Awkwardly Social

I wrote everyone this long dorky letter about how I needed money for my thesis film.  He was the least likely candidate to respond, but when I got his e-mail asking me to call him, all the way in the northern reaches of Alaska I did.

He was my dad’s first cousin, and he asked me what the movie was about.  I told him it was about girls and weddings and it was going to be something that helped me.  He said that Alaska was devoid of all the things I was talking about but he would consider supporting my efforts.  After all, I was family.  I was living the dream.

He had long red hair that he kept in braids.  He laid the Mexican tile in the upstairs of our house.  He was quiet and funny and he lost part of his pointer finger in a fishing accident in Alaska.  He told me it was so cold he didn’t even feel it, that another longshoreman told him he was bleeding and when he looked down he realized part of his finger was gone.

He died today.  Cirrohis beyond repair.  He was my cousin Pete.  59 years old.  And I’m glad I got to know him as briefly as I did.  He had the voice of an angel and when he and his brother sang and played the guitar I felt like I knew what talent was.

It’s hard to say I’m going to miss him, because I haven’t spoken to him in about 4 years.  But I’m sorry one more of the good ones is gone.

R.I.P cousin Pete.  You were one of the good ones.

If you didn’t know by now, (and I’d like to think, “how could they possibly know,” but I read my entries, and I know that you know, you aren’t blind) I’m not well in the head.  This makes me question all the things that people on the outside looking in think are completely awesome and right and well deserved.  It makes me angry to hear about how I should just relax and enjoy the good things that have come and are coming and the stability and the love.  I don’t want to lose momentum, but instead of paddling ahead, I tread water.  Which is the perfect way to feel like you’ve gone crazy. Your feet are below the surface and you feel like you’re moving so fast, no one can see how hard you’re kicking, but you’re working so fucking hard and all you’ve managed to do is stay afloat and when you start to get tired and people around you wonder why you don’t just swim ashore, you want to stop and just sink to the bottom where it’s quiet and the fish will tenderly nibble your skin and no one will call you crazy anymore.

Holding on to someone you think is going to run, is dangerous, because even if they aren’t running while you’re holding on to them, they could run the instant you let go.  And then you wonder if you should just fucking let go.  I wonder if I should ever just let go.  If I can get myself to the place where there is peace and comfort and no questions nagging me.  I wonder if I can just admit that this is my creation, and as powerful as I am, I can make this creation happen.  I wonder if I’m willing it to happen because I don’t think I deserve to be happy.  But as you can tell, I’m not even happy.

My eyelids are heavy, the xanax is kicking in.  My heading is still churning and along with it my stomach.

He asked me what he could do for me last night, if there was a way to make me feel better. I told him I’d rather be a ward of the state.  Put me in a scratchy cotton jump suit and lock me up with the people who think like me.  I’ll watch Montel and I’ll laugh at the sparkling lights on the wall.  Maybe they’ll take my brain out and I can just be there, still, without a thought in my brain.  I’ll have a cot and an art class and a little cup of pills and no one will expect me to be smart or creative or to love with all my being and I can finally just relax and people will come to visit me on their scheduled day and when they leave they’ll wonder where Tamara went and they won’t know it but she’s down in the bottom of the ocean with the little clown fish tickling her toes.

Seth and I eat at Dusty’s at least once a week.  We’re there so often we know all the waiters, the bus staff, and the owner changed the bread back to our favorite because we gently suggested that we NEEDED it back (at least that’s what she told us).  So, when I saw Brandon kissing a girl I recognized from my ex-boyfriend’s flickr page a few months ago, I knew it was only a matter of time before things got nice and awkward.

Friday night we arrived as the kitchen was closing, the restaurant was empty save some of the wait staff sitting at the bar.  Namely, Brandon and his girlfriend.  Desiree told us the kitchen was closed, but since we just wanted a glass of wine, she said it was cool if we sat down at the end of the bar and I tried to pretend I didn’t see Brandon.  Who was sitting right next to us.  (And who had already said hello.)

Brandon said, “Oh hey, guys, this is my girlfriend Laura.”  And Seth shook her hand, and I shook her hand and said, “Nice to meet you, I’m Tamara,”  all the while thinking, “AND I KNOW YOU FROM THE INTERNET.”

We chatted for a minute, I have no idea what about because I was mostly focused on whether or not it was too late to say, “I KNOW YOU FROM THE INTERNET.”   Then they got involved in a conversation with the bartender and Seth and I started talking about NPR and finally it was time to go.  So we waved goodbye and I tried not to yell something over my shoulder about how I knew that she knew that I knew.  Even though I wasn’t really sure that she knew that I knew that she knew.  But I could sort of tell that she knew who I was, and I know I’m awkward, but it felt more awkward than usual.  But I mean, really.  I don’t fancy myself internet famous, or I guess, more appropriately, someone my ex-boyfriend would tell a new friend about.

This morning I saw the ex online so I IM’ed him, “I met your friend Laura this weekend.  And I pretended I didn’t know who she was.”  He replied, “Yeah, I heard, she knew who you were too.”

And that my friends, is how I roll.

Awkwardly.

After much hemming, hawing, and generalized anxiety, I was finally convinced to go to a damned vagina specialist.  This after my internist referred me to imaging for an ultrasound of my ovaries, and my boyfriend decided that would be dumb, because there was a possibility she would just refer me to an OB/GYN anyway.  So, I made him ask our other doctor what I should do.  He said, “Get thee to a gyno, STAT!”  And gave me the name of a woman who I immediately googled.

She is awesome.  Full stop.  She got a BA, became a doula, then decided to go to Med School.  She does acupuncture and hypnosis.  She looks like Callie from Grey’s Anatomy.  She’s pretty much my dream lady to look at my vagina.  And she couldn’t be better with the dildo cam.

So, my uterus, according to Callie, OBGYN, is perfect.  My ovaries look completely normal.  But my cervix is weird.  Puffy.  Basically, my cervix looks fat.  Poor cervix.  I know exactly how it feels.  Technically she said, “It’s a little thick.”  Which, ladies, am I right?  Means it looks fat.

So, we’re waiting to see what gore I produce this month and going from there.

One less thing to obsess about, one more thing to obsess about.

Also, I’m starting prenatal vitamins on her recommendation.  You know, just in case.

(No news on the ultra sound.  Not having great insurance has kept me from getting that done just yet.  This should be remedied this week.  I hope…)

Lately, I’ve been jotting down notes in my tiny moleskin notebook.  They feel like notes for a book, if that book were a series of first lines and middle paragraphs and wistful notes to one’s future self having no connective tissue.  Sometimes my writing feels like that anyway, so, maybe that’s what I’ll end up doing.  Writing, essentially, a book that is not a book.   I’d like to think that the Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing and The Wonder Spot are my inspiration, but mostly, my lack of attention span is what’s driving me.

The weekend was spent mostly in bed tangled up in sweaty sheets being in love, mixed in with a shower here and there and venturing out only when we finally reached the point of being faint from hunger.   I started getting wistful about our first weeks together where we spent our time the same way, except with more alcohol, and realized that while we’ve been together a year, we’re still excited to wake up next to each other and to explore the inner reaches and drink coffee in bed until the sun goes down.  And when I feel his body next to mine in the middle of the night, I can only think how lucky I am to have someone who fits me in a way that feels, dare I say it, perfect.

I want to mark the next year in much the same way as this one, with the openness one feels when they’re just getting to know the other, barriers left down and eyes on all the good parts, leaving the petty irritations and selfish concerns for some other lifetime.  From my limited experience in long term relationships, I know that the longer you’re with someone the more you let the little things become big things and then all of a sudden you don’t want to sit on the couch next to each other or go to the same parties or talk to them on the telephone.  I’ve learned that nothing lasts forever and life is fleeting and love is best when you aren’t complaining about the way someone eats their cereal and clears their throat.

So, here’s to the birth of our little nation.  May it always be fireworks and warm bodies pressed together saying, “I love you.”