(Cole) 9/9/13

     I don’t really know where to begin.  Vegas was a blast, but Vegas was about my birthday, not any sort of relationship and besides, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.  I guess I’ll just jump right in and say that the Giant definitely put up a good fight, but in the end, I saw past his deceptive trickery and underhanded schemes…

     Maybe others will disagree with me and think that he deserves another chance, but I demand and deserve a higher level of respect than what he gave me.  Don’t get me wrong, he always behaved very respectfully, both in public and otherwise, but subtle oddities added up and suddenly it became glaringly obvious that compromise was certainly not a word in his quite extensive vocabulary, unless he thought compromise was something that only one person in a “relationship” does while the other person does nothing whatsoever. 

     So, I believe a few posts back I mentioned that he was a certified sommelier, published wine writer, and wine broker.  Indeed he is, and I found the way that he spoke about food and wine incredibly sensual and invigorating.  We could speak about food and wine for hours and never get bored.  But while he could make a twenty minute phone call from home and then fuck off for the rest of the day, I actually have a job that commands my physical presence several hours a day, sometimes up to six days a week.   I told him after Vegas that I would re-arrange my schedule a bit so we could see each other more.  Perhaps work Sundays and take off a random Tuesday or Wednesday.  I felt that after Vegas, turning thirty, and giving Rapist one last sliver of an opportunity to pull his head out of his ass I would be emotionally ready to throw in the towel with rapist and step up to the Giant, preferably in a pair of four inch heels. 

     I could understand his frustration with my schedule and see it mounting, but honestly, part of the reason I was working six days a week was because I wanted to always be busy so that I wouldn’t see him because I wasn’t sure how I felt about him yet and the more you date someone, the more often you see them, the act of getting physical is only a matter of time.  I didn’t want to get physical with him until I knew that the rapist and I were done.  I knew that rapist would never find out, but I would know, and I would feel terrible about it.  I have enough anxiety as it is and lying is hard and even if it wasn’t hard and I wasn’t terrible at it I would still feel incredibly guilty.  I didn’t get the word CULPA permanently inked onto my left bicep just for fun (although it was pretty fun!).  I harbor so much guilt I have been told I should be Catholic.  And speaking of guilt, I also didn’t think it was fair to the Giant to string him along the way I was.  If I was going to try and start a new relationship I knew I needed to give it an actual chance.  Only seeing him once every other week for dinner after work is not something I would consider a relationship.  It’s something you do with your friends that you don’t fuck.  

     Now, people who know me, and people who respect me, know that I am an incurable recluse.  It doesn’t matter if I’m working six days a week or taking a “sabbatical” of sorts, I very rarely like to leave the comfort of the place I call home, my bikini or pajamas, my dog, and a nice chilled pint of IPA, or a cup of coffee with Bailey’s in it, or a glass of red wine, etc, etc.  I am very pleased to say that the majority of my friends and past lovers have been fine with that.  They know if they want to see me they are going to have to come to me.  Especially if they knew I had just worked eight hours in the scorching Atascadero heat, sweating my ass off, lugging around a ninety-pound jackhammer.  The Giant, on the other hand, could not understand why I didn’t want to just take a quick shower, drive down to his house, and then fuck off the rest of the work week for his amusement. 

     If it was the weekend, and I had more than one day off ahead of me, sure.  I could understand shunning the pint calling out to me from the refrigerator, grabbing a shower and my dog, and demanding he have a cocktail waiting for me as soon as I walked in the door, but dude, if I only have one day off, I don’t care how rad you are, I’m not freaking going anywhere!  It’s a miracle if I can even make it to the supermarket on my day off!  All I want to do is sleep in ALONE!  Wake up ALONE.  Pour myself a nice cup of coffee with Bailey’s or a bellini ALONE, and lounge around in my bikini, chatting with my partner in crime on the back patio, catching some sunshine with my dog in my lap. 

     I was discussing this with Wednesday Addams just the other day.  She was like, ‘I understand, but most people just think we’re assholes.’  And she was right.  A lot of people don’t understand that I am not one of those people who had the incessant need to fill every “void” space of free time I have with engagements.  I don’t need distractions twenty-four hours a day.  I have a brain, a vivid imagination, a plethora of novels I have yet to read, and freaking chores to do!  Hell, I still haven’t unpacked from Vegas yet.  All I want to do when I get off work is tear my clothes off, crack a pint, and relax, but the Giant is anything but relaxing.  He is WORK!  Marge was right.  He’s as needy as my ex-husband, and only a year into my divorce, I don’t want my relationships to feel like work.  I understand that relationships are hard and all, but they really shouldn’t be this early into one. 

     If I provided every single example of his sly, backhanded disrespect for my “life choices” this post would be entirely too long, so instead, I’ll just provide the example that was the proverbial straw on the camel’s back…

     Against my better judgment, I went to his house on Sunday.  My plan was to do nothing but drink and hang out with Marge all day because she was pretty upset and I wanted to just hang out and have a bitch fest.  That, and I was exhausted.  I do construction.  I do not sit behind a desk all day filing my fingernails, sipping V-8. 

     Anyway, Saturday I came home from work and I just felt like getting drunk.  Marge went out dancing, I made sure Wednesday Addams would be game to pick her up if she drank too much, and I started throwing back shots of Jameson.  In my slightly inebriated state and having just gotten into a verbal altercation with our neighbors across the street (from here out to be referred to as ‘Deliverance’), and let the Giant talk me into coming to see him the following day, but just for a little bit.  A part of me really did want to see him, but I still wanted to be able to come home and relax, do laundry, and drink with Marge. 

At some point I realize that Barbie, Marge’s youngest, is compiling large clumps of baggage by the front door.  She was moving to her father’s the next day.  I immediately thought ‘FUCK!  I can’t leave tomorrow.  She’s going to be an emotional wreck!’  I try to call the Giant to explain.  He doesn’t answer.  Oh well.  It was two o’clock in the morning.  I leave him a message.  He calls me the next morning.  I am hungover, cramps so bad it feels like a honey badger is trying to claw his way out of my uterus, and Marge is already up and made a big pot of that delicious pumpkin caramel spice coffee you can only find once a year at World Market. 

     I’m cramping so bad I don’t even want to answer my phone.  I pour myself a cup of coffee with cream instead of Bailey’s, just in case, and limp out to the back porch like fucking Quasimodo to smoke a cigarette and drink my coffee in the sunshine.  Phone starts blowing up.  It’s the Giant.  Again.  He just remembers that it’s the one year anniversary of his good friend’s death and there is going to be a BBQ and he “needs” me.  Tough ass mother fucker with titanium plates in his gigantic man hands needs me to be there for him.  Fuck.  Fine.  I tell him to pour me a bath (the only thing that can alleviate cramps that bad), I’ll soak for twenty minutes, make an appearance at the BBQ with him, and then jet back to Marge’s house before Barbie leaves. 

I was so pissed off at him for guilting me I literally turned around twice to come back home, then turned around again.  Angry, I call him on the phone, tell him that I am on my way but that I am not happy about it at all and that I won’t be staying long.  He swears he understands and is grateful as hell.  I start to feel better. 

     As soon as I get to his house he smiles, gives me a big old hug, scoops me up, then tries to hand me a cocktail.  I take it, put it on the coffee table, and don’t take a single sip.  He looks at me.  Tells me to drink.  I tell him no.  We argue.  He doesn’t want me to go back home.  He wants me to stay.  Again, he “needs” me.  Vomit…

     I sit him down and try to force him to listen.  My friend Marge has always been there for me.  ALWAYS!  She’s picked me up when I’ve been drunk and lost, helped me move more than once, she’s even come to my house and stitched me up when I bashed my palm open in hatred and utter frustration with my now terminated marriage.  Friends are everything.  Friends will always be there you if you are always there for them.  I have friends who would lie, cheat, and steal for me and I would do the same for them.

     He says he understands but I can tell I am not getting through to him.  He looks at me, tells me I see Marge every day and that he’s lucky if he sees me once a week.  True.  He asks how old Barbie is.  I say 15 and a half.  He says she was going to leave eventually, it was only a matter of time.  Also true.  He said Marge is a big girl and she can take care of herself.  Definitely true, but also not the point.  At this point, I am screaming at him and tears are rolling down my cheeks (a rarity, to say the least, but I blame my period and incapacitating cramps). 

    

     I ask him why he can’t understand, why he can’t listen.  He asks me why I can’t listen or understand, then starts talking about his friend who died.  Manipulation.  He’s pretty good at it.  He studied psychology…

     I go to leave.  He draws me back in.  We talk some more.  I get angry.  He draws me back in.  I don’t touch the cocktail, a rather strong screwdriver he made for me, and agree to stay for the BBQ, but after that I made it clear that I’m going to bounce back to Marge, who is watching the Raiders game and waiting for me so we can drink the two bottles of champagne and two cans of peach juice I had specifically bought for us the day before.

     He’s so happy, so appreciative, sweet, grateful.  We get in my car.  His Volvo SUV is in the shop.  I make him drive.  He knows my car has balls, knows how to handle her, I like watching him drive.  I like that he is strong, tatted, smart, interesting, and makes me feel safe, when he isn’t trying to manipulate me.  I like that he is perfect for me and that we have so much in common.  I’m beginning to feel better, more relaxed, less defensive.  He grabs my tiny little hand in his giant hand.  I meet his friends.  They were all very warm and inviting.  I feel like an intruder because I don’t know the man who died.  He makes me feel welcome.  They all do.  He encourages me to let Peanut off the leash, let him be a dog, run around, chase squirrels, sea gulls, children.  Peanut is loving every minute of it.  I start wondering if maybe he is right.  I need this.  Peanut needs this.  He knew all the right things to say that day, and didn’t hesitate to say them.  Things like ‘Peanut will be such a good little beach dog.  I’ll take him with me in the mornings, while you’re sleeping in.  I’ll surf and he’ll run around and wait for me on the beach, then we’ll come home with a cup of coffee and the New York Times for you.’  I started to believe him, started to think I needed to think about myself and do what is best for me.  He could be great for me, but there’s just one little thing that’s off about him that I can’t wrap my head around…

     He asks if I am hungry.  I say no.  He says I need to eat.  True.  But I was hungover and I really just didn’t feel like BBQ.  He suggests we go to Hofbrau House for French dip sandwiches and plenty of horseradish, one of the many places we went to on our first date.  He says the spice will be good for my hangover.  I know he is right, and it’s dog friendly.  I acquiesce.  We get in my car.  We’re blasting Social Distortion.  The Peanut is smiling and panting in my lap, the Giant spins a couple of doughnuts.  I am laughing, singing, smiling, having a great time.  I feel good, and it’s still early.  I’m thinking to myself ‘wow, maybe I really can pull this off’. 

     On our way to the Hofbrau, he changes his mind.  There is a place even better for my precious little Peanut, who’s ass he has been kissing from the moment we arrived.  He’s right.  It’s incredible.  He orders oysters, fresh local halibut tacos, garlic bread, Ahi sashimi, and a big old pitcher of beer.  The plastic cups are small, I know I can handle one and be well within the legal limit by the time I need to drive home.

     He devours the oysters, which I was oddly not in the mood for, gives the shells to Peanut to lick, then chucks them over the railing into the ocean.  Peanut is going around to all the tables, begging.  I call to Peanut.  The Giant says to relax, let Peanut be a dog, that this was a place for dogs and they all roam around and beg.  He says it’s fine.  I look around.  He’s right.  There are dogs everywhere.  Everyone loves the Peanut, is giving him scraps, scratching his ass, smiling at him. 

     I begin to relax a little more, thinking maybe I worry too much.  I begin to see how life with him could be through his syrupy talk.  Every time I take a few sips of beer he refills my glass.  It’s ok.  I’m paying attention and I don’t finish my glass when we get up to leave.  His sentences are fascinating.  Such a beautiful vocabulary.  I begin to see how alike we are.  Tough on the outside but cultured, experienced, decadent, epicurean.  What did he just say?  He got us tickets to see Social Distortion?  Made a reservation at the French Laundry.  He wants me to come with him to see a Dodger game this Thursday and stay the weekend with him at his friend’s house in Malibu, right on the beach.  Sounds heavenly, until we get back to his house and the first thing he does is make and hand me a cocktail. 

     I remind him that I’m not staying.  Arguing begins.  More guilt.  I remind him of my culpa tattoo and tell him that he is obviously feeding off my guilt to try and get me to stay.  More arguing.  I’m walking out the door.  He says to me ‘fine.  Leave.  I hope you don’t get a DUI.’  I’m wondering ‘was that a threat, or genuine concern?  I don’t like the tone in his voice.  Do I have any gum in my car?  Shit, how much beer did I drink?  Am I ok to drive?  Still feel hungover.  Hungover is not drunk, but sometimes hungover smells like drunk.  FUCK!!!!’

     I go back inside.  We chat some more.  Somehow he finally convinces me to stay.  He rubbed my aching uterus, brought me greasy Chinese, tampons, a bottle of Jameson, a New York Times.  My boss texted and asked how I felt about starting at eleven and just working later.  I was stoked.  Until I woke up, and the bastard handed me a screwdriver, and I, in my morning sleepy haze, could swear he said ‘hurry and drink it so you can’t drive!’  Are you fucking kidding me!?  He tells me I can’t work because my cramps are so bad.  I try to explain what obligations and responsibilities are all about.  It felt like Sunday morning again.  Groundhog day or some shit.  I say I have to go to work, ask what time it is?  He said it was eight.  I push the screwdriver away and try to go back to sleep but something in my gut tells me to get up.  I get out of bed and check my phone.  It was after 10:00.  What a manipulative fuck!  He can take his concert tickets, baseball tickets, and reservations to the French Laundry and either shove them up his ass or take someone else because I sure as hell won’t be going with him.  That shit is not cool at all! 

     On my way out, I’m not even exactly sure why I deigned to even speak, I told him that he had no respect for my life whatsoever.  He just expected me to ditch my life and conform to his.  I was the one who was supposed to make all the sacrifices and until I did he was just going to play the guilt card like an electric guitar.  I told him I didn’t appreciate being manipulated. 

     He texted this afternoon to apologize.  I still haven’t written back.