These Boots Are Made For Walking

“Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes. Because for those who love with heart and soul there is no such thing as separation.” – Rumi

I’ve been working on my own emotional well-being lately. It’s hard to move past resentment when people keep adding to it. Rather than shroud my thoughts with a mask of vague statements I’ll speak as plainly as possible. My family has a knack for nagging or guilting me into doing things . . . this time around it has to do with visiting my mother who is recovering from a back surgery. I can’t stand much to be around her, there’s too much bad blood between us and there’s been more than one occasion in which I’ve wanted to throw up my hands and ask why we even bother with this charade anymore. She wants the privilege of saying she has a daughter, but she doesn’t really want a daughter. I simply want to be as far removed from the situation as possible and they want to pull me back in. Why?!

On a side note, I'm off of medications entirely. I only managed to do that when I was finally out of that house. She hasn't made the connection between the two yet. 

You've managed to free yourself of the burden of me. You can quit exuding a forced maternal-like instinct.

When I’m frustrated with the double standards, mixed messages and feeling of never being good enough, I remind myself that there was a time in my life when I was loved unconditionally. I try to remember their faces, their voices, what it felt like to have that solid foundation of patience and understanding and tell myself that they’re still with me, even if I don’t always feel at one with the Universe. They’re in my DNA – they pulse through my veins and perhaps I’m with them now in some other dimension in time.

" . . . and death was his road to awe." I'll see you in the next life if not again in this one.

Aside from the hound (that goes without saying, really), I put myself first. When it comes to friendships, activities and this amusing process of dating I refuse to be around someone who is a vortex of anger, negativity and resentment. This is not the outlook in life I want. It’s not that I’ve never had my moments, because I have. I just choose not to live in those moments . . . forever. I’ve set high standards for myself and I fully intend to stick to them. In hindsight, this has led to some amusing scenarios.

Meet my online dating inbox. 

If a guy says he’s going to call and doesn’t that’s it. Seriously. I’ve had a few try to contact me after pulling something like that and I let my silence speak for me. I refuse to put up with that kind of nonsense. I refuse to put up with degrading behavior.  I was out for sushi with someone and he couldn’t take his eyes off my chest. I get it. I have boobs. They’re pretty amazing . . . . but there’s more to me than that. Thanks for the seaweed salad, guy. I won’t miss you.

Something like that. 

I met someone for coffee over the weekend. His nervousness made me feel badly for him; he was visibly shaky. I told him lets skip coffee and have a glass of wine at my place instead. He calmed down a little and started to open up a bit after my constant reassurance that this isn’t a competition and I’d really like to know who he is as a human being, not how much money he makes or the amount of success he’s had in life. He had potential . . . . and then he corrected a grammatical typo on one of my text messages last night. Alright Mr. Grammar Nazi, meet my Doc Marten boots. I will gladly take out my boots for the men that insist that I operate around their schedule to meet them in person (no thank you), the men who feel the need to point out my inferiorities to feel better about themselves, the flaky men, the untruthful men and also the ones who can’t quite manage to pull their gaze away from my cleavage . . . My boots are ready, gentlemen!

Actually . . . it was Autocorrect's fault. 

I’ve had only a couple of people tell me I’m being too picky. I very much disagree with that statement. I just have standards and I refuse to compromise. There’s nothing wrong with seeing my own value. Also, it took me a long time to see my worth in this life. I’ll be holding onto that rather than letting some random idiot wreck it completely just because someone thinks I should be in a relationship and am *still* single because I’m just plain too picky. I think those people should meet my boots as well. While I’m on a roll, I think my faux maternal figure can meet my Doc Martens, too. There. I said it. I feel better. 

Obviously not my Doc Martens . . . . . but I'm really crushing on these boots right now. 

"I was dead, then alive. Weeping, then laughing. The power of love came into me, and I became fierce like a lion, then tender like the evening star." - Rumi

The Answer Is No

“Being challenged in life is inevitable, being defeated is optional.” – Roger Crawford

Last night was the true test of my fake engagement ring to my fake fiancé. The outcome wasn’t quite what I wanted, but it will do for now. I missed dancing most of last week; my mother was in the hospital. Needless to say, I was very much looking forward to hitting the floor for some close embrace dancing.

First I chatted with a guy that was a few seats over from me. He looked at me the wrong way. I’ve heard it’s a fairly normal reaction for men to steer their gaze straight towards a woman’s cleavage – which is exactly what this guy did when I bent over in my seat to adjust my dance shoe. Not okay. I excused myself saying I needed to refill my water bottle and went to the opposite side of the room where there was fellow tango dancer that I know to some degree and trust him not to eye boggle me or make me feel threatened at all.

Dude, come on! I wasn't even dressed remotely close to this revealing.

Then there was the extremely angry, two-faced tango guy who I’m quite certain asks me to dance for the sole purpose of getting under my skin. I can tell him no, I know this – and yet I never do because I’m still not absolutely certain this action won’t come across as 1) insulting and 2) the Irish Lass looking like a cold-hearted a**hole. So I sat there as I saw him walking towards me thinking to myself, “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact . . . . Crap! I just made eye contact. Then there was the cabaceo – and my immediate reaction is always a smile and a nod. So there I was, dancing next to the devil himself counting down every song and hoping it would be a short tanda. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I like how he looks at me, either – I really need to make a point of avoiding him as much as possible and for the life of me can’t figure out why I haven’t given him the cold shoulder, regardless of how mean some may perceive that act on my part. Is it really worth it? My guess is no. I don’t want to dance with the devil and I certainly don’t want him to touch me, either. Note to self: channel rage.

Yeah . . . That's pretty close to what I felt like.

Later on, I danced an amazing tanda with someone I had only met that evening. That’s one of the beautiful things about this dance. There’s an amazing synchronization of music, movement and synergy in tango that makes it so addictive. It was perfect – until the end when he asked me for my e-mail address. Who the hell are you, guy?  I told him I don’t give my contact information out to people I don’t know.

 . . . or my e-mail, or my real name.

I pride myself on nearly making it to the end last night. I headed out as the last set of the evening was playing. I ran into an acquaintance on the way out. He mentioned he had been in California. I said I was jealous and he told me I should go with him next time. Granted he and I have talked during tango and often have a good time together. He’s carefree, has a good sense of humor, and I laugh and smile a good deal when he’s around me – but still, I really don’t feel like I know him enough to pack up and head to California for a weekend. All I could think was, ‘Why?!’ I said nothing in response; I merely stared blankly and walked off – perhaps with a shallow smile on my face.

Did I mention he could probably be a stunt double for Chris Hemsworth? I want to be a stunt double, damnit.

I think I’ve reached the ultimate state of paranoia. Seriously, any male presence that is unfamiliar to me is perceived as a potential threat – even some that I do know but haven’t made a decision on whether or not they are a trustworthy person who has no ulterior motive or ill intention towards me.

Just in case I ever feel lonely and am tempted to seek comfort in the arms of another, I remind myself that no one else can mend my wounded heart . . . and also that tango is a great source of comfort in the arms of another without the emotional turmoil and wreckage that usually comes with it.  I remind myself how emotionally painful it’s been since the Beloved – and for now I’ll simply accept that my depth of feeling for him will make an excellent deterrent from even thinking about dating for a while – a very long while. 

I just want a life that's not entangled with someone else's for a while. 

When I'm not preoccupied with paranoia from fending off unwanted attention, I find that I have to remind myself more often than not to mentally stay put. Stay here. Stay now. This is where I am. I'm the type of person that thinks of every possible outcome before I make a move. Sometimes this serves me well, and sometimes this practice causes me to worry more about things that I don't even need to act on yet . . . and now know why I feel like I'm always running in circles. I've been thinking about the upcoming move and apartment hunting. It occurred to me that the hound has never been alone. He's always had Cassie and since I've been in Portland, I've lived in a very busy house in which there is almost always a human presence. I soon found my mind ridden with anxiety wondering how he would cope with this change and how he's coping with Cassie's absence and how the heck was I going to afford a dog walker or doggy  daycare? Stay here, Irish Lass. You're not there yet. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. For all I know, Merlin the hound will probably be perfectly content to have a couch all to himself all day.

They've attempted to block him from the couch . . . . I know he's quite proud of himself.

Best Buy, Geek Squad and the Cleavage of the Irish Lass

When I went to an on campus university for the first time, as opposed to a community college or online courses, my adoptive folks were stoked. So stoked, in fact, that they purchased a laptop to help me get started in the world of academia. This laptop was a student edition that Dell put out, and I happened to get the last one with the candy apple red cover (score!). This pretty little device was purchased about a month before the term started. I was quite busy during my last days of freedom and didn't even open the box for a couple of weeks. When I finally did get around to starting up my new laptop, I noted it had a major problem: it would not charge while it was on. The suckers had to be completely powered off with the laptop closed in order for the battery to charge.

Of course, I immediately went to Best Buy. Because I had purchased an extended warranty plan, I didn't see this as being an issue at all. Imagine my dismay when I was told that because it had been over 14 days, I wasn't able to return the computer. I could hand it over to them for repairs and I would get it back . . . . in three weeks. I went home instead, without turning my computer over to the Geek Squad.

I have no charm and couldn't argue myself out of a corner to save myself. I'm not good at being the sneaky, lying type either. Ever want to glean information from someone in order to surprise them with a party or gift? I'm the WRONG person for the job. My point being that I'm have no charm or manipulation skills . . . this doesn't get me very far in this world. 

I eventually returned to Best Buy with a small army: my adoptive father and brother. Anyone that knows these two men knows that they always manage to get what they want out of others. Whether it be charm, manipulation or the power of persuasion, these are the guys you want backing you up when you need something done. I watched in awe as Jeffe and brother verbally attacked the group of men, standing united behind the counter. Jeffe told them I use my laptop for school and work. The Geek Squad's response? "There are computers on campus." I'm not a mean person, but I felt like punching this guy in the mouth. True story. Really? While the Geek Squad still wouldn't return my laptop, Jeffe managed to talk them into giving me a loaner, something Best Buy simply doesn't do.

After two weeks, the loaner was exchanged for my Dell laptop. The problem was not resolved. It had the exact same issue. What on earth was the Geek Squad up to for two weeks?

I even tried customer support. I found a representative half way across the world much more interested in my problem and far more accommodating than the men right here in the good old U S of A. While my issue was still not resolved, I appreciated that someone made an honest effort to fix my problem. 

Rather than return the computer right away, my adoptive mother decided to step in. She happens to be one of the higher ups of the institution I attend. Currently, this institution contracts Dell as its major computer supplier. My adoptive mother talks to her Dell representative and tells him all about my brand new laptop that has given me nothing but grief. My mother then went on to say that she may need to reconsider signing a new contract with Dell. Dells response? A tech was sent to my house right away. Within an hour, the problem was resolved. 

The laptop was working fine for a while. I managed to spill wine on it. While it was still working just fine, the screen was dyed red. I took it in again and expected a battle. It was summer and I was wearing one of my slinky dresses that showed off my figure (cleavage included). I was quite literally amazed at how responsive these guys were to my needs this time around. I walked to my car in a stupor. Really? They cared about the customer? Then I realized what I was wearing and realized they were hypnotized by my awesome boobage.

* DISCLAIMER: This is not my cleavage. 1) I wouldn't show it to the world. 2) The world couldn't handle it. 

Over the span of the following year, I noticed several other things wrong with the laptop: its persistent slowness despite my efforts to resolve it with software, buttons breaking, the AC adapter loosening once again (it had happened three times already), connectivity issues, a charging problem and a horrid cracking sound the laptop would make every time I opened and shut it. I hate to admit it, but I was far too dependent on the laptop to send it in for repairs for another two weeks.I had to have it for school and I had to have it for work as well. Granted, I do have a desk top that can get the job done. It's also a Dell. It's ancient and slow . . . but it is allowed to be this way because it is ancient. I've had it in my life for going on 8 years now. 

When the laptop started freezing on me, I had finally had enough. I notified my employer that I'd have to work from home on my slower computer and took the thing in. This time I was prepared for their antics. I realized my secret weapon and I intended to use it. I have a lovely outfit. It's a pin skirt with a polka dot top. It's very reminiscent of the 1920s, fits me like a glove and shows off my cleavage (now known as my secret weapon). While I won't post a picture of my assets or my awesome outfit, I'll give you some other eye candy. She's quite lovely, I think: 

When I grow up, I want to look just like her :-)

The Geek Squad guy behind the counter couldn't take his eyes off of me . . . I knew I'd see victory soon. I innocently leaned over the counter, pouring my cleavage onto it and asked him if there was anything he could do for my worn out laptop. He told me it was time for a new one. He'd send it in. Best Buy has somewhat of a 'three strikes' law when it comes to their laptops. If it comes in for the same issue three times, it's considered a lemon and will be replaced. While I had definitely graced these floors many times, this was not my third time coming in for the same issue. 

I left as sweetly as I came, being sure to sway my hips just a tad bit more on my way out smiling as I did so. The male staff smiled and gawked in return. I clenched my jaw the second I arrived in the parking lot. I wanted to take off my super uncomfortable by extremely sexy high heel and chuck it at their glass door entryway. I managed to maintain my cool. I thought, "Fine. Go ahead and objectify me. I'm still winning and you're doing my bidding . . . . fools." 

Not a week had gone by that I received an e-mail from Best Buy notifying me that I was to call their corporate office: it was determined that my laptop was a lemon and I would get a brand new one. I again made the drive to Best Buy, armed with my secret weapon once again. This outfit wasn't quite so racy, but caused them to gawk just the same (fools). 

I type to you now on my brand new laptop. It's not a Dell. I think Dell has lost my business forever. As for Best Buy and the Geek Squad, they should seriously reconsider their current policies when it comes to their 'lemon' laptops. For now I know that all I have to do is flaunt my gals. I've never been one to use my looks to my advantage - but I now know that I am capable of doing so and will fall back on that as long as I can. I figure beauty is a fleeting thing and I should be able to use it to my advantage now - particularly when it comes to the shenanigans of the Geek Squad.