Monthly Archives: April 2012

Saturday

I went to Ian’s apartment for the first time on Saturday.

Ian has a lot of roommates; he lives in this cramped four bedroom apartment that’s the size of a two bedroom. And his while his room is nothing awful (desk with laptop, full bed, closet and dresser), the bathroom is a horror show. Beard trimmings and ring around the bathtub and grout that hasn’t been cleaned in never ever ever. The toilet bowl is threatening to turn black, and the clear shower curtain is not clear, it’s white. And opaque.

He made me dinner, the only thing he knows how to make: spaghetti with bratwurst, and those hard, packaged chocolate chip cookies for dessert. It was, um, interesting.

I didn’t stay for long.

“Thanks for dinner,” I said to him, as he walked me out. I wanted to kiss him, but Ian had put about twelve cloves of garlic in the spaghetti sauce. I kissed him on the cheek and he frowned.

“You’re sure you won’t stay?”

Honestly, the idea of even sitting on Ian’s bed squicked me out. I needed to do a sweep with a blacklight before I was going back to his apartment.

“Um,” I said, and before I could think of something else to say as an excuse, his phone rang.

Ian turned his back and walked a few steps away, and then when he hung up, he walked back to me and said, “Do you want to come with me? My brother’s in a bar, drunk.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Dominique apparently went over to his place, and took the rest of her belongings.”

“Oh,” I said again. Poor Boss. “Of course. Let’s go get him.”

We were silent most of the car ride to this bar in Belltown, where fancy, rich people go to get stinking drunk. I couldn’t think of what to say about Ian, or his apartment, or what to do about him going to Portland. Plus, I kept thinking about Boss, depressed and drunk at some table all alone in a bar.

But when we got into the bar (after paying an annoying cover of twenty dollars, even though we explained we weren’t staying) (Ian paid, which made me cringe, since he has no money), we saw Boss at the table with three women in tube tops giggling and caressing his shirtsleeves.

“Hey,” Ian said as we walked up to him.

“Heyyyyyy, little brother!” Boss slurred back. “And hellooooo, purrty lady!” Boss said looking at me. He stood up and took my hand. “Do you wanna sit here?” Then he sat back down, patted his lap and pulled me into it. I started blushing, but worse, my insides were going crazy–tingling and butterflying and electrifying all at once. I was sitting in Boss’s lap.

Ian was standing next to us with his posture suddenly very straight and stiff. His mouth was a tight line, and he said to his brother, “Let’s go.”

“Nah, stay,” Boss said. “I’m having fun.” Boss put his hand on my hair, and that’s when I got up and rushed back to Ian’s side, still flushed. I grabbed his hand quickly, but Ian pulled it away from me. Then he went over to his brother, pulled him up, and dragged him out of the bar. I can’t believe Ian could even do this, as Boss looks like he bench presses every day, and Ian looks like his limbs are made of angel hair pasta. But it worked, and soon Boss was in the front seat of Ian’s clunker and I was in the back, and Ian wasn’t talking to either of us.

When we reached Boss’s condo, we walked Boss up to his place and then when we got to his door, I said I’d go back and wait in the car for Ian, and Boss leaned over and kissed me sloppily on the mouth, and slurred, “Aust3n, you’re so lovely.” Then he started laughing. Ian shoved Boss into his condo while I slunk back to the parking garage.

Ian didn’t speak to me the whole way back to my place, and he hasn’t bothered to even text me, which is not like him. But it’s not like I instigated any of this.

And Boss? Boss came in to work this morning smiling at me, apparently not remembering a thing. But I remember, and now I’m more stuck than ever.

He Also Smells Like Those Cheap Car Air Fresheners, In A Good Way

I was sitting at home in my pajamas last night watching Downton Abbey and cooking cream of asparagus soup instead of being all friendly and twenty-something-y with Molly and Sarah and Michael. Sometimes I just need to mope by myself and eating stinky soup.

This is, of course, when I heard my intercom buzz. It was Ian. Could I let Ian up when my hair was frizzed out, my cheeks were blotchy from crying about Mary and Matthew, and my apartment smelled like asparagus pee? I couldn’t, so I talked to him via intercom.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi. Um, aren’t you going to buzz me in?”

“I can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m eating cream of asparagus soup. It smells bad in here.”

“I don’t care.”

“And I’m in my pajamas.”

“What kind of pajamas?”

“Not that kind. The scuzzy kind.”

“Oh. I still don’t care. Let me up.”

So I let him up, and he didn’t say anything about my frizzy hair or my ratty sweatshirt or my blotchy, cried-up face.

Instead, he sat on my sofa with me silently for a few minutes. It was a long, awkward pause, perhaps the longest and awkwardest pause of my life. Then he turned and said, “I want to know what’s going on with you. Sometimes you seem like you like me, and then you completely ignore me.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. It’s alright if you don’t….if you don’t feel the same way about me as I feel about you.”

“How do you feel about me?”

“That’s not fair.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. You don’t have to say sorry just because you don’t like me as much as I like you.”

I scooched toward him. I had no idea he was so filled with angst about me. I’m just me. And he’s Ian. He’s cute and funny and dorky hipster cool (I know that doesn’t make sense, but he is), and he’s caring and kind and smells like smoke in a way that I couldn’t have possibly thought was good but is good. It’s so, so good.

“That’s not it,” I said. I put my hand on his knee, and he turned to me, and he gave me this look. It’s the look I’ve seen only a few times, that really intense “I want to kiss you and maybe do something else” look. He put his hand on my face and he leaned in and that’s when I said, “I’m just not sure. You’re leaving. And I’m kind of a mess.”

He pulled back, but left his hand on my cheek. “Yeah, I know. It’s not ideal.”

“It’s not.” I don’t know why, but I couldn’t stop myself. I leaned in closer again. And then he leaned in, and then he kissed me, and I swear it was like about four seconds passed, but when I extracted myself from him, I saw a half hour had gone by instead.

“You need to go,” I told him. “I can’t do this until I figure this out.”

He had the look in his eyes still, but he sat up and said, “OK.” He combed his fingers through his hair quickly and then said, “But don’t take too long?”

“I promise,” I said.

And now more than ever, I have to figure this out.

It Had A Red Bow On It, Too

Sitting at my desk yesterday morning was a new Pepto Bismol bottle. When Boss walked by a few minutes later, I asked if he knew who it was from.

“Oh,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I noticed you were running out. So, err, I thought you could use some more.”

“Thanks,” I said. Then I looked at him, trying to see if what Ian told me was true. Was Boss really jealous of Ian because we’re dating?

He looked away, and his cheeks colored a little bit.

“Well, err, have a good morning. I’ve got a conference call,” he said as he walked back to his office.

I didn’t see him for the rest of the day, and I was in a daze. I cancelled with Ian because it didn’t seem right to hang out with Ian while I was thinking about his brother the whole time, wondering if there was any possible chance that Boss felt the same way about me as I did about him.

But I’m not even sure I still like Boss. I like Ian. I do. Don’t I?

Argh, I don’t know.

Confronting Problems, It Turns Out, Only Creates Newer, More Complex Problems

My love life, for once, wasn’t the subject of a million coupled-eye-monsters’ scrutiny. It was Michael. Poor, poor Michael just ended a relationship with a guy who he was going to introduce to us, except he found out the guy had a significant other, the married, female kind.

Poor, poor Michael.

So, I haven’t exactly brought up what Boss said about me to Ian, or how I have ignored every single message, text and phone call from Ian, and how I am not sure what Ian thinks of me.

But last night as I was sipping my water as Michael got very, very drunk for the third time this week (poor, poor Michael) Molly leaned over and said, “You need to tell me about Ian. I cannot believe you haven’t said a word about it.” Then she smiled her big, toothy, coupled-up smile that showed that she believed I was now one of her people, and not very similar to poor, poor Michael.

I told her what Boss said about me, and her smile faded. “Maybe,” she said, “Maybe he just meant, um, that you’re a good person?” She was grasping.

“Ummm.”

“Anyway, you need to talk to him. You can’t ignore him forever. This tactic of ignoring problems doesn’t actually work, Aust3n. I don’t know if you ever noticed that.”

I really, really hate Molly some days.

Of course, seeing belligerent Michael in the bar for the third time as we psychoanalyzed why he keeps going for unavailable men, I sat psychoanalyzing myself and what my particular problem in life was, besides that I was exactly like Michael, minus the temporary alcoholism and the beard (for now).

And when I couldn’t come up with an answer, I went home and called Ian.

“I really like how you ignore my phone calls for an entire week. It makes me feel more manly and alive,” he said into the phone. “Especially when you finally call me back and I pick up after half a ring. That signals the great amounts of testosterone coursing through my system.”

“I’m sorry,” I squeaked back. And then I told him about what his brother told me, in the exact words, without any embellishments or screaming, “SO YOU THINK I’M EASY? IS THAT WHAT THIS IS GOING TO BE?” I held back like a normal-ish human being.

“I think you misunderstood,” he said. “From the tone of your voice, it sounds like you didn’t like what he said.”

“Well, no. Of course not. I mean, do you think I’m just alright with a brief fling?”

“Are you alright with a brief fling?”

“Umm.” How do I answer that? No? Not usually, but hey, why not? Yes?

“What he meant,” Ian said slowly, “was actually kind of upsetting for me.”

Was he defending my honor here? I started sweating a little, even though it was only 62 in my apartment.

“Because…” I said, trying to feed him the bread crumbs.

“Because he was so complimentary about you, Aust3n. ‘Oh, Aust3n is so great! You two will be great together! I’m sure you two will be able to work on the long-distance thing! She’s just the kind of woman who would do anything for a good person. She’s wonderful. She’s really great.’ And so on and so forth. Except he kept talking about you. He kept complimenting you. He wouldn’t stop. And when I made him stop, he said that he was happy it was me who was dating you, and not someone else, because he’d be jealous about you with any other guy. But with his own brother, he felt alright.”

I couldn’t speak for about a minute. “Jealous?” I asked quietly, finally.

“Yeah,” he said. “So, I guess I have to ask you what you think about all that.”

I don’t know what I thought about that. I know that I went from sweating to shivering and had to get under the covers. I know that I went from hating Boss to thinking about the first time I met him, in the elevator. But I don’t know what I thought about that.

“I know I really like you, Ian,” I said. Then he said some nice mushy stuff to me that doesn’t need to be recorded. We’re going out tonight.

But first I have to make it a whole day around Boss.

I’m Eating A Lot Of Feelings This Week

Ian came over to my apartment on Thursday night and we had a very nice time.

Not that nice. I just met him.

When I went in to work on Friday morning, Boss called me in to his office. I hadn’t been there in a week, and I thought maybe I hadn’t filled out the paperwork correctly.

It wasn’t about paperwork.

It was about Ian.

Ian, apparently, told Boss he liked me.

Boss said that even if he was moving away forever and ever, Ian should “go for it” with me, because, you know, I’d alright with that kind of temporary situation.

Then Boss smiled at me, like he did a GOOD THING saying that to Ian.

Apparently I’m cheap? Or easy? Or just in it for a good time?

Does Ian think this? Is that why he came over to my apartment on Thursday night?

AND WHY DOES BOSS THINK THIS?

And no, of course I haven’t spoken to either of them about this. That would be ridiculous.

Obviously, the only recourse is to eat my feelings.

I Didn’t Ride Off In The Sunset, But This Was A Nice Substitute

I flew back to Seattle last night. I was very glad to leave my parents behind, and very sad to leave baby brother Eliot behind. Except that I felt like I should have a talk about the birds and the bees with Eliot, and how he should be careful, and how he should really not be doing anything like what I saw him doing to with his girlfriend, and how I didn’t even touch a guy until college! (Practically.) But I didn’t really want to have that talk, so instead I stared at him and conveyed these thoughts through my mind. I think it worked.

Molly was supposed to pick me up from the airport, but instead Chrolly showed up. You know how famous couples have one name, like Brangelina and Bennifer? Yeah, that’s Molly and Chris. It’s not because of their fame or the length of their names, though, but because they are simply one entity: Chrolly. I fully expect to see them carry out even cell division as one person now, and to squee at the cute little squamous cells during mitosis. It is SO like Chrolly to do that.

Chrolly picked me up in Chris’ expensive doctor vehicle (something with a teeny, uncomfortable backseat), and then instead of taking me home, they took me to a pub. Even though I don’t drink.

“But maybe it’s time you started?” Molly asked with a wink.

“Gag. No,” I said. If there is one thing I KNOW I don’t need, it is a penchant for alcohol or something else that lowers inhibitions and takes away control. And it also smells vile.

“Well, we’re going first. We invited Sarah, and Michael, and Ben.” She said Ben’s name in a sing-song voice like a ten-year-old taunting me on the playground.

“I told you, Ben and I aren’t a thing. It didn’t work.”

“You’re just too picky!” Argh, not this again.

So I went, and I drank my ice water, and I sat next to Ben and we talked and it was awkward. And then Sarah came in to the pub (she was working late), and sat down across from Ben and and and….sorry, my brain just short-circuited right there remembering what happened.

Because what happened was that Sarah and Ben hit it off. Like, I could practically feel the force field that immediately encompassed only the two of them and left the rest of us on the outside of their little bubble. I could hear the energy. OK, I couldn’t sense any of these things, but they talked and talked and Sarah giggled and Ben smiled into his beer shyly and at the end of the night, Sarah pulled me over and asked if it would be alright if she gave Ben her number.

“Duh, of course.” Who am I to stand in the way of true love? Or true lust, whatever.

So that happened, and now I feel like the pooiest poo. Not because Sarah and Ben hit it off when Ben and I couldn’t even find a t-ball stand, but because this seems to be happening all around me. First Chrolly, and next it will be Barah, and then what? Michael will find some amazing dude and then it will be “our single friend, Aust3n, and her nineteen dogs, and oh, also, she writes fan fiction in her basement apartment.” I know I should only feel happiness, but mostly I feel spite, and anger, and the all-encompassing, “Why not ME?”

So I stood outside the pub waiting for Chrolly to pay the tab and to get away from the smell of drunk men and desperation on a Wednesday night, and I just—I texted him. I texted Ian.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he texted back immediately, even though it was close to midnight.

“What are you doing right now? Want to ‘hang out’?” I really put hang out in quotes. Because I’m a jerk.

“I’ll be over at your place in a few minutes.”

And then I told him where I really was, and he came and picked me and my luggage up from the pub. While Chrolly and Barah went off into the sunset, I went off in his little, broken-down Toyota Corolla back to my apartment with Ian, an untenable smile plastered across my face.

James

“Did you get my flowers? The daffodils?” James asked me after we were seated across from each other in this hole-in-the-wall restaurant, the only people under ninety dining in the blue pleather booths.

“They were from YOU?” I might have said this with a little too much disappointment. “Oh, yes. They were nice.”

“They didn’t come with a note?”

“No note. But now I know. Thank you. I should have guessed they were from you. Who else knows I love daffodils but you.”

“Who did you think they were from?”

“Um?” Ian. Boss. Anyone but you. “No one comes to mind.”

“Oh, alright. Because. Well. Uh.”

I stared at him. He was trying to ask me something personal. He did this all the time when we were dating, and the only way to get it out of him was to guess.

“Because you were wondering if I was seeing anyone?”

“Well,” he said, scratching the back of his (very good-looking) head. “Yes.”

“I’m not. Free as a jaybird. Freer. Jaybirds are probably much more social than me.”

“That’s not true, Aust3n. You’re social! You’ve got Molly and Sarah and er, that guy.”

“Michael.”

“Michael! Yes! Him.”

“Yup, I’ve got them. They’re great.” I held back a deep, dramatic sigh. Why was I here? Why did James ask me out? We never communicated well, but I was just now remembering that.

“But no boyfriend?”

“No boyfriend.” I fiddled with my noodles. I twirled while I waited for James to get to the point, which probably involved pointing out my spinsterish ways.

“Oh, alright.” He leaned back. The tension from his face released. “We had some nice times, didn’t we?”

“Mmm,” I said more to my plate than him. I like James, but my brain couldn’t distract itself from the IAN blinking neon sign going off inside me.

“Hey, did I tell you I’m going to be in Seattle for a project? For a few weeks, or maybe more?”

“No, you didn’t,” I said, this time looking at him.

Then he explained something boring about his work project and finances and banks, and I sort of tuned him out and snuck out my phone and reread my texts from Ian. Who is moving to Portland in four months. Who it is completely hopeless to get attached to. Who doesn’t even know about me almost killing my kid brother, and thus even if he wasn’t moving, things wouldn’t work out.

I put my phone away and said, “Well, we’re going to need to hang out when you come to Seattle.”

And then at the end of the date, I leaned in and kissed him, and I felt it down to my toes, and it was nice and warm and it would do. Ian’s not an option anyhow, and I need something, or someone, to remind me of this.

Because what other option do I have?

 

Vague, Undefined Terms

I wasn’t going to call Ian, except that my brother explained he had Ian’s number in his phone now, and if I didn’t call him back, he would.

“You’re a meddler. Leave it alone. You don’t even know him.”

“I know you like him. It’s OBVIOUS from the texts on your phone.”

“You read my texts?”

“All of them. Especially the unsent ones. And now I have blackmail. Call him.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Won’t tell you. Call him.”

I hate little brothers. (I didn’t mention seeing him and his girlfriend in his room without their shirts on, and he hasn’t mentioned it, and I hope to never talk to him about it again. If he gets married one day and his wife gets pregnant, that will be the only time I will allow that maybe, possibly, there was some sex involved. If they have another child, I will assume that it just carried over from the last pregnancy. Because that’s how it works. That’s how it works with little brothers whose diapers I used to change, anyhow.)

But I couldn’t just call Ian. I mean, I tried. I tried a few times, but I couldn’t.

I was physically unable to, and felt a little like I do when I drink too much coffee, buzzing around with energy but also about to vomit all over the place. It was a lovely feeling. I decided what I needed was some good, old-fashioned, hometown love.

First I went to Jarling’s Custard Cup, this small shop that makes obscenely good frozen custard. I ordered and sat outside eating my lemon custard in a waffle cone (my mouth is watering again just thinking about it), and some sorority girls about the size of my wrists sat at the table next to me.

That was great for my self-esteem. I mean, it was great for my self-esteem if what I wanted was to totally shatter it and think of myself as a fat, unkempt, unfashionable cow. THIS is why growing up in a college town is bad for the soul. But Custard Cup is good for the soul.

Then I went and biked to the quad and laid in the grass, soaking up sun and trying to ignore the other beautiful, thin, young, fashionable girls around me, but it wasn’t working, so I took out a book. I’m reading the second book of the Flavia de Luce mystery series, about a smart girl who uses chemistry to solve crimes. It’s as geeky as it sounds, and it is right up my alley as a fellow geeky, awkward, sciencey girl. I only wish I loved chemistry as much as Flavia does.

I was so engrossed in my book I didn’t hear when someone sat down next to me.

“Aust3n! Are you in there, Aust3n?”

I looked up, startled.

“James!” James. Ex-boyfriend James. Extremely tanned and good-looking James, wearing a cotton t-shirt and shorts that were so simple that I knew they were extremely expensive. Because James is rich and can spend eighty dollars on a t-shirt, and then look that good in it.

I really need to have fewer hormones. They do me no good.

“I’ve been calling your name for the past five minutes from across the quad.” He smiled at me and in that instant I remembered just exactly why I never dated anyone else besides James. I started getting goosebumps, like I did when we first started dating nine years ago. I can’t believe I still have feelings for James. I don’t. But my body thinks otherwise.

I sat up, leaned in and gave him a hug.  “It’s so good to see you!” I couldn’t stop speaking in exclamations.

“It’s good to see you, too. Are you in town to visit Eliot?”

“I am. Are you in town to visit your parents?”

“My dad got some physics prize, so you know.”

“Ridiculous parents and their awards,” I said. James’ father is a genius. No, I mean it. He’s a genius. He has a MacArthur Genius Award to prove it. “So, how are you? How’s Jamie?”

Don’t get me started on a guy named James dating a girl named Jamie.

“Oh, she’s good. I hear she’s good.”

“Um?”

“We broke up a few weeks ago. You know, stuff happens.”

“Sure.”

“So, are you free tonight? Maybe I could take you out before I leave town?”

Of course I was free. I’m always free, so we made plans. Then he leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the mouth. He kissed me. It felt nice. Not as nice as the kiss with Ian. Nothing’s ever felt quite that way, but it still felt warm and tingly and I felt it down to my toes like I have with every other good kiss. And this was just a peck. I kind of want more.

So now I’m going out with my ex-boyfriend on a date. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.

This? THIS was the time I decided to call Ian, right after James left. I figured if there was one time when I could take his rejection, it was right after making a date with gorgeous, smart, rich James. But the second I heard him say, “Hello?” I forgot about James. I forgot about that peck on the lips and that I was going out with my gorgeous, smart, rich, newly single ex-boyfriend. My brain just thought Ian-Ian-Ian-Ian-IAN in a continuous loop.

“Hey, Ian?”

“Aust3n. I was beginning to think you were never going to call me back.”

“Oh. Uh. Sorry.”

“Listen, before you start saying anything, I want to tell you this before you hear it from someone else: I’m moving to Portland in four months.”

I had trouble breathing all of a sudden. “You’re…what?”

And then he told me about how he was accepted into graduate school at Portland State, how he received a fellowship and can go for free and get a small stipend, and how he found out the same day we went to the beach together, the same day we kissed. That’s why he stopped kissing me. Not because he doesn’t like me. Not because his brother likes me. Because he’s leaving. In four months.

It’s good news. For him.

“But maybe we could still hang out?”

He didn’t define hang out. What does ”hanging out” mean? Dating? Casual dating? Just being friends? These would have been good questions to ask Ian, if I had a spine. Or felt like maybe I could ask them. Maybe those whisper-thin sorority girls could ask those questions. But I’m just medium-sized, nothing old me. I didn’t want to ask. I like Ian too much to ask. Plus, it’s only a matter of time before things crumble. Does it really matter?

It doesn’t. Except that I’m dying to know what he meant.  So I said, “Definitely. We’ll definitely hang out before you leave.”

“And when I come to visit?”

“Sure!” I said, all cheerful, as if this were good news, and not a punch in the stomach.

So now I get to go out with my ex-boyfriend tonight while my brain keeps haranguing me with the continuous Ian-Ian-IAN loop.

But Ian is moving to Portland. I’m a little shattered.

Reasons I’m Going To Maim My Brother

Because I couldn’t find my phone and then realized he and his cute little girlfriend stole it last night.

Because they replaced Ian’s name with, “Ian, Lover, Manly Man,” in my phone book.

Because my brother woke me up this morning and then disappeared when I went down for breakfast and I had to eat with my mom. Alone.

Because then my mother said my name as a full sentence, “Aust3n Louisa.” (I hate when she calls me that. They might as well have named me “Child Of Pretentious Overeducated Americans.”) (I much prefer just Aust3n, or Lulu). When I said groggily, “What?” she then answered, “There was a man named Ian who called for you over an hour ago? He said that you were expecting his phone call? Is this a new boyfriend? I’m so glad you’re finally getting a life again.” (I really hate my mother.)

Because apparently my brother CALLED IAN AND TALKED TO HIM.

Because when I went to yell at my brother, I found him and his girlfriend with their shirts off in his room, and then I had to scratch my eyeballs out and am now blind. I am writing this from a hospital, on a Braille keyboard.

Because apparently my baby brother gets more action than me.

Because now I have to CALL IAN BACK.

But not before I maim my brother.