As Long As He Needs Me

 This was part of a personality disorders dating series I was writing.
-->

You're tall. You have a mustache or maybe not. You shave your head. You're in your forties, or maybe in your early fifties. You go to a gym regularly, working the free-weights and the tattoos on your arms expand and contract as you pump iron. Your hands are rough and calloused--paw-like--but the fingernails are clean.

We meet for coffee and I feel that zing and know I'm in trouble. I ignore the coldness lurking behind the smile in your clear blue eyes, ignore both the overt charm and the impatience with which you treat the waitress, because I'm already smitten.

We meet again, this time for dinner. You admit to being out of work—the boss was an asshole and the other employees lazy and you got tired of doing all the work--and assure me it's temporary, so I pay for the meal and the movie afterward. It's worth it, though, because your hand gropes for mine in the dark theater and you lean into me, stretching your legs to the side and I smell your man-ness. You keep my hand in yours and kiss me; I melt. As we leave the theater some teenage boys--all enthusiastic, talking loudly about the some martial arts moves in the movie they've just seen—jostle you as they pass, unwitting and animated, and I ignore the sudden tug of your body as you move toward them and the dampened fury on your face.

“Assholes!” You mutter under your breath.

“They're just kids.” I respond, and you start talking about respect and today's youth. I smile with understanding; you've told me about your childhood, about your father and his beatings, your mother and her drinking and screwing around. I know you had to learn to fend for yourself at a very young age and that the carefree life these boys live is alien to you.

I know you've got a chip on your shoulder, that you see the world with suspicion and have an underlying well of anger in your soul. But it's alright, because I also know that all you need is a little love and understanding.

Two nights later you call me drunk, asking me to pick you up from the bar. I have to work in the morning, but I roll out of bed, pull on my jeans and come to the rescue, bringing me to my place so I can take care of you. You fall into my bed dragging me with you and we make love....sort of. You're a bit rough and I'm left physically unsatisfied, but I know it's the alcohol and happily curl around your sleeping form, running my hands up and down your muscled back. You wake me in the morning before the alarm, taking me again. I'm again unsatisfied, but am singing inside because you find me attractive. I shower, make you breakfast, leaving it on the table with a note.

I rush home from work and am overjoyed to find you on the couch in front of the TV. I see you've made yourself at home, as evidenced by the sandwich meat and mayonnaise jar on the counter, and I make a mental note to pick up more bread and sliced cheese. You give me a kiss and tell me you have to take care of business, asking for money and the keys to the car. I give you both, knowing this means you'll be back.

You're out all night and I have to get a friend to pick me up and take me to work. I'm distracted all day, worrying about you and again rush home, hoping you'll be there. You are. You're passed out on the couch with a half-empty bottle of Jack Black and a bag of pot on the coffee table. Relieved that you're safe I try to get you to come into the bed with me and I finally get a spare blanket and—kissing you tenderly on the forehead—take off your boots and tuck you in.

You're still sleeping when I wake up and I again make breakfast, leaving it on the table with a note. This time I put a little heart by my name so you know I'm not angry at you. You're not there when I get home from work and I search uselessly for a note from you. I keep my cell phone with me at all times in case you call and finally I go to bed alone. You stumble in sometime after two and I smell the alcohol on your breath. You want the car keys again—you need to run an errand—and I protest, saying it's late, you're drunk and I need the car for work in the morning. You ignore me and reach for my purse, taking the keys and walking out of the house. I cry myself to sleep. But at least I know you'll be back.

In the morning you're again passed out on the couch and I pick up the beer cans and wipe the spills from the coffee table before tucking you in and kissing your forehead. On my way home that afternoon I stop at the store, getting all your favorite food and a 12-pack beer. You're upset when I arrive, grocery bags in hand, wondering where I was and who I was with. At first you don't seem to believe that I was just shopping and ask me about that guy I share an office with. I'm flattered that you care so much about me and make us hamburgers.

After wolfing down your food you again ask me for money. I say I don't have any cash and you shove the rest of your food into your mouth then pull me into your arms, kissing the top of my head. You explain that you've got a “thing” going, that you know I've been patient and good and ask me to just hold on a little while longer until you get stuff straight. You promise you'll take care of me and even offer to mow the lawn the next day. I snuggle into your chest, smelling you, feeling your arms around me and suggest we go to the ATM machine. You stroke my back, my shoulders and tilt my chin up, kissing me tenderly, then with more passion. You pull me to the bedroom. After, as I'm dozing off, you suggest it would be easier if I just gave you my debit card and pin number so I don't have to get up and get dressed again, besides, you say, I do have to get up early and it's important that I get my sleep. I snuggle contentedly into my pillow, tired and--delighted at your show of concern for me—I mumble the four digits, allowing you access to my bank account.

The next morning you are again passed out on the couch and the beer I bought is gone. There is a mirror on the table with the residue of some white stuff smudged on it and a rolled-up $20 bill. I tuck you in and kiss your forehead, then make breakfast, leaving it on the table with a note and a little heart by my name because I know all you need is a little love and understanding....

Willing 2 b emotionally unstable 4 U

I hear complaints from men saying that women pass over perfectly nice, decent men for “bad boys.”

There is a flip side to this; you guys appear to fall for beautiful but emotionally unstable women, pouring tons of time into them, becoming their White Knight, thinking you can save them.

Here's a little secret: you can't save them. But damn, I'd sure like to have one of you eligible, handsome men putting all that time into trying to make me happy. So here's what I'm going to do.

First of all, I'll develop an eating disorder. Very slender women appear to bring out the protective side of you guys. I'm a bit plump, but if I puke frequently I should shed 20 pounds in about a month. 50 pounds would be ideal--since I'm only 5' 1” that type of weight loss would make me look bony, gawky, vulnerable and child-like, bringing out the daddy in you.

We'll meet and there will be sizzling energy. I'll declare my love to you and we'll have sex immediately! I'll tell you I've never had sex with a guy I've just met and that you're the best lover I've ever had and maybe break your heart just a little as I throw heavy hints of how men have mistreated me in the past. I'll fall asleep in your arms and, as you lie in the dark listening to my breathing, you'll wonder how you got so lucky and will vow to take care of me forever, to never let me down like the other men in my past.

Your heart will tear just a little more when you catch me with a razor-blade, making straight, slender cuts in my arms. For the first time you'll notice the silvery spiderweb of scars on the insides of my arms and will be horrified, asking what's wrong. I'll cry and tell you that I'm so scared that you'll leave me. You'll gather me up, holding and rocking me as I sob. You'll promise to always be there for me. You know I'm broken, but believe with enough love you can heal me.

Soon you're getting phone calls from me at work. I'm upset because social services is screwing with the visitation with my kids, or because I saw my mean-old ex-boyfriend on the street and am frightened, or my totally messed-up mother called, saying terrible things to me. You drop everything and run to my side, holding and soothing me.

I have some major financial problems, mostly because I trust people too much and have been taken advantage of. Also, the world conspires against me and for various, totally legitimate reasons--ranging from physical injuries from previous relationships to unfair treatment—I can't hold a job. You, of course, have a steady job and a bit of savings and you offer to pay the courts—who are threatening me with jail—that back child support. You also pay off those old drunk-driving fines so I can get my license back. You buy me a car so I can find a job.

You notice the Vicodin from last year's Frisbee golf injury is gone from the bathroom medicine cabinet, but don't think much of it.

We start having these weird misunderstandings leading to confusing and emotional fights. I yell and slam out of the house, you are worried about what I might do and follow me, begging me to get in the car and come home with you. I finally do and we have make up sex.

Sometimes I don't get in the car. Instead I take off across the cornfield where you can't follow and I stay out all night. You pace the floor, waiting and worrying about me. You're incredibly stressed and call in sick to work. I come home smelling of beer, sex and cigarette smoke. I break down, you hold me.

The box on the dresser where you've been emptying your change for the past two years is empty and money starts disappearing from your wallet. You confront me, we fight and I threaten to kill myself if you leave. We make up.

I start disappearing more and more often. When I come home I'm bedraggled and bleary-eyed. You're hurt and bewildered. I admit I have a little problem with drugs (a plus for both of us because it keeps me thin for you and I've stopped eating and don't have to puke anymore) and you're relieved because you think this is something you can fix. You check me into treatment.

Things are good for a while after I get out. You are proud of me, thinking we beat this, that we can now settle in to a stable relationship. One day you walk into the bathroom and you catch me with a razor-blade, making straight, slender cuts in my arms....

For Jonathan

(This is an email I sent in response to an ad on Craig's List. The person I sent it to was nameless and faceless. It was really written to Jonathan.)

I'm responding to your CL ad against my better judgement.  I'm smart, pretty, openminded, like working with my hands (blah,blah,blah). 

Here's the thing: I tend to fall for the tough, retiring introvert-guy.  You know, the guy who--at heart--really wants to just hike away and disappear forever into the wilderness.  He's typically a bit of a cynic, distrustful of society and prefers the company of his dog over most people.  The disparity between his ideal and the real world is painful for him.  He occasionally ventures out into the world because he misses the company of a woman.  He's had long spans of time in the wilderness to think about women--or, I should say a particular kind of woman.  A woman he's never really met, but dreams about.  He misses this woman's soft curves, the sound of her voice, her lively intelligence, her sweet vulnerability, her strong willfulness, her gentle touch and her ability to roll with grace into life's punches.  He wanders out of the wilderness and puts a tentative ad on CL hoping the Universe will place her in his path.

I, of course, feel like I can change his distrust and cynicism and that I can be the woman he dreams of.  All I have to do is show him the good in the world and the people who inhabit it.  Being the irrepressibly upbeat, optimist that I am, I believe that positive experiences can shift his paradigm.  I eventually realize that his pessimism and cynicism is an integral part of who he is and that there is nothing I can do to make him happy.  

But I've fallen for him.  I love the way he sits quietly, present in the wilderness. I love how he sees beauty in the natural world.  I love the feeling safety I have when I'm with him.  I love his quiet competence.  I love his adventurous soul.  I love the gentleness with which he treats his canine companion.  I love his intelligence.  I love that he's well-read.  I love the way he touches me.  But it just wasn't meant to be.  The difference between us is too great.  We part, I tearfully and he with great pain because he knows that I'm hurt. 

We do eventually reconnect--after I've had time to heal--and we write and talk.  The communication is tinged with regret, but we both know we did the right thing in severing the romantic bond.

If this is you, please don't write back.

He did not write back. But it was a good email and not to be wasted.

Cute May Story.

 

When my niece, May, was 4-years-old, she came to Wisconsin to Aunt Jen-Jen's Summer Camp. I made Toby sleep on the couch and fixed up a cozy bed-nest on his bedroom floor so May wouldn't have to climb up to his loft-bed.

I took down anything that might be scary--masks, swords, and pictures of alien creatures--and introduced her to Frodo, our dog whom I temporarily dubbed Sir Trusty Monster Eater.

May recently moved to Iowa from downtown Chicago where she and her family lived in a high-rise apartment on the 32nd floor, directly across the street from the Lincoln Park zoo. Just getting outside in Chicago was a chore: We had to pack the diaper bag, load up the stroller, wheel to the elevator, float down to the lobby and past the doorman. And then we had to brave four lanes of heavy traffic just to get to the grass. This visit to Wisconsin was the first time May was able to open a door and go outside.

Everything was new to her, including bugs. Toby and I live in a little blond-brick, ranch-style house tucked away in four and a half acres of woods and we have lots of bugs. May was fascinated and repelled by them. We spent hours tracking insects, watching them, and figuring out what they were doing and thinking and she freaked out at night when she thought they were in the bedroom.

Frodo slept at her feet. May talked to dogs she met on the streets and in the park in Chicago, but she had never spent any time with animals. She was entranced with Frodo and his special monster-killing powers, demanding bednight stories of the mighty Frodo saving little girls from all sorts of scary forest creatures. But Frodo would not kill bugs--they were much too small to warrant his attention. Aunt Jen-Jen did.

So every evening there was a series of good-nights: I got her water, snuggled her into her nest, told her stories, kissed her all over, then I'd leave the room. Five minutes later I'd hear her plaintive voice calling, "Aunt Den-Den? Aunt Den-Den?"

And I'd go into her room, address the bug or the shadow, or any other fear, snuggle her, story her, kiss her and leave.

The third night was particularly hard on both of us. We'd had many adventures that day: playing by a creek; peeing in the woods; interaction with a crazy juvenile pheasant (Frodo made his bones on that one--a story in itself); a tick scare, and we were both exhausted.

She'd called for me over and over again. I was irritated. Angry. I just wanted to curl up on my couch and read, to have a little down-time sans 4-year-olds. My patience was running thin—she was too young to be away from home this long and I was too old and selfish to be primary caregiver to a small child. The last time she called her voice was particularly disturbed, insistent, and with a pissy little snort I put down my book and hustled to her room.

Making my voice nice I peeked through the doorway. "Sweet May-May, what's wrong?"

"Aunt Den-Den, I just disgusted." Her voice was weary, jaded.

"You're disgusted?" This was a new one and it piqued my interest. I moved farther into the room.

Her head was turned away from me and her finger traced the outline of shadows on the wall behind her.

"Yes, Aunt Den-Den, I just disgusted!" She threw her hands up and shook her head.

"What are you disgusted about May-May?" What in the world does a 4-year-old have to be disgusted about? I gave Frodo a pat and kneeled down next to her.

She heaved a deep sigh and shook her head slowly, still not looking at me. The weight of the world was reflected in her small voice as she repeated, "Aunt Den-Den. I disgusted."

She turned her head and gazed intently into my eyes.

"Aunt Den-Den, I disgusted. I no 'member eeny-meeny-miney-moe!"

I couldn't help it, I burst into laughter.

Lying down next to her we recited, "Eeny-meeny-miney-moe, catch a monster by the toe, if he hollers let him go, eeny-meeny-miney-moe" until she fell asleep.

Happy 15^th birthday, May!

Social Mores Or Peeing My Pants

Mores:

1. the fixed morally binding customs of a particular group
   
2. moral attitudes
   
3. habits, manners

One morning I went work early to present a 7:00 AM seminar. I was coffeed-up and needed to pee, but the maintenance guy was cleaning the women's room so I used the men's. Like I said, it was early and there was little to no chance that a guy would walk in, but I was a titch nervous and was prepared to sing-out should the door open while I was in the stall. I'm not particularly rule-bound. I don't expend a lot of energy trying to“fit in,” nor do I care too much about what people think of me. So my unease at using the men's room got me thinking.

Last January I spent a week in Maui (there's a whole story there, but it doesn't pertain) and while there I took an early-morning snorkeling/whale-watching tour. There were 10 people on the tour and we cruised out on one of those low-slung motorboats with air-filled sides and a flip-down ladder in the back.

We did a little snorkeling in first part of the ride but most of it was spent looking for whales. During his spiel, the tour-guy said that if we had to pee, he'd stop the boat and flip down the ladder so we could hang on it, half in and half out of the water, to do our business. There were no takers.

I'd had a large cup of coffee and I did have to pee. I decided I would wait until the next snorkel-stop. The morning grew late, my bladder slowly filled and my discomfort became acute. I had to pee so badly that it was ruining my enjoyment. I couldn't chat with my fellow tour-ists, couldn't dig the feel of the boat soaring over the waves, couldn't savor the smell of the ocean or the feel of the sun on my face.

We were all still wet from our first snorkel and I decided to just pee my pants. I figured no one would notice; it was either that, or do the public urination thing.

No matter how hard I tried I couldn't do it. I couldn't pee my pants.

My bladder was as full as it could be,the pressure was amazingly painful and I'll be damned if those social mores weren't more powerful than my biological need. I was flabbergasted.

Finally I gave up the ghost, told the guy I had to pee, swung off the boat, hung onto the ladder and emptied my bladder into the ocean. As I dragged myself out of the water, relieved and slightly abashed, there were three other people, standing at the back of the boat, waiting their turn.

I wonder if they tried to pee their pants too.

Notes From the Red Couch: To All The Boys I've Loved Before

Dating, men and relationships are like the Voyage of the Starship Enterprise. My five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and new civilizations; to boldly go where Jennifer has never gone before....

After a 13-year hiatus from all romantic connections, I decided it was time to find a boyfriend. A friend was involved in the internet dating scene and, after long discussions, I joined a well-advertised site, paid my $30 and fully expected that, after a bit of shopping, I'd have my boyfriend in a couple of weeks. I'd never had a problem finding a boyfriend in my teens and twenties; indeed, the streets, bars and parties teemed with cool-men-who-dug-on-Jen, so imagine my dismay as the weeks turned to months and the months to years as I plumbed the internet, looking for a mutual digging-on-each-other, a dude who could hang out with me, and with whom I could really groove.

I've developed all sorts of theories over the years on why I sit this morning on my red couch, with the shower silent, a sink clean of beard-shavings, a single indentation in my mattress and the only unmatching socks being ladies, size 7-10. There are no boxers—crotch up—on my bedroom floor, no Mitchum deodorant in the medicine cabinet, no size-eleven boot-prints on my kitchen floor. The theories on this are varied, on a continuum between Personal Responsibility and Circumstances Beyond My Control, and I could write pages on each, but as John—a weird combination of Garrison Keillor's upstanding Lutheran and a sociopath and my first internet heartbreak—used to say: It is what it is.

I'm starting a new chapter in my life: I'm actively searching out women as friends, weaning myself off the internet as a primary meeting place. But today I'd like to pay homage to the men to whom I gave a piece of my heart, and who—step by painful step—helped me gain personal insight.

Esteban, you gave me Mexico and a taste of what it would be like to live for the day, simply and well. You've moved forward, dropping off the radar, but I will always remember Baton Rouge and Nayarit.

Tony of the chocolate skin and adorable dread-locks. Our separate histories of drugs, crime and prison are strikingly similar, as is our rise out of the gutter. You were loyal to your program, your family, your friends and new life, but you just weren't able to extend that loyalty to your women. You gave me continued hope for all others with our extreme past, showing me I'm not the only one.

Roger, your blogs jumped off the page into my heart; smart, funny, irreverent with a dash of wistful sadness. We talked via internet and phone for four years, but you were never able or willing to take it to a face-to-face meeting. We held on longer than was healthy, finally pulling the plug before the New Year. A regular beer-drinker, you helped me to live in the gray; to not immediately label or discard men who drink normally. You also showed me how tenuous internet friendships are. Thanks for the blog-title.

Brad of the gimme-cap, pick-up truck and impossibly long arms and legs that twined around me, holding me tight in the night. You are a drinker and pot smoker and taught me to beware of men whose habits are too familiar, too reminiscent of the bad old days. You also, more than any of them, taught me that life does go on.

Dwight, rhythm-master, professional musician; we missed each other, twice, both going different directions at different times. You showed me what a small world this really is and that coincidence does not equal fate. You also showed me the value of “wiggle-room,” and that I can still be too black-and-white.

Altogether you showed me that broken hearts mend, that life does go on, and it is good.

Finally, I'd like to mention new friends in my life, women not met on the internet and whom, I suspect, will teach me more about myself.

Yvon my classmate. Gentle, calm, kind, with the heart of an adventuress.

Jan, met through my son. Passionate about children and animals and always willing to “do something” with me at the drop of a hat.

Catya, sparkling with intelligence and creativity, and who is oddly familiar, striking distant chords of friendships from my childhood.

Jacq, another gift handed me by my son. We haven't hung out yet (tomorrow!), but I have pleasant, low-key expectations of long conversations and laughter.

My new co-workers: Rachels G and K; Helen; Lisa and Marie. All of you so smart, supportive and caring; I see loads of potential for future girl-talks and get-togethers.

Old co-workers: Jenni; Jessica and Sara. Young, ambitious and kind; you will soon surpass me in skill and knowledge—of this I have no doubt.

I sit on my red couch, finishing a chapter in my life, eager to start the next: my five year voyage has ended, the Enterprise is docked, and I've learned as much as is possible on that trip, on that ship. Time to move on, to focus on friendship, not romance, and on new life-lessons and adventures.

Woot!

Notes From the Red Couch: 'Twas the Day Before The Night Before Christmas

It's not yet 7:00AM and I'm sitting on my red couch with tissue box at one elbow and cup of tea at the other. The sun is not yet up, but the light over the front stoop is on, illuminating the thick, sparkling, brilliantly white snow blanketing the shrubs outside my window. I've decided it's time to hire someone to plow the driveway; I don't think I could get out this morning if I wanted to. And I don't want to.

Despite my home remedies of organic yogurt chocked-full of five active live cultures, garlic, vitamin C and tea, I'm sick. Not hold-the-stomach and sit-for-hours-on-the-toilet-with-a-bucket-under-my-chin sick, but lumps-the-size-of-grapes-under-my-ears with sore-throat-and-phlegmy-cough-runny-nose-and-low-grade-misery sick. I almost prefer the first kind; it is a righteous sick, one leaving no doubt about one's ability to perform. Unfortunately, I rarely get sick like that and so live my current sickness with a niggling sense of guilt, feeling like I could do this or that if I really tried. And I'm not going to try. That was decided when I woke up, realizing that this cold had progressed instead of retreated--even after a good night's sleep--then measured the new-fallen snow. Four new inches of snow on my front yard, on my sidewalk, on my driveway. Sheesh. If Toby, my son, were here, I'd make him get outside and get busy. But he isn't.

Toby moved away from home two months after his 18th birthday, bunking with a rotating group of friends in a drafty house in Eau Claire. I didn't approve, didn't think he was “making good choices,” and in many ways he isn't. His leaving made me nervous, sad and grumpy as I personalized his decision, secretly feeling it reflected on my ability to parent, hurt because he wanted to leave me.

Since classes ended I've been gulping down fiction the same way an alcoholic might chug a bottle of vodka after a period of abstinence. The day before my son had his “parents open house” I'd finished a book about two 58 year old men who—in a last-ditch effort to reclaim their youth—meet to climb a mountain they'd conquered in their youth. They reminisce about those early days, how they stayed up all night debating god and philosophy, sleeping on the sand, traveling up and down the coast unfettered by thoughts of bills, family and where their next meal will come from.

Reading this, I realized something: when I was Toby's age I'd thumbed across the country twice; was solidly ensconced in the drug culture with my addictions already ruling my choices; and had engaged in all manner of unsafe, life-threatening behaviors. In other words, I'd made terrible choices. And I decided that Toby is doing exactly what he's supposed to do. While today's choices may dictate that he work a little harder in the future, they are not nearly as stupid and harmful as the choices I made when I was his age. And he's still not drinking or smoking pot.

Given his gene pool—one of both genius-level IQ and abject addiction—I think Toby's doing just fine.

Now, if the dude would only come shovel my driveway I could get my mail out and take a nap.