At lunch time, I scrolled back on my iPod to see what song it might have been.

Didn’t leave nobody but the baby? It could have been.

don’t you weep pretty babe

she’s long gone with her red shoes on
gonna need another loving babe

It’s true that I do a fair amount of crying, and my love of red shoes runs very deep. Maybe I wanted to talk about being gone..

Wild Night? Maybe.

And you walk wet streets
Tryin’ to remember
All the wild night breezes
In your memory ever

Memory? Remembering? Ironic in retrospect, isn’t it?

It was such a good idea, too, and now it’s gone. Of course, I can make it anything I want it to be now. Remembering is funny that way.

Memory is a fickle thing. I can remember exactly what I did at 3:30 on Halloween of 1977, but not what I was thinking about just a few hours ago. I can remember my Dad buying us tiny little cans of beer when we had barbecues when I was about five, but not that I needed to call a plumber. I remember my phone number from when we lived on Glacier drive, but not that I need to call and cancel my land line. I remember finding Rocky under my deck one morning, and how he asked me if I’d seen Kyle but not that I need to stop and get coffee on the way home from work. I even remember getting stitches in my thumb, which shouldn’t be possible because I was a toddler, but I don’t remember what month is was that I had laryngitis last year. I remember the first time my Mom realized that I knew how to read.

49 years ago is easy. Last month is hard.

Last month is probably a bad example. I had a really good August. Will I ever forget the beach trip with Goddess Diane and the Ruined Mothers? I hope not. Stargazing with Kyle and Rocky? Chocolate cigars? Dinners on Tequila Hill? Flying Aliens and ballooning?

I hope I wrote enough of it down to remember it even if I start to forget.

Fuck. That reminds me of the Notebook. Is all of this going to be how I remember who I was, and who all of the people I loved were when I am in the extended care facility? Because if it is, I am going to have to get way more specific!

Damn it, Paddy!
You….you…sigh…you know I love you in spite of the Notebook and your mania for safety.

Bastard.

I take it back, I am glad I forgot to remember what I was originally thinking about because I got to think about what a great time I have been having lately.

Thanks, Paddy.

And thanks to all of my partners in hijinks and shenanigans for being the best people I could ever hope to have in my life.

And Chelle and Rick for making sure I didn’t stay at home alone.

And Ken and Nic for all the fun weekends I will be having for the next 3 months. And Ma and Little L for putting up with me through countless Eugene trips. And all of the tailgating crew.

Diane, Kelly, Rocky and Kyle for making the trip to the beach on of the best weekends ever.

I feel like I am at the Oscars giving a speech, and no one can cut me off if I thank too many people.

Thanks for whoever made sure that I have so many people who I love that I can’t even come close to writing them all down!

How did this go from forgetting to remembering to gratitude?
Oh well. Gratitude is always a good place to leave things.

Thank you, everyone.
For everything.

The other night I was chatting with a newly single friend, and we touched on some of the difficulties of meeting people. His biggest problem is that women flock to him without any effort on his part. He hasn’t ever really had to go after a woman. Hey. It’s a problem for him. I don’t judge. Some people have a hard time eating enough to maintain their weight. Others have trouble with eating too much. A problem is a problem, and it doesn’t matter if it’s your problem. If it’s a friend, you try to be understanding and supportive.

My problem will most likely be the opposite of his if I get to that point again. When. When I get to that point again. Unlike my friend, I do not have a line forming and will probably have to make some sort of effort to meet men.

Introverts and meeting people? Not the best combination. A shy introvert? Well. They don’t have to worry about me talking too much, at least at first. In order for me to meet people, there has to be some astral alignment happening. It’s not going to just happen.

When I was 21 and adorable, it was easy in spite of my introverted personality. I had ways to compensate. I was pretty. I had all of my parts in the right place. I had a penchant for high heels, short skirts and ample cleavage. I looked a little slutty. I was a little slutty. Things are so uncomplicated at that age. I didn’t want to keep a guy, just borrow him for a few hours. If he was buying me drinks, I knew what he wanted.

Now it’s more complicated. I’m in a place where meeting men is not as simple as just existing on the planet and having breasts. Most of the time I want something more meaningful from a man than a few hours in bed. Not all the time, but most of the time. My options for compensating for both shyness and introversion are more limited. My options for actually meeting single men are more limited than they were at 21 when all the men were single. I don’t have the type of looks or personality that draw men in.
It takes a long time for me to get to know people and for them to get to know me. And I am not the kind of person everyone likes. Quirky. Intense. Prone to exaggeration in many of my traits. No one would describe me as charming.

Still. I do meet people sometimes. Some of them are single men. I will muddle through. I am very smart, funny, pretty enough, likeable enough. There are some people who think weird is sexy.
Fine. Not to worry. It will work out.

The bigger problem though is that my interest detector is seriously on the fritz. Even if I do meet someone, I just cannot tell if they are interested in me sexually unless they do something really obvious to flag it for me. I used to know immediately. Now? I am completely clueless, and I really don’t know if it is because men are more subtle now or because I have become a sexual dumbass. I strongly suspect the latter.

I can tell if someone likes me, I guess. I mean if someone spends time with me, smiles a lot and indicates that he would like to spend some more time with me soon, that is a clue, right? Just like it is with a friend of either gender.

But in the words of every 12 year old: does he like me like me, or just like me?

So it starts out over there, in that box that says “friend” or “acquaintance” on it, and then at some point it gets a little unclear where things are going. If they are going anywhere.

Or if it’s going to stay in the “friend” box.

To be clear: I love having men as friends. I always have. I do not have so many friends that I want to stick with only the ones I have now. Newcomers would be welcome. There is nothing wrong with being in the friend box.

My friends are not “just friends.”
They are every bit as important to me as lovers.

Except that at some point, sex would be very welcome.
Being skin starved and cuddle deprived is no way to go through life.

And I really miss suc…
Well.

Never mind what I miss.

What I need is some sort of signal of interest. No, not an erection. That might be a little more bold than required right at first. Something a little shocking whispered in my ear. A kiss on the neck. Something a little…assertive.

Make something up.
Maybe I will get it.

I’m a smart girl.