born ruffian

One thing about having 4 break ups in one year is that while they don't get any more fun, you do get used to them. Sort of. They become the norm, rather than the end of the world. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.

The Born Ruffian and I went for a walk last night: a walk for breaking up. The MYOB version is that we agreed we've become too intimate to date casually, and we agreed that neither of us is ready for something serious.

What do you do with that? Seems like a damn fucking shame to me, for two people to break up because they like each other too much. But there it is, there you go.

I guess what you do do with it is that you take your now ex-date back to your house for tea and pudding, you sit for three hours on your 8' long tweedy couch and argue about whether hippies would have owned it or not. You gossip and share stories. You talk like friends. You both mostly remember not to touch the other person's knee, not tapping it for emphasis nor brushing it lightly for the tingle against your fingerprints, not pressing your warm palm into denim. Not the way you would have two hours ago, before you agreed.

Another thing about having 4 break ups in one year is that your heart gets very very tired.

Enough tired so that even when my bed, at 2 am, looked like a huge pale permanent wasteland in the middle of my room, so that even when, at 2:15, I was leaking tears and staring into lonely, I was also relaxed to be relieved of the quick bird's-heart flutter of my nervous self against the meaty shell of my skin. It was still in there, of course, that nervous self; I don't think I'll ever lose it. But now, hunkered down, its feathers puffed out. Crying, yes, but slow and calm.

Well, there goes NaBloPoMo. So close! I was so close.

It was a full night, though, so I've got my excuses.

I got home from work, had a shower to wash off the yoga sweat. The Born Ruffian dropped by just as I was finishing - a man with impeccable timing - to pick me up to go to Jennifer's. We all went coat shopping, and I now have an actual winter coat instead of several layers of non-winter wear. We came back to Jennifer's and ate a delicious dinner (squash! tahini! parsley!) and talked graphic novels and music and lists and dogs. It made me want Shelley and Steve to get a dog sooner rather than later. We laughed, a fuck of a lot. We did the dishes.

After dinner, I invited myself over to the Born Ruffian's house for tea and a state of the union chat. Part way through, I realized that I was out much later than I expected to be. Quite frankly, I was expecting our chat to last about 10 minutes and go something like "Well, sure, you're nice. But." and then I'd chug the dregs of my tea, go home and blog. When I realized that that wasn't going to happen, I honestly thought "Today's blog! Ack! I'm going to miss it! I need to- wait, this is important. More important than blogging?"

That all whipped through my head in about a nanosecond and the answer was really pretty obvious. I figured I probably should have skipped the shower to blog. About 20 minutes later, though, I figured it was a pretty good thing I hadn't.

This sketchy post, 1 minute before deadline, has been brought to you by the letters BR.

And their mad massage skillz.

Today, the plan was for Shelley, The Wren and I to pile into our car and head off to Montreal for an evening of hanging with the hot girls of Montreal. We were going to leave early afternoon, hit an art opening, get Shelley a lezzie haircut, dance the night away.

And then the party happened.

Man, for the first couple of hours last night, I was the fuck off my game. I'm never easy in situations that require small talk. Small talk is not my forte, especially when I don't recognize the person that I'm small talking, even especially when the person I'm small talking is hardly recognizable as human. For a little while, I wandered around feeling a bit lost, hiding behind the people I knew, bouncing between Shelley and Steve and Tracey and Mitch and the Born Ruffian.

Then the dancing started, and thank god, since, as Steve put it, "More dance means less talk."

Much hip swinging and flask sipping later, I was having a grand time. The dancing also gave me the opportunity to use my wiles, which last night involved an apparently convincing combination of maribou and cleavage, to lure the Born Ruffian - the Monkey
to my Lady - back home for a spot of cavalier activity.

I bought this dress years ago, in Winnipeg, and have only worn it twice before. It's not an obvious costume, really. People asked me what I was, and I spent most of the night saying "Well, I had a tray, and when I had a tray I was a cocktail party hostess from 1960." By the time the last person asked me, I said "Cleavage. It's all about the boobs."

It was a late night, and we were part of the first exodus. Other people were not so well rested this morning.

When Shelley called me not too long ago, to ask if I'd be disappointed to miss Montreal today, my
List Of 100 Things To Do flashed before my eyes. Hang zines, wash towels, run, groceries, story, hang hooks, hem curtains, wash dishes.

It perhaps says something about where I am in my life that I'm willing to give up a night of dancing to run, do laundry, and write. But I'll tell you what: this is a comfortable chair.

I don't know why I do it, really. I mean, I *know*, without one doubt, that eating dairy and wheat and sugar 1) flares my rosacea up and 2) gives me wicked PMS.

So the past couple of days, while on the whole very many very good things happened to me, I've been in a terrible crank. My tits are killing me, my brain is whirling like a manic gerbil around my skull with sheer ridiculousness, and I'm uncomfortably hot. Even before I kissed and kissed and kissed the Born Ruffian and his beard, my face was sore.

With all that cranking, I was convinced that what I needed was a night in. In fact, last night when the BR asked me what was up this weekend, I was adamant about the fact.

And now it's 11 pm and I just finished a cup of coffee.

Turns out I'm having the perfect combination of a night out and a night in. I went with my housemates and out-of-town lovelies for soup and pudding earlier, and it was perfect. Fuschian, across from the Greek Orthodox church, is a great little spot. Good pho, delicious lemongrass beef, the sweetest woman running the place, and the best damn vegan rice pudding I've ever had. Who knew I liked taro so much.

The rest of em went out to some other thing I missed hearing about because I never check facebook any more. M-C went straight to bed, so though I'm not technically home alone, it sure feels like it. I've been cleaning and listening to records, and refilling myself with myself.

I have very few fond memories of my ex, Mike. As my therapist put it, that relationship ended in the red for me. I spent a long time fighting to get myself heard, my needs respected. If you ask me what all things were wrong with that relationship, you'd better be sitting in a comfortable chair.

The list of good things? Well, if I bike by you on a street corner some day, I'll shout them out to you on my way by.

There was a long time where he worked evenings at the Manx. I loved those Friday and Saturday nights. He'd already be at work when I got home, so I'd have the whole night to myself to unwind, futz on the computer, clean up a bit, read, whatever. Then around 10:30 or 11, I'd head out, arrive at the Manx to the warm hugs of the wait staff, a big steamy sweaty kiss from Mike, and I'd perch myself at the bar, start a Guinness, and dive into whatever book I'd tucked under my arm. Mike would come out and make faces at me sometimes, I'd chat with the other regulars, maybe, be entertained by the staff when they were pouring drinks. Alone time, social but quiet time, then fun drinks time with people I love hanging out with.

This is a night like that. Tidying my kitchen tonight, wiping behind the coffee maker and fruit bowls, making a shopping list for early tomorrow, listening to records, futzing on the internet, I felt like I finally clicked back into myself. The BR will be here momentarily, the Party in the Rear not long after that.

Did you know that it is impossible for more than two people to own a car in Ontario?

Not inconvenient, not confusing.

Impossible.

We didn't really ask why. When Shelley and Steve and I walked up to the counter at the MTO a couple days ago, I said "We've bought a car together and we need to register it. There wasn't enough room on the form, so we need to fill out an Application for Registration."

The lady looked at us, quizzled up her brow. "Who bought it?"

"We did. All of us."

"Well, only two people can own a car."

"Pardon?"

"Only two people can own it."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Really? How come?"

She raised her eyebrows and shoulders, dropped 'em all back down again.

We could have pressed more than that. Had we all been less worn down from moving, we probably would have, to prove a political point.

But fucking hell. Shelley's written a letter relinquishing her stake in the car and Steve and I are the owners of a 2001 Echo with a manual transmission.

+++

Stick shift? I hear you saying. But Butch, you don't know how to drive manual!

After last night, I kind of do.

Steve drove me and our friend Rodenhizer out to the parking lot behind the experimental farm (cue porn music) and taught me to drive stick (turn up the volume), while Rodenhizer watched (it only goes to 11, friends).

I stalled the car. A lot. Stalling the car a lot was supposed to make me realize how easy it was to start it again, but my god, I think I might be a little traumatized. Such a horrible sound. Like something is dying. The engine, say. Permanently. But easy to fix, yes.

It'll take a few more lessons before I'm road-worthy, I think. I'm not the most co-ordinated person. It took me six months of boxing lessons to figure out how to move my feet and my hands at the same time. This kind of thing is not my forte. But once I get it down, it sticks like nobody's business.

Eventually, I hope to be able to make a turn without stalling.

+++

Speaking of cute, the Born Ruffian and I went for a long walk the other night. We got gelato, headed down the mess of Preston Street, along Dow's Lake for a bit and then up through the Glebe back towards Centretown.

Halfway between gelato and the lake, I started into a story about Fiona and Ruby. I tilted my head back slightly, held my hand in front of my mouth, and said "Oh my god, it was so cute."

And stopped. And started again.

"You know, I just realized that every story I tell about Ruby and Fiona starts with me holding my hand in front of my mouth and saying 'Oh my god, it was so cute.'"

I don't know why I do that. Am I afraid that if I don't cover my mouth, the cuteness, even in the much dimmer reflection of my words, will be so awesome that people will quail in front of it? It's a mystery.

+++

It was a surprise to some of you that I was getting a roommate. Considering the minutiae I normally regale you with, it really is a shock I hadn't said something.

Also a shock because I am a pretty big advocate of living alone. I love living alone. I have never been lonely because I live alone. You know why? Because if I get lonely, I call a friend. Or go for a coffee. There! Done! Not lonely!

Around the time we started looking for a house, M-C made it known she was looking for a place to live in Ottawa from September to April. I'd lived by myself for nearly 2 and a half years, and really had no intention of having a roommate.

But M-C is lovely and easy going. During one of the crazy snow storms last year, she ended up crashing on my couch a couple nights and a day or two. That's what convinced me. She stayed at one end of my apartment, I stayed at the other. We emailed a couple of times, chatted a bit when she needed something from the kitchen. Stayed out of each other's hair, mostly. Perfect, I thought, we can do this.

The extra money is nice, of course, but mostly, we are all really excited she wanted to be part of our commune.

I'm not sure if she knows how to drive stick. But I'm sure Steve would be willing to teach her.