Hi. I am here. I am alive. I know I haven’t been posting and I almost feel bad about that but really, I have had nothing to say. I think I alternate between spewing my emotions and bottling them up and lately, I’ve been in a bottling phase. The people in my day to day life sometimes seem to prefer it that way (I think I may be guilty of overly spewing a bit too much too frequently) and so I’ve felt no incentive to change, to share more. As a result, I’ve had nothing to post. And I’ve been really busy.

The school system kicked their own tail into high gear and plugged me into the substitute system almost two weeks ago. I’ve worked every day since, save yesterday, which was a snow day. I leave here in just a few minutes to go shape some more young minds. I’ve truly found something I’m excellent at. Something that’s very natural and right for me. Something I excel at almost without trying and that matters to me. However, the pay is shit and I have an interview tomorrow for another soul sucking secretarial job at a large financial planning firm. If all goes well, I would be paid an actual salary (one on which one could potentially hope to live, to pay bills on and eat on and such) and have actual benefits (like the luxury of being able to visit the doctor once a year and buy birth control without selling a kidney on the black market). At this point, I can’t decide which is worse- the perpetual fear create by the dire lack of monetary funds that I’m currently living in or the souless, joyless, uninteresting but fairly well funded world of secretarial work. But, as the Stud has pointed out, all this wondering and fretting and stewing is still premature as I don’t actually have a job offer for secretarial work yet and, therefore, I shall wait to make a decision between the lesser of these two evils until I actually have two evils in hand.

Also, in somewhat more cheerful news, the Original Engaged Sister is about to become the Married Sister next weekend. I still haven’t paid for the hotel room, figured out batchelorette party gifts, worked out how I’m going to incorporate purple into my black bridesmaids dress (as is required by the bride) or sorted out with the Stud which one of us gets to drink at the reception and which one has to navigate the hour and a half commute home, but I’m sure all that will somehow, magically, fall into place. At least I hope so… Congrats Little Sis! (Even if it is a bit early…)

I know you can see the links on my blogroll and therefore have a pretty good idea of who I spend my free time obsessively keeping tabs on via their blogs. I know that Dooce is on the blogroll. I also know that she is a pretty big deal in the blogging world and, therefore, thousands of people probably have her on their blogrolls as well. And that, being on so many blogrolls, she must have thousands of devoted supporters. But I’m gonna take a minute to pay a little tribute to her because her most recent post has been irking me all morning (though, really, it can only be one minute becuase, though I’m unemployed, I still have a long laundry list of things to do today… I should really add laundry to that list…)

I discovered Dooce from a fellow bloggers’ blogroll. The first night I read her entries, I laughed aloud. Two nights later, as I was reading a new entry of hers, I commented to the Stud that “this girl makes me think it might really be possible to have children and have a sense of humor.” In essence, reading her experiences makes me less afraid to have children of my own. This, to me, is an invaluable gift.

After the Ex-Fiance and I broke up (dissolved, shattered, imploded, whatever) I was lost and aimless and unable to cope with the stress of the job I was in. I needed to be valued. I needed to matter. I needed to make a real impact in a tangible way in the life of somebody. I became a nanny. And I mattered every day to those little munchkins. It was everything I hoped and expected it to be and so very much more. I was great at it. But I was still apprehensive about rearing children of my own one day, still concerned that I would be unable to rear them in the text book way, in a way my grandmother, or even my mother, would approve of. That I would screw them up beyond repair, that I would damage them with my own imperfections. I was caught in the dilema of, yeah, I want to have one, but should I?

Dooce is funny, witty, clever, awkward and imperfect. And she is raising one great toddler. And her methods may not be in a parenting manual, but her daughter will grow up surrounded by love and humor and imperfection, learning that it’s ok to just be yourself, no matter how imperfect that might be. And I respect her for having the courage to live her life, displaying her marriage and her parenting, in a fish bowl so that other readers can have the courage to recognize that maybe living by a textbook is overrated. I hope one day, I can pass on as many great lessons to my kid as she is to hers.

I’ve been absent for the last week or so. Remarkably absent for me. I know you may have been concerned, imagining that I had literally fallen off the face of the earth or perhaps to the bottom of an abandoned well where I could have been lying, crying for help, for any number of days, with no one to actually hear me or help me since the well had, obviously, long been abandoned. Yes, I have an overactive imagination. And I grew up on well water. Rest assured, though, that I am not dead, or even injured, in the physical bodily sense. I just lost my job.

There was no real warning that this was to be an imminent occurrence. I had done nothing disastrously wrong, only the few miscellaneous errors a secretary makes from time to time. But my employment was not “terminated” because of these little errors. In essence, my employment was terminated because I am not what they wanted, because they’ve decided they need to grow in a new direction and, rather than spend the money (read “waste the money”) to train me to follow this new direction, they’d rather wipe the slate clean and start with someone who is already primed for that direction.

I took the news rather hard. Yes, I was terribly, utterly, profoundly unhappy there and I dreamt every day, every single day without fail, of leaving them, but it is quite another thing altogether to have them leave me. Of course I thought that I must have been insufficient for their needs, that I was somehow flawed or lacking. And even after I inquired after this, twice, and they assured me that this was not the case, twice, I had a hard time believing their excuse. It took a few days to resigned myself to the idea that I was not utterly incompetent and insufficient and to believe that, really, the break-up was just a result of needing different things, going in different directions as it were.

But then there is the embarrassment. Being dumped is always rather humiliating and, whether you intended to break it off first or not, hearing that you are no longer needed really smarts quite a lot. Admitting that you are no longer needed is even more difficult. I still have a hard time smiling politely as people, well meaning, lovely people, express their condolences and solicit unsolicited advice. It’s been a ball.

And then there’s the fear. Though I loathed my old job, it did, in fact, pay the bills. Without it, I’m not at all certain that I can, in fact, continue to do that. And of course, another job is necessary. And I’ve shopped my resume around a bit with no results. Very encouraging. And just the idea of taking another of these dull office jobs, of fetching someone’s coffee and photocopies under maddening fluorescent lights while I stare at my useless but expensive Bachelor’s degree, which I bought at the price of an obscene amount of blood, sweat, tears and currency, makes me want to cry. And I want to be patient, to wait a bit more while I wade through the public school system and make my way to becoming a marvelous substitute teacher, while I garner experience in the classroom that will very likely tell me whether I truly want to invest more time, more energy, more blood and sweat and tears and currency pursuing my childhood ambition to mold young(er) minds. But patience seems to be a commodity for the rich, or at least the gainfully employed.

The entire big old ball of bullshit is just making me want to crawl into bed, nestle under the covers and hide. Not that this will do me much good- I can lie about listlessly for hours, willing the clock to pass it’s hands faster but can not sleep. Or eat. Or take interest in things that used to interest me. Yes, it’s a text book case of the blues, or clinical depression if you want to be technical. And I feel it so keenly and yet feel powerless against it…

My mother thinks that I really ought just to “trust god.” I told her yesterday that I’m not at all sure that God truly has my best intentions at heart so trusting him would be a bit of a stretch. Besides, we keep having this ongoing conflict about who’s job it is to be in charge of my life and right now, we aren’t speaking because of it. Although, given the truly shitty job I seem to be doing of keeping it all afloat, maybe it isn’t such a bad idea for someone else to be in control of it after all.

So yes, dear bloggersphere friends, I’m alive. I am not, however, well and I’m not sure how much longer it’s gonna have to be this way.

“The strangest thing just happened to me. I went to Starbucks today on my lunch break, because I had this coupon for a free drink, and the guy behind the counter is this very nice, very good looking young guy.”

“Not that you’d notice, because you love the Stud.”

“Right, but he is anyway. So we chat while I order my coffee and a sandwich and he seems normal enough. I eat the sandwich and coffee in the Starbucks and then I run in to the shop next door to browse around.”

“The shop with the funky jewelry?”

“Yeah. And after I browse, I head to the car. I get in the car, turn it on and get ready to pull out when I see the Starbucks guy. He comes over and knocks on my window. Naturally, I think I must have forgotten my wallet or something in the store and roll my windown down a bit.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. And he asks my name and introduces himself and then proceeds to put his arm through my half open window to shake my hand. And then, he wouldn’t let go of my hand! He stood there for a full two minutes talking to me, blatantly hitting on me, holding my hand through the half open window!”

“Why did you roll down the window in the first place?”

“Because I thought I had forgotten something! Why else would the Starbucks guy be coming over to my car 15 minutes after I’d left!”

“So what did you do?”

“I told him I had a boyfriend. And that I had to get back to the office. And that I came into that Starbucks a lot so, yes, I was sure I’d see him again. Not that it’d do him much good because I have a boyfriend and because he was now scary, even though he was good looking and articulate.”

“Well it’s flattering that he was hitting on you. Did you tell him he was good looking and articulate?”

“No. He was holding my hand inside my car and I was freaked out. I just left.”

“Wow. You’ve got to find another way to make friends.”

“This coming from the woman who actually answered some guys in an unmarked van when they asked her if she wanted to buy some “quality speakers” and then got in the van to catch a ride to her car…”

“OK, you have a point. Maybe I shouldn’t give the advice.”

Man, listening to us, you’d almost think Mom and Dad did something wrong…

So, last week, I felt unsure of the Stud’s feelings about me and our future and, therefore, was a bit unnerved by any discussions of engagement. And you’d think that when a girl says to her boyfriend “Babe, we really need to quit talking about all of this Engagement/Wedding/Marriage stuff”, he’d be relieved. You’d think that he’d follow those instructions gleefully, gladly wielding a get-out-of-commitment-conversations-free card. You’d think that, after admitting to this girlfriend just less than a week ago that he wasn’t ready yet for marriage, he’d be ecstatic about holding static in their current state.

But not my boyfriend. Nope, he wants to shop for rings and have me sized.

What was supposed to be a casual evening at the mall grabbing a quick bite and window shopping turned into a serious inquiry at the jewelry store. The sales girl and he were intently discussing pricing and sizes of stones and sticking shiny things on my pudgy, trembling fingers “just to see how they looked.” The whole thing was kinda surreal and I just kept thinking “Why the hell am I here?” I don’t think I even looked at him the entire time we were in the store. Or after we left. And he was so intent- he needed answers, damn it, and he wanted to know what I liked because he didn’t want me wearing something for the rest of my life that I was apathetic at best about.

So we had the “what the hell is going on here” conversation. It voided the “let’s not talk about commitment” conversation because, god damn it, I needed a clue. And here’s what I discovered- he’s sure about me, about wanting to be with me and spend his life with me, and he’s dead serious about getting engaged rather soonish (not weeks, mind you, but maybe months), even going so far as to visit SEVERAL jewelers. At least he does his homework. The thing is, he’d really like a long engagement because he needs some time to get his shit together and get his head in gear and be ready to approach the aisle, or the alter, or whatever it is that you approach when you’re a guy and you’re getting hitched. So his comment the other night reflected that he wasn’t ready to be married tomorrow, not that he isn’t sure about me or that he doesn’t want to be engaged tomorrow (because, apparently, that’s not scary at all and he’s all for that).

You could’ve told me that before, Mister.

I’ve been a bit unsure about how to process all this, how to wrap my little brain around it so that it’s properly categorized and labeled and sitting nicely on the shelf. All I can come up with is that he’s serious about me, serious about our future, seriously interested in knowing what kind of options are out there should we decide to stick with each other until death. He wants feedback and opinions and he’s not exactly smooth about the whole thing, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to be tossing an engagement party soon. In fact, the only time I should start counting on receiving an engagement ring is the moment he hits one knee with a little box in hand and a serious question.

This isn’t necessarily easy. I’m not chomping at the bit to be wearing something sparkly, but it is an odd middle ground to be caught in, knowing what’s he contemplating, giving your opinion, and not knowing if or when it will come to fruition. But I can live with this. So it is a bit of a bonehead move to include me so much, in such an odd way, but it makes sense that he’d ask me because I’m his best friend and I’m the one who will be wearing it for the rest of my life (should we decide to actually get engaged). It’s a bit a-traditional, but why should that bother me? The point is, I love him and I’m very happy with where we’re at right now. If we decide to get engaged in the future, that’ll be great, but if not, we’ll still live together (eventually) and love each other and be happy.

Deep breath.

So it’ll all be OK. No need for sweaty palms or shaky fingers. Oh boy.

In other, marginally related news, the shower for the Original Engaged Sister is this weekend. She didn’t pick a maid of honor among her 4  bridesmaids because, really, how could she pick just one sister? So, by default, I’ve become the leader of this pack, being the oldest sister and all, and am losing my mind a bit over these details. However, we did decide to host a wine and dessert shower in the evening and the very thought of seeing my tight laced aunt quaffing glasses of zinfandel and acting out “honeymoon suite” during bridal charades is almost enough to make it all worth while. I really hope someone does something ridiculously inappropriate and that, for once, that someone is not me. Actually, my money’s on Grandma.

New year, new chances, right? And yet we deal with the same old issues…

New Year’s Eve was a blast. The Stud and I decided to hang out, take it easy, relax, and had just a few friends around to share that laid-back mentality. That mentality, however, didn’t mean a lack of alcohol indulgence and we managed to get ourselves very drunk. This was a decision we paid dearly for the next morning. It was delightful, however, to see the Stud don my new winter hat- a white, angora bucket hat, which he generally detests- and prance around the living room. That man is hot stuff ladies. And it was lovely to hear the profuse professions of love from the man, even if it was brought on by my drunken admission to hatred for his ex-girlfriend. 

What was not a blast, however, what was no fun at all, was our conversation just 3 nights later.

If you’ve ever read my postings before, you know that I’m a bit commitment phobic. I’ve been engaged once before and it didn’t end in a wedding, so I may well be more fearful of those vows than most people. You also know that, from the beginning of our relationship, the Stud and I have agreed that, if at any point, we knew we could not marry the other person, we would break up with them and spare them the agony of going through all the time and energy and emotion only to have it end in more heartbreak later. It seemed the decent thing to do. And we’ve been together nearly a year now. And he talks about getting engaged/our wedding/being married to each other ALL THE TIME. So, one can reasonably conclude that the man is fairly sure that I might well be “the one.” And I can tell ya right now, I’m sure beyond a doubt.

And yet, the other night, as we’re navigating the delightful cobblestone streets of Baltimore, he tells me he’s not sure about getting married. He tells me that the short engagements of two of my younger sisters has made him nervous about the engagement process. I mean, if he were gonna marry anyone, of course he’d marry me, but he’s just not so sure about the whole marriage thing.

Someone stop the car, I need to throw up. This, to me, sounds suspiciously close to words I heard my ex-fiance utter and it took me months to figure out that he was full of shit, feeding me lines to keep me around and obscure the fact that he had no intention of marrying me. It took me months before I was able to dump his ass. And sitting next to the only man I’ve ever felt this much for, that I’ve ever loved this deeply, hearing him say nearly the same thing the ex-douche bag said… it just isn’t comforting.

The reality now is that I love him as much as I ever have. That I have a hard time sleeping when he isn’t lying next to me. That I miss him 15 minutes after he’s left. That I can’t imagine a day without him in it, and that I really don’t want to. The reality is that we’ve been through a lot, a whole hell of a lot, in the last few months, in the last few weeks even, which had proven and solidified our love for each other. The reality is that every day, I’m sure that he still loves me. But I’m also facing the reality that I’m not so sure the man I want to spend the rest of my life with really wants to spend the rest of his with me.

Franky, I’m not sure how to handle that.

Oh, but he still wants to move in with me, still wants to co-habitate. Some just tell me- am I being a fool here?