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As my brownies-from-a-mix were baking (sub olive oil for vegetable oil, add peppermint bark chips) just an hour ago, a thought occured to me:
Perhaps I am not meant to have a career per se. Perhaps all this beating my head against the wall, all this existential ennui is just silliness, like women in the middle of the last century getting Home Ec degrees at Brown to pass time until they got a husband. Maybe I'm just biding my time until marriage.
Of course, this is complete rubbish. Well, except for the minutiae which are not. Facts:
I am an incredible cook.
I keep a clean home.
I am organised, and detail oriented.
I am terrific with children.
In short, I could quite excel at being a housewife.
That is, were it not for a persistent gnawing at my gut for change, for personal control, and the fact that I know ennui, existential or no, would not fully abate, then I could quite excel at being a housewife.
What I could be, though, is a woman who works from home in the sort of job that would not need to be relied upon wholly for stability, or to do something in which I was relatively autonomous. Carpentry, I think, could fulfill this need, both as personal fulfillment, as well as providing finances to the home.
I think a lot about marriage. I just got out of a serious relationship, or at least a relationship which seemed more serious than any I'd been in previously, and most definitely one I'd wanted to turn toward marriage, and thus am currently in no position to be handing over that level of commitment to anyone. And yet, when I am out and about, I'm looking at people no longer as potential playmates, but as partners. Given my lifestyle, there is a dearth of options.
A friend joked last week, "You're going to have to spend a lot more time at Target Field."
I'm a Manizer. But I'm not. The term Womanizer implies, to me, deceit, manipulation, bullshit. Doing anything one can to get into someone's pants. That ain't me, babe. But I will be completely straightforward about my intentions, and I will be trying to get into your pants. Those are my intentions. I generally also require some kind of emotional attachment, but it is by no means emotional attachment on an exclusive level. I am capable of loving, and giving love to many. Okay, perhaps "many" is a bit much. Two. Three people at a time. Maximum. Minimum, really. Which does not negate the previous blog's statement about seeking a committed relationship. Until that happens, this is what happens: I collect, sample, discard, compute, understand, probe, adore, worship, obsess, roll around in, burrow, lick, suck, sniff, compile, arrange, make mental spreadsheets, love, hate, like and enjoy the presence of people I want to enjoy the presence of. It's not complicated, but for some goddamned reason, everyone wants to make it complicated.
It's science, it's biology. Just roll with it.
Let's see if I can do this anymore. Twitter and Facebook updating have wreaked havoc upon the long-format thought. I ponder in 140 characters, or in witticisms or charms that might cause clever jabs and parries. I need a typewriter and a week long stay in a remote location. Before wifi is literally in every god damn nook and cranny of this planet...
Leaping in--
I've been thinking a lot about the nature of masculinity and how terrifically hard the balance must be. The alpha male. The leader of the pack. I have some experience here, as I am often the alpha in situations, co-ed or no. That comes with its own problems, but as a woman, my concerns are not with how blunt, vulgar or brash I am--all that's implied by this is that I have masculine qualities, which are dominant, in control, strong. But for a man, especially one who wishes to be in control, and to give the impression of stoicism, the opposite is true; show emotion, give insightful commentary, and suddenly you are not viewed as much as the Lothario, but as something soft, weak, feminine. I think this may be the hardest thing about being a man. It takes a truly confident male to strut about like a peacock giving off heady fumes of lust, but who can also meaningfully impart his thoughts, unabashedly displaying emotion, daring anyone to question the veracity of the meat dangling between his legs. In truth, of the men I have the fortune of being close to, I can think of only one who has achieved such a thing, and I know it's been a hard road for him to get there. I'd put money on him in any bar fight, but he cries like a bitch (See? Cries like a bitch; even I do it) at the Notebook. He'll be there for you for any genuine need, but he will not hesitate to tell you you're actin' a fool. He inspires strength of all kinds because he is offensive, sensitive, loving and cruel. Spending time with him is always fulfilling. Our relationship is not sexual, but our interaction is sexually potent, a reminder of our youth and fertility; I feel healthy and... yes, I think engorged is the right word, in his presence. I recently told him I wanted to find someone to love me the way he does, except, you know, with all the boyfriendy parts.
Which brings me to my next thought:
I would like a boyfriend. I want to be in love.
There, I said it. Now, the disclaimer: The above statement is not technically true. What I want on that front is still in the gestation phase, and after months now of being casually, but emotionally involved with one to three people at once, I think I'm ready for a committed phase. I miss having someone to cook for. I miss the assumption of someone next to me as I sleep. I miss the tedious things that are part and parcel of a romantic, one on one relationship. But, like many things that are a big step, I've got to say it out loud, talk about it, if you will, in order to become comfortable with it.
It's all a work in progress.
I woke this morning, exhausted, as has become the de rigueur state of my being upon waking from the boyfriend's bed. His mattress has an uncomfortable slant, after (or so we surmise), three years of regularly being slept in by only his person, and despite attempts at flipping (might we have just somehow put it back in its original position?), the slant persists. This slant may also be a manufacturing defect never detected by the boyfriend because he never slept on that side of the bed.
So, this morning, like every other morning, I awakened with sore back and achy, dry eyeballs (presumably not an effect of The Slant), only to stretch vigorously and hear the unmistakable sound of air being forced out of my vagina.
This is a phenomenon I've often tried to replicate intentionally, to little or no avail. I cannot be blamed, I don't think, for rather enjoying the way it feels. It offers less overall relief than a regular, from the ass fart, but it's a fart. from. my. vagina.
Which makes it inherently awesome.
Long-ish story short; waking sore and cranky only to queef is an excellent way to start my day off right.
