Poison

Don’t worry dummy, I’m not going to fall in love with you this time. I think to myself as he rolls off me and far away from me, almost as if the act of our naked bodies touching even the slightest bit after we’re done having sex will be what causes me to fall in love with him again, and not the actual sex itself. He’s very strange that way. He has no problem with us doing it in his jet tub, by candlelight no less, and then hanging out in there for a good hour after, chatting and laughing while we prune. But lord forbid I linger in his bed for half a minute too long after he’s done. 

I keep telling myself that this is the last time. This is the last time I’m going to be so available to hang out when he texts me, the last time I come to his house, the last time I’m going give in to the carnal attraction we have for one another. 

But when I see his name on my phone something inside me just can’t resist. Every. Single. Time. I have this weird pull to him. I always have. Even though I know that this is for the most part all we’ll ever be – fuck buddies – and it’s really all I want it to be at the moment, the power Erik has over me is sometimes astounding. And no matter how I feel after I see him, I keep coming back for more. 

Lately we have slipped back into the routine we had before I moved to Lakeview. I hear from him every week, like clockwork, usually on Saturday to chat. He’s so busy (nothing has changed in that way) that sometimes we just chat for a little bit about what is new and we say that hopefully we will see each other soon and that’s that. But more often than not, especially lately, hearing from him means I’m heading over to his place to go have a bath. 

While the bath thing is slightly hilarious, it has changed the dynamic of our relationship. A lot. You wouldn’t think it would, after all it’s just some hot water bubbles in a bath tub. But when we are in there together we talk. Like really talk. Whether it’s politics, religion, sex or Simpsons quotes, nothing is off limits. Our bath chats have even led to a fairly serious chat about his parents, whom he rarely mentions, and after knowing him for 11 years I finally found out how and when they both passed away. It was weird to see him so vulnerable and raw (emotionally of course, we were already naked in a tub, so how much more raw and vulnerable could a person even get?) But he has been more open with me in the last 3 months in that damn tub than he had been all previous 10 years we’ve known each other. Combined. Maybe the candles he lights have a story telling aroma in them, some sort of new age voodoo type deal. Or maybe he’s actually maturing. After all, he also told me he wants to have kids someday. 

Possibly my kids in fact. Yes. This conversation actually happened. It was a few months ago, and we were just chatting via text the one night. If you read all my posts you might remember me mentioning he and I having a 4 hour text conversation the one night? Well that’s the night he brought up the kids thing. It started innocently enough with him telling me that he was thinking that he wants kids now, but is scared that at his age, trying to find a partner who wants to have his children, especially since he’s still rather terrible at relationships, will be damn near impossible. I told him I’m in the same boat, I want kids more than anything in the world, but because I am single as fuck, and currently nobody wants to date me, my eggs are going to all die before I get to use any of them. He then said that if it came down to it, and we were both ready to hit the “panic button” so to speak on the kids thing that we should have a kid together. 

At first I thought he was joking. It was via text after all, and come on. It’s Erik. Of course this was just a joke. But the conversation evolved into baby names and gender preferences (we both agreed we’d rather have a girl, but would of course be happy with either) and as our conversation continued, it slowly dawned on me that he may not be joking. Eventually, the subject changed, and we were no longer talking babies, and I didn’t really ever get a good idea of whether there was seriousness to the baby thing or not. 

I put it out of my mind as best as I could, and had slightly convinced myself despite the evidence that he was just kidding, until about a week later when we hung out. We were in the middle of having sex, (in his bed) and he had said something along the lines of safe sex since he didn’t think we were ready to push the panic button just yet. Holy fucking hell. Could he really be serious?! In the moment, I half laughed, because what else was I supposed to do just then, we were in the middle of having sex? We finished, and that’s when he rolled away from me, as if to put actual distance between us. I honestly wonder what would have happened had we had sex in the tub that night. Perhaps the magic candlelit bubbles would have changed the scenario of that conversation ever so slightly. 

He hasn’t brought up the kids thing since, but I have not stopped thinking about it. I have a pros and cons list in my brain, and the pros side is surprisingly (not really all that surprisingly) long. There are so many reasons why having a baby with him would be perfect. He’d be a great dad. He’s a great man. He’d be in the kid’s life, and would provide for it. Erik and I have similar beliefs and values when it comes to politics, religion, and education. He’s educated, and reasonable, which I feel would be super beneficial when I raise my kid based on everything I know from my experience in early childhood education. The only con – and quite frankly it’s a big enough con to outweigh every last pro – is the chance of there at some point being feelings beyond just co-parenting involved. No matter how perfect a co-parenting situation might be with him, all of that is shot to shit the second one of us (probably me, let’s be honest) starts to fall for the other one. 

I know I’d get hurt by the situation. I know that no matter how he feels about me, I will never, ever in my life hear him tell me that he’s in love with me. That is just never going to happen. And as much as I am desperate to hit that panic button, and as tempting as it is to hit it immediately, I know that besides a baby that I would for sure love more than anything else in the world, nothing good would come out of that situation. 

So, I guess for now, that’s where we are. Yet again in this weird, fucked up limbo where I don’t quite know where I stand with Erik, or how I feel about the situation between us, but sure as shit not stopping myself from seeing him and putting myself into this confusing place. The only difference is that nowadays instead of daydreaming about being with him, I’m daydreaming about what our daughter might be like. She’s got a name and everything. It’s just a shame she will never exist, and after all this buildup, I’m in the same stupid place I have always been in, and will inevitably always be. 

Olivia

Brothers and Sisters

“In truth a family is what you make it. It is made strong, not by number of heads counted at the dinner table, but by the rituals you help family members create, by the memories you share, by the commitment of time, caring, and love you show to one another, and by the hopes for the future you have as individuals and as a unit.”

– Marge Kennedy

 

Hey my lovelies.  It has been awhile.  I wish I could tell you that I have been living it up, partying in Vegas, or doing something else exciting and fun, and that is why I have been spending so much time away from the blog, but sadly I cannot.  For the most part, I have let my new hobby of knitting take up all my free time.  That’s right, I knit now.  I started in January, mostly because Kevin was out of town for work lots, and I was bored, but it was partly so that I could put my phone down more and be a bit more productive, while watching TV.  I figured out a little while ago that idle hands aren’t the devils play things, but merely utensils that need something to do every minute or every day, or they will probably fall right the fuck off.  At least that’s the way mine seem to be.  So, not only do I have people stop calling me out for always being on my phone (which is bullshit, because these same people seem to have the same attachment to their phones as I did…) but I also get pretty things like hats and scarves out of the deal.  So I guess I’m winning.  Lately, my latest project has been a blanket that I am making to give to my brother and his fiancée for their wedding in a few weeks.  I’ll admit, it’s kind of a lame gift, and they would probably rather have money for their honeymoon, but I felt like making something would mean more.  And considering the shitty relationship my brother and I have had over the years, you can’t say that I’m not trying to make an effort.

Family is a weird thing. Without your consent, two people get together to bang (or in my case, as my parents have NEVER had sex, an angel brushes its wings upon your cheek) and bam! your mom is knocked up with you. Then after spending 9 months (actually 40 weeks is 10 months, so I’m not quite sure why we keep saying pregnancy lasts only 9, but whatever..) in your mom, you use her vagina like a waterslide at a theme park to be born into this weird group of people who are kinda like you because they share a bunch of your basic DNA, but are also completely different people in every other way from you, because they are weird and you are awesome. Even if you are adopted, or in a foster situation or whatever, it all starts the same way, it’s just another family that’s taking care of you. (I hope. I am not going to go into a rant about how piss poor the foster system is or about how difficult it can be for perfectly capable people to adopt. Although I could. Just not today.) Sometimes whichever family you are thrust upon is actually a blessing. Other times, it’s not.

For me, whether my family is a blessing or a curse really just depends on the day.  Somedays I am very happy to be who I am, and am proud to be from the family I am.  These are the days when I can truly appreciate the traits that have been passed down to me from my parents, like my dad’s sense of humor or my mom’s literary mind.  Those two traits in particular have gotten me a long way, and have saved me from a lot of insanity (most days anyway). Then of course there are the days when I wish with all I am that I wasn’t #blessed with my dad’s temper or my mom’s stubbornness.  I catch myself every once in awhile, and have this sinking feeling that I am becoming my parents.  By the way, if you are younger than I am, and haven’t experienced realizing that you are your parents, I warn you, it’s not always pretty.  And for those who are older and have experienced that, why couldn’t you have given me a head’s up?  Geez you guys, get your shit together.

Anyways, like I said, whether or not I’m happy to have the family I do all depends on the day.  And when I attend my brother’s wedding in few short weeks, I am sure I will be proud to have the family I do, even if the road to get there was bumpy, and full of days where that definitely wasn’t the case.

My older brother Sheldon and I used to get along real well.   When I was little I used to love spending time with him.  I used to follow him around, and be his little shadow, whatever Sheldon did, Olivia did.  There were 4 years between us, so when I was 4 and he was 8, I thought he was just the coolest guy ever.  From my perspective that all changed when I turned 5 and my younger brother Taylor was born.  All of a sudden Sheldon wasn’t the priority, I had a cute baby brother to take care of, and he became the brother I wanted to spend all my time with. (In case you are wondering when the baby craze from the last entry started, it could probably be traced back to my younger brother being born.) After Taylor was born, I remember Sheldon and me fighting a lot more.  He was getting older and approaching his pre-teen years and was getting more and more annoyed by my 6 or 7 year old self wanting to tag along with him and his friends. He loved to drive the tractor with our dad on the farm, and was dreaming of the day when he was 16 and was finally able to drive a car, and I loved to play with my dolls and Barbies and baby brother, and was dreaming of the day when I could play house for real.  We were growing into two very different people.

When our parents split, that seemed to be the end of the last little bits of relationship Sheldon and I had left.  Sheldon and I took the divorce really hard (as most kids caught in a nasty divorce might), and since we couldn’t take out our anger on the ones who actually deserved it – our parents – we took it out on each other.  We fought all the time.  Literally all the damn time.  I can’t remember too many instances after my parents split when we were civil with one another.  It just didn’t happen.  It got so bad that not long after we moved into town, off the family farm with our mom, she couldn’t handle our constant fighting, and sent Sheldon back to the farm to live with our dad.  After that things got better for us.  We still fought when we’d spend lots of time together, but the fights weren’t as bad and didn’t happen quite as often.  By the time I became a teenager my mom and new step-dad had moved Taylor and me from Gravelrock to Valleyview, and soon after dad and Sheldon followed suit and left the farm to move to Lakeview.  Sheldon was finishing high school while I was just starting it, so the time we spent together was always short and sweet, which provided a relatively drama-free family life.

As adults we still fight on occasion, but those times are very few and far between these days. I can now see that one of the biggest reasons why we didn’t get along all those years was because I see the traits in him that I hate in myself like our stubbornness and our inability to not ever admit that we are wrong about something (but fuck you if you think that I am the only one who hates being wrong.  Being wrong sucks, and nobody fucking likes it, so shut up).  Not that he’d ever admit it, but if he really thought about it, he would probably agree that that’s why I bug him so much too. (I’m right, of course.  Did you see what I just did there?!?)

We’ve both changed a lot. And even though he can still piss me off to no end, I am still happy that he has made a good life for himself.  His fiancée Amy is pretty great, and I’m glad that they are finally getting married.  It will be nice to have a sister who gets how Sheldon is. And although I am not a part of the actual wedding (which to be honest hurt my feelings a great deal, as Taylor and I have absolutely nothing to do with their wedding, and yet they have 14 people in the wedding party, including both of Amy’s sisters who are bridesmaids, two of our cousins who are groomsmen, the flower girl who is our cousin’s daughter and the ring bearer who is the son of one of our step-brothers but I digress, that’s another rant for another day) I will be proudly watching my brother marry the love of his life, and I can guarantee there will be more than a few tears shed.

So family is indeed what you make it.  Sheldon and I have had many, many ups and downs, and I’ve hated him a lot in our 30 years of siblinghood.  But he’s still my brother.  And for better or for worse, I still love him.  Now, enough of the sappy shit.  Granny hipster needs to knit.

Later!

Olivia

P.S. If any of you paid close enough attention to this that you noticed I used Sheldon and Amy as the names, I want to make clear that this was completely accidental, but when I noticed it myself, had to keep it. If you don’t see what the connection of these names are, that’s fine, it just means you don’t watch as much television as I seem to, so that’s good.  Anyways, carry on….

Tick, Tick, BOOM!

86 days, 13 hours and give or take a handful of minutes. This is how much of my 20’s I have left. I have just over 3 months till my big 30th birthday. I had big plans for this one. I mean, I’ve been known to have big plans for all of my birthdays, but this one I figured had to be the biggest and best.

Tick, tick.

What my plan originally was, was to gather all my close friends (like all 5 or 6 of em) and organize a weekend trip to Vegas. That way I could do a few things at once: I could cross Vegas with my friends off my bucket list because I have never been there before and I would be guaranteed a good time for my birthday, because hello, it’s Vegas! A good time is supposed to be guaranteed! But, Kevin gently made the very valid point that if I have a hard time getting people to come to my birthday when it’s just going for a delicious and reasonably priced meal a few blocks from my house, well then it may be unrealistic to expect anyone to travel to Nevada for a weekend. If I did Vegas, there is a very good possibility that it would be an even bigger let down than last year. And it’s not like I could blame anyone for not being able to (which is just a polite way of saying not wanting to) come. I’m sure any of you in your mid to late 20’s and older can attest to the fact that finding time to set aside for friends and family is sometimes incredibly difficult. Work, dating/significant others and kids seem to be taking up everybody’s time. Most of the time it feels like there just aren’t enough hours in a day to be had. So it’s really no surprise that my birthday celebration wouldn’t be high on anyone’s priority list.

Tick, tick.

This birthday is looming for a few different reasons. I’ve been feeling old for awhile now (working with teenagers at a high school will do that to a person) but with every ache and pain I get, or anytime I play the nostalgia game and realize that I haven’t had a legit telephone land line in well over a decade, or that “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls was released 19 motherfucking years ago (and I vividly remember hearing it on the radio for the first time, and then later trying like nobody’s business to record that song on a mix tape with as little radio DJ talk) it makes me feel really, really old.

Tick, tick.

I’m also panicking because I am not in the place I was hoping to be by the time I turned 30. Sure I have a job I love, I finally have an amazing boyfriend by my side and all that, but there is still a lot I don’t have that I wanted to by the time I turned the big 30. By 30, I was expecting to be a full fledged writer, or a rock star. You know actually getting paid to write, not getting just 3 hits on my blog daily, or being a high profile rock goddess, not just reserving my singing to the shower or the car. I was expecting to be married long ago by now, (to either a regular guy, or one of the Backstreet Boys) not just having celebrated my very first anniversary with my first ever long-term boyfriend at 29. But mostly, I thought by now I would be a mom. Out of all the things I thought I’d have or be by the time I turned 30, this was the big one. And the closer I get to 30, the more disappointed and discouraged I feel, and the more the fears of never getting the chance to have kids scream their way around my brain.

Tick, tick.

It’s hard not to think about. Really hard. These days I literally cannot go 24 hours without seeing a pregnancy announcement or “bump” photos on Facebook (one of the many ways in which Facebook and a lot of people on Facebook fucking suck). Hell, some days, it seems as thought that’s all I see on my Facebook newsfeed. My family is no better; a lot of my cousins and step siblings have been procreating for years now. In fact, a cousin of mine and his wife just announced over the weekend that they are expecting in August, my 25 year old step-sister is due with her first child in 2 months and I am guessing that it won’t be long after my older brother and his fiancée tie the knot in May till they are knocked up too. Even my job is no help. But that’s my fault really, what do I expect when I started to work in a high school in a daycare set up for young moms getting their high school education? Don’t get me wrong, I do love my job, and I find working with teen moms and their babies really rewarding, but I can’t help it that I secretly find myself jealous that these immature, fresh faced 17 year olds get to have these beautiful babies, and I, ragged and old, do not. Granted I wouldn’t have wanted a baby at 17, that would have been a motherfucking nightmare, but still.

Tick, tick.

I want it to be my turn now. I want to have kids before all my eggs dry up and fall out, and I want to have kids before I’m way too old to keep up with them. I don’t know if you guys know this or not, but taking care of children requires an astounding amount of energy. Energy which I am already having trouble mustering some days, and I’m still relatively young. I would like to have kids of my own before I’m old enough to get the senior’s early bird specials. I want to have kids because my biological clock is ticking so goddamn loud that some days it is literally all I can fucking think about, and that makes me absolutely loathe being a woman. Why can’t Mother Nature just send a text once in awhile like, “Hey there. I don’t mean to interrupt what you are doing, I just wanted to let you know that I have this basket of eggs here for you. I’ll wait a while, so no rush, just something to think about. No pressure. K thanks, bye!” That approach, at least for me, would be much more welcome.

Tick, tick.

Instead, I’m over here in a panic, being pulled in a million directions every time Kevin and I get even the slightest bit close to one another. I want kids right now, but not right now. What? Well, Kevin and I aren’t ready for it. We have only been dating for 13 months. I don’t think our relationship is prepared to add a baby to the mix. I still feel like I don’t know if I’m girlfriending properly half the time. I want a baby, but not at the expense of my relationship with Kevin. This is what sucks about waiting so fucking long to find a great guy to date. It’s far too early in our relationship to be even discussing this, but it’s getting a bit too late in my life not to be. I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. The rock of course being my vagina, and the hard place being…well…nevermind.

Tick, tick.

So, for now I am just going to have to do my best to silence that annoying clock, and hope that when the time is right for Kevin and me that everything will work itself out. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to get back to my regular, run of the mill life, taking care of other people’s kids and whatnot. Oh, and probably bring Kevin to the hospital, as I am sure he probably had an aneurism while reading this.

Boom.

Olivia

Would You Go With Me?

A year ago today, a text message changed my life. It was a simple text message too, just 7 or 8 words inviting me to go out for supper. Normally I wouldn’t have said yes to a request like that. I mean, we had been talking for maybe 2 days, and in that time had barely gotten to know the first thing about each other. If it were any other night, any other guy, any other circumstance, I would have declined the invitation. I would have gone home and made some sort of frozen dinner while Lucy and I watched an episode of Breaking Bad with the cat.

But I said yes to those 8 words. I went home after work and got all beautiful, and actually got nervous as I pulled into the parking space at the restaurant.  I remember it all like it was in slow mo.  I walked through the snowy parking lot, up to the door of the restaurant, walked in, and saw a tall, handsome man standing just inside the doors, to my right.  He didn’t look much like his profile picture. He was much cuter in person.  I followed him to our booth, and then for the next 3 hours, sat across from this great guy while we ate and drank and talked the night away.  I remember how easy it all felt.  Nothing was forced.  I didn’t have to force the laughter or the conversation like I had in the past so many times.  It just happened.  The only disappointing part of the entire night was at the end of it, when we said our goodbyes, and all I got was a goodnight hug instead of a goodnight kiss.  But, as luck would have it, it wasn’t long till that one little 8 worded text message turned into thousands of hugs and kisses, endless hours spent together, and a moving truck filled with all my junk.

It may be silly, juvenile and quite frankly ironic and hypocritical as hell for a 29 year old sceptic and curmudgeon such as me to be so excited that a year has passed for Kevin and I. But I really don’t give a shit, because I spent so many years alone and miserable (hence the sceptic curmudgeon) trying so hard to find a man like him and failing miserably. I went through so many douchebags and almosts and maybes. Guys who didn’t know what they wanted as far as a relationship went, but they knew for sure they wanted into my pants. Guys who were most definitely single for good reason, and ones I knew to stay away from at all costs.

I don’t know how or why my luck changed, but I am so thankful it finally did. These days, I have a couple friends who recently have become single again, after their long term relationships have ended, and they are back on the dating scene in spectacular fashion. In fact, they are experiencing the dating world in a bigger way than I ever did, and have stories so salacious that it would make this blog look like it was written by the ladies of the convent. And to be honest, my life has never been that different from that of the life I’m sure nuns live in a convent. Minus the sex of course. And Netflix. Do nuns get to watch Netflix?! Anyways, the point I was trying to make here was that my newly single friends have told me even more horror stories of the guys they’ve met over the last few months, and now, more than ever, I am so grateful for Kevin finding me when he did.

Some days I don’t get what he sees in me (as I am sure you all do as well) but I love him so much for being here with me always. I know this year has been a string of sappy entries about my love, and I know it’s far less entertaining than when I used to be miserable, and writing about all my delightful train wrecks of my dating life, but oh well. I waited a long time to be in a relationship like this. I think I deserved a Kevin after all the dating woes of FWB and Jason and guys like Hardwood Floors.

Happy 1st Anniversary Kevin. Thank you for being such an amazing man, and putting up with all my crazy! And we all know much crazy that can be!  And happy 1st anniversary ever to me.  It took 29 years to get here, but I think it was well worth the wait.  ❤

Xoxo

Olivia

Cold December Night

Well hello all my beautiful blueberries! It’s been awhile since we’ve been together, and I must say, the time apart has been good to you all, you all look lovely. And cold. Most of you look cold. Winter, am I right? (Also, no one asked you Australia, you opposite season, warm in December jerks who won’t share the warmth with North America. It’s downright rude if you ask me.)

Anyways, enough with being mean to my awesomely accented long distance neighbors to the south. The end of 2014 is almost upon us (the end is even closer to those Australians I was talking about.) I know I say this every year, but I can’t believe how fast this year has flown by. Feeling like your years are constantly getting shorter and happening faster, and getting excited over new appliances are two main ways to tell that you are a full-fledged adult, and you are getting old, by the way, in case you were wondering.

Although 2014 seemed to disappear in a flash, it has been by far one of the best years of my adult life. Sure, it hasn’t all been awesome, after all, my grandpa passed away in the spring, I lost a dear friend this year, not due to death, but due to circumstances in which I was an innocent bystander who got hit by the shrapnel of an exploding marriage, where all mutual friends such as myself had to pick sides. I have struggled with money most of the year, over the summer I nannied for 3 of the most challenging children I’ve ever met in my life and my beloved Riders had a completely mediocre season after our star quarterback got injured in September and we didn’t make it past the first playoff game. Meanwhile, the team I loathe the most was the one who got to hoist the Championship cup above their heads. The football stuff alone is enough to make me cry (although that isn’t saying much. I cry over pretty much everything).

But all that is really small potatoes compared to all the good this year has brought. My family is happy and healthy (including one of my favorite uncles, who is kicking cancers ass!! Yay!!) I’m doing well at my job and I thoroughly enjoy coming to work every day and on top of that I make slightly bigger money than I was last year at my last workplace. I’m even starting to warm up to Lakeview, enough in fact that I might even possibly be teetering towards liking it. The snow removal seems to be better this year, which may have something to do with my newfound warmth towards the city. Mind you, it’s only the beginning of December, so ask me how I feel about this place (and its snow removal) again at the end of January and I might be singing a different tune. And of course, the biggest reason why this year has been so fantastic, is that I have found a wonderful man who actually loves me, and isn’t imaginary.

Remember back in 2013 when all I wrote about were the CMs, the Hardwood Floors, and the Tittysprinkles of the world, miserably going from one loser to the next waiting to not find my prince, but just looking for someone who wasn’t a complete bag of dicks that I could date for more than a month? I know I sure do. I don’t miss that, the never ending uncertainty of dating and being alone. This so much better. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Kevin makes me happy. And to those of you who were wondering, so far the living together has been good. Although, I will give you one piece of solid advice if you are looking to move in with a significant other: Buy pre-built furniture. It may be more expensive, but let me assure you that the extra cost is definitely worth the stress-free set-up. Or, you can be like me. Frustrated, yelling at a screw that just won’t fucking twist itself into its tiny little screw hole because the drill was turned to the reverse setting, by accident. Well fuck you too 11pm on a work night after a long ass day, fuck you.

Luckily, our relationship has not been like I am when I’m building stuff. Not that our relationship has been perfect. This year I’ve been a bigger basket case than I’ve ever been. Being in a relationship has managed to drag out all of my insecurities (and of those there are many) and has left me to worry about every little thing under the sun. I’ve constantly been worried that this year was going too well, and that surely the rug would be pulled out from under me, and I would be right back where I did not want to be; alone and unhappy, still looking for “the one” even though I could have sworn that I had already found him.

I still worry about that. Does it ever go away after a certain point? Maybe I’m still too new at the relationship thing to be completely logical about it all, but I’d really like it if my brain would just shut the fuck up already, and let me lose all the insecurities that have been holding me back. Or worse yet, let my insecurities push people away. I need to just relax.

Maybe if I relaxed a bit more, I’d have more time and energy to panic about other things. Like Christmas. Oh yeah. It’s December. It’s time for my January to November worries to dissolve into a 25 day (now it’s a 22 day, fuck me) stress filled Christmas season. Christmas is a huge source of stress for me. This is the first year that I’ve had to carefully and strategically plan the family gatherings for Christmas. Christmas Day has always been split down the middle between parents, and every year we have done the same thing, like clockwork so that everyone got equal time with everybody. That’s just what my life with divorced parents was like. So adding another family to the mix has caused me some anxiety. Christmas is by far my favorite holiday because of the family time, but there just aren’t enough hours in the day, so someone somewhere gets knocked down to last place on the priority list. I hate not being able to make everyone happy. And for me, while this isn’t the first Christmas with a boyfriend, it’s the first Christmas where I have had a boyfriend who wants to be with me for the holidays, and is also very concerned with making everyone (especially me) happy.

Luckily both mine and Kevin’s families have been flexible so that we will hopefully be able to spend good quality time with everyone and make it work, but it’s a change, and the first year in all my 29 years where my Christmas routine is different, and I’m trying not to panic about it. I don’t do change very well.

In-between panic attacks, I have to remember that this year is the perfect year to make new traditions. For instance, I’m trying to make it a tradition that all my Christmas shopping gets finished by American Thanksgiving, so that I can avoid Black Friday and all other mall/store Christmas shopping madness at all costs. I did not succeed at that this year, but I only have my step-mom left to shop for, so I’m considering this a total win! Another tradition I’ve always had by myself is watching all my favorite Christmas movies. But this year, Kevin is watching Elf with me, whether he likes it or not!

Now all I need to do is to calm the fuck down. So, since I have such troubles with that, I came up with a great list of ways to help me calm the fuck down. If you have any suggestions to add, please tweet them to me, or comment below (nobody ever comments…)

Ways For Olivia to CTFD Over the Holidays, and Forever After That

1. Unfriend everyone on Facebook who posts more than 3 pictures of their motherfucking Elf on a Shelf. Do what you want with your kids for the holidays, I don’t care, but I don’t want to see my newsfeed with 20 pictures of everybody’s Elf having a tea party every day. My Facebook should not be an Elf on a Shelf advent calendar during the month of December. Parents, I know you love your kids, but I sure as hell don’t have to. Pipe the fuck down over there.

2. Speaking of social media, unfollow anybody who uses #blessed in their posts, un-ironically or un-sarcastically. It’s overdone and because of this, the word has lost some of the meaning behind it. Sure, you have wonderful things in your life like friends and family, and it’s wonderful that you are grateful for these things and to have them certainly does make you #blessed, but when you say that you are also #blessed because the barista at Starbucks put the perfect amount of whipped cream on your latte, it trivializes the meaning, and makes me wonder if you really understand what it means to really be #blessed by good fortune in this world.

3. Actually, come to think of it, just quit social media altogether. It needs you more than you need it. Or at least that’s what you need to tell yourself when you are going through severe withdrawals. (I can just log in once. And I can log out whenever I want.)

4. Watch awesome Christmas movies and quote them at random throughout the day even if the situation doesn’t call for it. Just cause its fun. “BYE BUDDY, I HOPE YOU FIND YOUR DAD!”

5. Bubble baths with good smelling bubble stuffs, while watching your favorite show or movie. Actually, I use this method to CTFD all year long, but I up my dosage around the holidays. Helpful hint: adding wine to this package makes you seem sexy and classy, even if the wine comes from a bag, or a box.

6. Add booze! Any booze! All booze! Just don’t ever throw up in a communal punch bowl and you will be golden!

7. Sex. Lots of sex. All the sex. Just don’t ever fuck on or near the communal punch bowl and you will be golden!

I think I am nailing the whole Christmas thing this year! Well blueberries, it is time for me to sign off. I wish you all a very happy December (because we all know that it’s unlikely that I will be back for another post in 2014), and I hope to see more of you in 2015! Play safe; drink and fuck responsibly!

Olivia

Here's some holiday spirit for you. This is our Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. I know you're all jealous, don't lie.

Here’s some holiday spirit for you. This is our Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. I know you’re all jealous, don’t lie.

As Long As I Got You

Hollywood has definitely given me unrealistic expectations of love and relationships. In almost every movie or tv show I have ever seen, relationships and love are portrayed in one of two ways; either they come off as perfect, with the couple never having an argument they can’t get through, or it’s incredibly complicated and messy. In those portrayals, the couples fight all the damn time, they treat each other poorly the entire relationship, and for some reason, they often stay together far too long, and end up causing both parties to leave the relationship with gigantic pieces of luggage. Or, they are meant to be with not a single bump in the road aside from one ridiculous, trivial fight that “threatens the relationship”, but ultimately makes them stronger, and every rides off into the sunset completely happy.

Don’t worry, I know that I am part of the problem with Hollywood. Because I eat that shit up. I sit there all gooney eyed, drooling over the Ryan Goslings and Channing Tatums of these movies and TV shows, wishing that I had a relationship and yes, to a certain extent, a boyfriend like that. Not because I don’t love my boyfriend, or our relationship, but because in the movies things just always work out. Always. I enjoy buying into the idea that there is a perfect relationship to be had out there, and that if you love someone enough, that happily ever after is only a couple of hours, and a few romantic montages away.

I’m starting to see how ridiculously out of touch both me and Hollywood are when it comes to relationships and love, and how ridiculous I am for actually wanting that to be my life.

This is something coupled people don’t tell you when you are single. They don’t tell you (or at least the couples in my life didn’t convey it strongly enough to me) that relationships have their perfect moments, and their messy moments, and to make things work there seems to be a need to always be balancing between smooth sailing, and getting through awful, bumpy times. Relationships aren’t like the pretend ones that big wigs get paid truck loads of money to make in order to sell tickets to a movie theatre. Real life is far more complicated than that.

Coupled people also don’t convey just how insecure and crazy town banana pants you might possibly become when you fall in love. And even if they did, you probably wouldn’t believe it’s as bad as they say. But let me assure you, it is. You will be batshit crazy, at least some of the time. And if you are like me, you will be batshit crazy almost all the time.

For me, I’m a crier. I don’t know why, I don’t know if I’ve always been so sensitive, or if it was a chain of events from a few years back that made me the blubbering basket case I am, but I find myself always within arms reach of the waterworks. Kevin (Boyfriend’s new fake name! And yes there is a reason for this name. The story behind it makes me giggle, and no, I’m not telling you about it, because frankly I don’t think anyone will find the story funny like I do) is starting to see that. There hasn’t been any argument or disagreement or feelings sharing that hasn’t ended with me in tears, and Kevin trying to make things better. Bless his heart for putting up with me. Seriously. I Kim Kardashian ugly cry at least once every couple of weeks. I’m starting to wonder what he sees in me…

Recently, what I have been crying about more than anything, is our living arrangements. Since July I have spent at most, 3 nights in my own bed, at the condo. The rest of the time I have been living out of a couple (or 4) duffel bags at Kevin’s. I go back to the condo once or twice every couple of weeks to grab something from my room, or check on the cat if Lucy is gone and her sister can’t check on Pancake, or to drop of the rent I still pay but rarely use. Then I go back to Kevin’s, and live rent free there, basically free loading off him, while paying for a place I can barely say I’m living in.

I feel like pointing out that Kevin and I have talked about the whole money thing, and not once has Kevin ever complained about the fact that I don’t (well, can’t) help out financially. He understands completely that I can only afford one place, and has said flat-out that he loves having me there with him, and that he doesn’t want me to leave, nor is he concerned about me not contributing to his house or living expenses in any way. Just in case some of you thought that the whole “loving being together all the time” thing was all me. He loves me guys, so shut up.

So,you ask, why don’t you just move in to his house?

That is a good question, anonymous question asker. It’s a question I wish I had a clear answer to. We’ve been together for 8 months, we love each other, there is no sign in sight of a pending break-up, and we have been “living together” in peace for almost 3 months already. In the movies, the “happy couple” is only ever together for a week or so before they are living together. We’ve been together for so much longer than that! So why wouldn’t actual living together not work?

Well, first off, again, this is Hollywood. And second, it really is a big step. I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the last couple of weeks, and I can see why there was hesitation when the subject of living together came up. Yes, I was the one who was guns blazing, ready to move in like fricken a month ago for crying out loud, and he was the cautious one. But now the more that I think about it, the more I can see his point of view. It is a big step. And a big first, for the both of us.

Having my room at the condo is a safety net. A rather expensive safety net, but a nice one to have, just in case. It’s there if a clean break is needed in case of a big fight or a break-up, or If I bash my shin on his great big coffee table for the 500th God damned time, and I need space – from the coffee table. Not that I foresee any of these things besides the coffee table thing, happening in the future, and I hope to hell to never be in need of a “safe house”. But shit happens. Even though we have been doing well, and have been able to work shit out like adults for the most part (minus my continuous blubbering), you never know. Shit can go sour in one hell of a hurry when you least expect it to. And unlike the movies, there usually isn’t the foreshadowing that tips you off of the trouble to come.

Now on the flip side of that, if things go well, like I’d hope they would, then living together, in theory will be great. And if we continue on the way we have been, in all honesty, it wouldn’t change anything in our relationship. Plus, if we have the motto “we can’t do that, because we may break-up” we are just setting ourselves up for failure. Yes, it would suck if shit hit the fan, yes I would be scrambling for a place to live, yes it would be awkward. But if we always hold back in fear of the relationship ending, we’ll never get to that next step in our relationship, because that’s the perfect excuse for every big step in a relationship. Moving in is a big step. In fact, it’s the one right before one of the biggest relationship milestones, which of course is recording TV shows on a shared PVR. That’s a big deal, I tells ya. Kevin is already nervous about the amount of episodes of The Mindy Project and Long Island Medium are going to be on the PVR. But that my friends is a subject for another blog one day.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I think moving in together is a good next step for us, and I think we’ll kick ass at it. Which is a good attitude to have seeing as though in this last week since I started writing this entry, Kevin and I have indeed decided to live together, officially.

So in between my brief panic attacks, feeling overwhelmed by how much shit I need to do before the 26th of October (tentative moving day) and constantly asking Kevin if he’s absolutely sure he wants to live with me, I’ll be packing all my stuff up yet again, and leaving Lucy and Pancake, for a life with Kevin. Holy shit. I’m going to be living with a boy.

If you guys thought that watching me figure out how to have a boyfriend was entertaining, my moving in with said boyfriend is just going to be a hoot. Grab your popcorn guys, this is going to be a fun ride! Actually, grab a box. I need all hands on deck for this move!

Olivia

I’m Glad You’re Mine

Longevity of anything in this life, especially when it comes to love, seems almost impossible to achieve. Look no further than the current divorce rates around the world and my point is very much proved. I actually googled that stat because I was curious. And now I’m a bit depressed. I’ll share the chart that I found, because I don’t think I should be depressed all by myself.

IMG_4434 (2)
Note to self: do not get married in Belgium, and maybe consider going to Mexico to get hitched.

Now, what I didn’t post here is the rest of the information I found on that website, and the one statistic that scares me the most. It’s the one that says that children with divorced parents (like me) are more likely to never marry, and are more likely to divorce if they do. We are also twice as likely to have anxiety, depression and self esteem issues than those whose parents are still together. So, thanks for that mom and dad.

My parents have been divorced for almost 20 years. They have been divorced longer than they had been married. And they have both been remarried just about as long as they were married to each other. So in theory, we all should have moved on by now. And for the most part, we all have. I rarely think about it. My family is doing great, and my step families are both awesome. But every once in awhile when I think of my own relationships, and especially my current relationship, I can’t help but think about those divorce stats, and how that may affect me without me ever really knowing about it.

I am always worried that the rug will be pulled out from under me when I least expect it, and when I am the most happy. I play it safe, I keep people and relationships at a distance so that if something ends, or people leave, it won’t hurt as much. I’m far too pessimistic for my own good. And like I said, it’s hard for me not to be pessimistic when it comes to love. I’m sure my parents loved each other at some point. And then one day in the 17 years they were together, they started drifting apart. They slowly stopped loving each other. I saw it happen before my eyes. It was slow, and painful. I’ve already felt that pain once in my life, I’m terrified of it happening again. So sue me.

Today, as I write this (on the 21st, and partially on the 22nd), it is the official 6 month mark of boyfriend’s and my first date. Now, to most, a mere 6 months is nothing to really write home about. I used to scoff at people who used to celebrate monthaversaries. I used to think that it was childish, and immature and ridiculous to celebrate or even just being excited about staying with someone for only a handful of weeks. “Pfft, 6 months? Whoopdy friggen doo, you stayed together the average span of a Canadian winter. Congrats, but any maroon could do that.”

However, in my dating life, 6 months is a long fucking time to be in a relationship with the same guy. I’ve never lasted 6 months with anyone. Hell, making it to 6 dates with someone has been difficult for me. Even Dave #4 and I only made it to about 5 and a half months before all hell broke loose. And it’s not just about staying with someone for that long, it’s also being happy with someone for that long of a time.

So 6 months for me is an accomplishment. I’m happy to be at this point in our relationship. I’m thrilled we made it here, and that I’m as happy in my relationship as I am. I’m trying my best to remain optimistic that this one, this relationship, will be the one that sticks.

So far it seems promising. Honestly, we are one romantic montage of scenes from our time together away from being a romantic comedy starring Jason Segel and Rachel McAdams. I pick him because he is probably the actor who boyfriend is the closest to resembling, and her because I love her, and she’s far more beautiful than I am.

Getting back to the point, things have been going well. I definitely see a future with him. And I am looking forward to the next 6 months with him, and the 6 months after that, and so on. I just have to keep reminding myself that. Like I said, I have a tendency to expect the worst. And if you’ve been reading my blog for the last couple of weeks, I have some serious walls up.

I just need to focus on the good. The fact that we still get along after 6 months. The fact that all our arguments have been very small and have resolved themselves very quickly. (For the record, it’s not a god damn goose, it’s a motherfucking DINOSAUR!) The fact that he still makes me laugh my ass off, and how he still gives me the feels in my lady parts on a regular basis. Actually, the fact that everything is working quite well in the bedroom department is a very good sign. Usually that has been the first thing to go in my previous relationships. It’s also to the point that when I spend a few nights sleeping in my own bed instead of his, I don’t sleep as well, and I start to miss him. All these things are good signs. Although our lack of selfies together is cause for concern. I guess it can’t all be smooth sailing, right?

Guys, if this is the love that I’ve been looking for for so long, you can understand why I wouldn’t want to lose it! It’s pretty great!

So congrats to me for being with someone for so long, and congrats to him for being able to put up with me for so long. It’s been a great 6 months, and I can’t wait to see what the next 6 will be like.

And yes, I just spent a full entry gushing over a monthaversary. I’m lame and immature and incredibly awful.

Like you didn’t already know those things!

Olivia